Those who will have us all to be studying the Sacred Books of the East, and other such literature, are given to laying it down as an axiom that whoever knows only one religion knows none at all,—an assertion, I am bound to acknowledge, that commends itself to my reason, notwithstanding the somewhat serious inferences fairly deducible from it touching1 the nature and worth of certain convictions of my own, which I have been wont2 to look upon as religious. I cannot profess3 ever to have pried4 into the mysteries of any faith except Christianity. So, of course, I do not understand even that. And the people about me, so far as I can discover, are all in the same predicament. Yet I would fain believe that we are not exactly heathen. Some of my neighbors (none too many of them, I confess) are charitable and devout5. They must be pleasing to their Creator, I say to myself, unless He is hard to please. Sometimes I go so far as to think that possibly a man may be religious without knowing even his own religion. Let us hope so. Otherwise, we of the laity6 are assuredly undone7.
And what is true of creeds8 and churches is true likewise of countries and climates. We grow wise by comparison of one thing with another, not by direct and exclusive contemplation of one thing by itself. Human knowledge is relative, not absolute, and the inveterate10 stayer at home is but a poor judge of his own birthplace.
All this I have in lively remembrance as I sit down to record some impressions of our New England winter. With what propriety11 do I discourse12 upon winter in Massachusetts, having never passed one anywhere else? Had I spent a portion of my life where roses bloom the year round, then, to be sure, I might assume to say something to the purpose about snow and ice.
But if the "tillers of paper" wrote only of such topics as they possessed13 full and accurate acquaintance with, how would the [142]Scripture be fulfilled? "Of making many books" there surely would be an end, and that speedily. I venture to think, moreover, that a man may never have set foot beyond the boundaries of his native city, and yet prove a reasonably competent guide to its streets and by-ways. His information is circumscribed14, but such as it is, it is precise and to the point. Though he assure you soberly that the principal thoroughfare of his tenth-rate town is more magnificent than any in New York or London, you may none the less depend upon him to pilot you safely out of its most intricate and bewildering corner. Indeed, he might fairly claim membership in what is, at present, one of the most flourishing of intellectual guilds15: I mean the sect16 of the specialists; whose creed9 is that one may know something without knowing everything, and who choose for their motto: Remain ignorant in order that you may learn.
In this half-developed world there is nothing so perfect as to be past a liability to drawbacks and exceptions. The best of beef is poisonous to some eaters, and strawberries are an abomination to others; and in like manner there is no climate, nor any single feature of any climate, but by some constitutions it will be found unendurable. The earth is to be populated throughout, so it would appear; and to that end sundry17 necessary precautions have been taken against human inertia18. A certain proportion of boys must be born with a propensity19 for wandering and adventure; and the most favored spot must not contain within itself all conceivable advantages. If everybody could stand the rigors20 of New England weather, what would become of the rest of the continent?
Unless I misjudge myself, I should soon tire of perpetual summer. Like the ungrateful Israelites with the manna, my soul would loathe21 such light bread. To my provincial22 mind, as I believe, nothing else could ever quite take the place of a rotation23 of the seasons. There should be rain and shine, cold and heat. A change from good weather to bad, and back again, is on the whole better than unbroken good weather. Dullness to set off brightness, night to give relief to the day, such is the wise order of nature; and I do not account it altogether a token of depravity that honest people, who love a paradox24 without knowing it, find perfection, of no matter how innocent a sort, just a little wearisome. Therefore, I say, let me have a year made up of well-defined contrasts; in short, a New England year, of four clearly marked seasons.
It is often alleged25, I know, that we really have only three seasons; that winter leaps into the lap of summer, and spring is nothing but a myth of the almanac makers26. I shall credit this story when I am convinced of the truth of another statement, equally current and equally well vouched27, that every successive summer is the hottest (or the coldest) for the last twenty-five years. As there is no subject so much talked about as the weather, so, almost of course, there is none so much lied about. Winter claims most of March, as the astronomers28 give it leave to do, I believe; but April and May, despite a snow-storm or two in the former, and a torrid week in the latter, are neither summer nor winter, but spring; somewhat fickle29, it is true, more or less uncertain of itself, but still retaining its personal identity.
As for our actual winter, it may enhance its value in our eyes if we take into account that the three other seasons all depend upon it for their peculiar30 charms. In the case of spring this dependence31 is palpable to every one. Berate32 as we may its backwardness and deceit, muffle33 ourselves never so pettishly34 against its harsh breath, yea, even deny it all claim to its own proper title, yet anon it gets the better of our discontent, and we thank our stars that we have lived to see again the greening of the grass, and to hear once more the song of a bird. A mild day in March is like a foretaste of heaven; the first robin35 seems an angel; while saxifrage, anemones36, and dandelions win kindly37 notice from many a matter-of-fact countryman who lets all the June roses go by him unregarded. It is pleasures of this kind, natural, wholesome38, and universal, that largely make up the total of human happiness. Our instinct for them only strengthens with age. They are like the "divine ideas" of Olympian bards,—
"Which always find us young,
And always keep us so."
All this glory of the revival39 would be wanting but for the previous months of desolation. The hepatica is not more beautiful than many another flower, but it takes us when we are hungry for the sight of a blossom. What can we do? When it peeps out of its bed of withered40 leaves, puts off its furs, and opens to the sunlight its little purple cup, we have no choice but to love it as we cannot love the handsomer and more fragrant41 hosts that follow in its train.
And as winter over and gone sets in brighter relief the warmth and resurrection of springtime, so does the shadow of its approach lend a real if somewhat indefinable attractiveness to the fall months. The blooming of the late flowers, the ripening42 of leaf and fruit, the frosty air, the flocking of birds, all the thousand signs of the autumnal season take on a kind of pathetic and solemn interest, as being but prelusive to the whiteness and deadness so soon to cover the earth. Indeed, if there were no winter, there could be neither spring nor autumn; nay44, nor any summer. Leave out the snow and ice, and the whole round year would be metamorphosed; or, rather, the year itself would pass away, and nothing be left but time.
I am not yet a convert to the pessimistic doctrine45 that "all pleasure is merely relief from pain;" but I gladly believe that pain has its use in heightening subsequent happiness, and that one man's evil qualities (mine, for example) may partly atone46 for themselves by setting off the amiable47 characteristics of worthier48 men around him. It consoles me to feel that my neighbors seem better to themselves and to each other because of the abrupt49 antithesis50 between their dispositions51 and mine. It is better than nothing, if my failure can serve as a background for their virtuous52 success. With reverent53 thankfulness do I acknowledge the gracious and far-reaching frugality54 which, by one means and another, saves even my foolishness and imperfection from running altogether to waste.
Viewed in this light, as an offset55 or foil for the remainder of the year, we may say that the worse the winter is, the better it is. Within reasonable limits, it can hardly be too long or too rigorous. And just here, as it appears to me, our New England climate shows most admirably. Without being unendurably hot or insufferably cold, it does offer us an abundant contrast. An opposition56 of one hundred and twenty-five degrees between January and July ought to be enough, one would say, to impress even the dullest imagination.
But winter has its positively57 favorable side, and is not to be passed off with merely negative compliments; as if it were like a toothache or a tiresome58 sermon,—something of which the only good word to be said is, that it cannot last forever. It is not to be charged as a defect upon cold weather that some people find it to disagree with them. We might as well chide59 the hill for putting a sick man out of breath. It is with persons as with plants: some are hardy60, others not. The date-palm cannot be made to grow in Massachusetts; but is Massachusetts to blame for the palm-tree's incapacity? All things of which the specific office is to promote strength (exercise, food, climate) presuppose a degree of strength sufficient for their use. So it is with cold weather. Its proper effect is to brace61 and invigorate the system; but there must be vigor62 to start with. The law is universal: "To him that hath shall be given."
Enough, then, of apologies and negative considerations. There was never a good Yankee, of moderately robust64 health, and under fifty years of age, that did not welcome cold weather as a friend. Ask the school-boys, especially such as live in country places, whether summer or winter brings the greater pleasure. Two to one they will vote for winter. Or look back over your own childhood, and see whether the sports of winter-time do not seem, in the retrospect65, to have been the very crown of the year. How vivid my own recollections are! Other seasons had their own distinctive66 felicities; the year was full of delights; but we watched for the first snow-fall and the first ice as eagerly as I now see elderly and sickly people watching for the first symptoms of summer. As well as I can remember, winter was never too long nor too cold, whatever may have been true of a single day now and then, when the old school-house, with its one small stove, and its eight or ten large windows, ought, in all reason, to have been condemned67 as uninhabitable. But the frolics out-of-doors! It makes the blood tingle68 even now to think of them. How brief the days were! How cruel the authority that kept us in the house after dark, while so many of our mates were still "sliding down hill" (we knew nothing of "coasting" where I was born), or skating in the meadow! Childhood in the sunny South must be a very tame affair, New England youngsters being judges.
Trifles of this kind, if any be moved to call them such, are not to be sneered69 out of court. Fifteen years form no small part of a human life, and whatever helps us to grow up happy contributes in no slight degree to keep us happy to the end. "When I became a man I put away childish things"? Yes, it may be; but the very things that I boast of outgrowing70 have made me what I am. In truth, when it comes to such a question as this, I confess to putting more faith in the verdict of healthy children than in the unanimous theories and groans71 of whole congresses of valetudinarians. I am not yet so old nor so feeble but I gaze with something of my youthful enthusiasm upon the first snow. It quickens my pulse to see the ponds frozen over, although my skates long since went out of commission; and I still find comfort in a tramp of five or six miles, with the path none too good, and the mercury half-way between the freezing point and zero. I like the buffeting72 of the north wind, and am not indisposed once in a while to wrestle73 with the frost for the possession of my own ears. Well as I love to loiter, I rejoice also in weather which makes loitering impossible; which puts new springs into a man's legs, and sets him spinning over the course whether he will or no. It will be otherwise with me by and by, I suppose, seeing how my venerable fellow-citizens are affected74, but for the present nothing renews my physical youth more surely than a low temperature; a fact which I welcome as evidence that I am not yet going down-hill, however closely I may be nearing the summit.
Winter does us the honor to assume that we are not weaklings. Summer may coddle and flatter, but cold weather is no sentimentalist. Its kindest and tenderest mood has something of a stoical severity about it. It lays its finger without mercy on our most vulnerable and sensitive spots. But withal, as I have said, if we really possess any reserved strength, it knows how to bring it out and make the most of it. What a fullness of vitality75 do we suddenly develop as we come into close quarters with this well-intentioned but rough and ready antagonist76! In fine, winter is one of those rare and invaluable77 friends of whom Emerson speaks, who enable us to do what we can. To its good offices it is largely attributable, no doubt, that in the long run the inhabitants of temperate78 regions have always been too powerful for their rivals within the tropics. Frigidity79 is like poverty, a blessing80 to those who can bear it.
Winter in New England is not a time for gathering81 flowers out-of-doors, though, taking the years together, there is no month of the twelve wherein one may not pick a few blossoms even in Massachusetts; but if it effaces82 one set of pictures, it paints for us another; and a wise and liberal taste will reckon itself a debtor83 to both. To say nothing of the half-dozen mornings on which every tree and bush is arrayed in all the splendor84 of diamonds, or the other half-dozen when they bow themselves under masses of new-fallen snow,—making no account of such exceptional pageants85, which, indeed, are often so destructive as to lose much of their glory in the eyes of provident86 spectators,—I, for my own part, find a beauty in the very commonest of winter landscapes. Let the ground be altogether white, or altogether brown, or let it be covered so thinly that the grass-blades show dark above the snow; in any case, white or brown, or white and brown, to me it is all beautiful; beautiful in itself, and also by contrast with the greenness before and after; while, as for the trees, I like them so well in their state of undress that I question sometimes whether their leafy garments do not conceal87 more loveliness than they confer. We are grateful, of course, to pines and spruces; but what if all trees were evergreen88? A questionable89 improvement, surely. No; suggestive and solemn as the falling of the leaves must ever be to us who read our own destiny in the annual parable90, it would be sadder still if there were no such alternation, no diversity, but only one monotonous91 year on year of changeless verdure.
Winter beauty, such as I have been hinting at, is not far to seek, whether by townsman or rustic92. Bostonians have only to cross the Mill-Dam,—a rather too fashionable promenade93, it is true, but even here one may be tolerably certain of elbow-room on a January morning. Often have I taken this road to health and happiness, waxing enthusiastic as I have proceeded, admiring the snow-bound scene with a fervor94 which the most opulent of summer landscapes seldom excites; and, pushing on with increasing exhilaration, have brought up at last on Corey Hill, where the inquisitive95 north-wind has very likely abbreviated96 my stay, but has never yet spoiled my rapture97 at the wonderful white world underneath98.
Economy has its pleasures, it is said, for all healthily constituted minds. We like, all of us, to make much out of little; to do a notable piece of work with ordinary tools; to treat a meagre and commonplace theme in such a manner that whoever begins to read has no alternative but to finish; to tempt99 an epicure100 with the daintiest of repasts out of the simplest and fewest of every-day materials; to paint a picture which has nothing in it, but compels the eye; in a word, to demonstrate to others, and not less to ourselves, that the secret of success lies in the man and not in the stuff. It is good, once in a while, to take advantage of a disadvantage to show what we can do.
On the same principle we are glad to find ourselves, if only not too often, in unpropitious circumstances. Otherwise how should we ever make proof of our philosophy? It heightens my confidence in the goodness at the heart of things to see how, as if by instinct, men of sound natures inevitably101 right the scale in seasons of loss and scarcity102. If half the fortune disappears, the other half straightway doubles in value. Faith easily puts aside calculation, and proves, off-hand, that a part is equal to the whole.
Thus it is with me as a lover of out-door life, and especially as a field student of ornithology103. At no time of the year does the fellowship of the birds afford me keener enjoyment104 than in the dead of winter. In June one may see them everywhere, and hear them at all hours; a few more or a few less are nothing to make account of; but in January the sight of a single brown creeper is sufficient to brighten the day, and the twittering of half a dozen goldfinches is like the music of angels.
As a certain outspoken105 philosopher would not visit some of his relatives because he disliked to be alone, so do I in my jaunts106 avoid the highway whenever it is possible, even in midwinter. What so lonesome as the presence of people with whom we must not speak, or, worse yet, with whom we must speak, but only about the weather and like exciting topics! As I have intimated, however, it is usually the public street or nothing with me during the cold season. All the more grateful am I, therefore, to those familiar winter birds, some of whom are sure to bid me good morning out of the hedges and shade-trees as I go past. Not unlikely a shrike sits motionless and dumb upon a telegraph wire, or in contrary mood whistles and chirrups industriously107 from some tree-top. He is no angel, that is plain enough; but none the less I am glad to meet him. If he fails of being lovable, he is at least a study. It is wonderful how abruptly108 his whim109 changes; how disconnected his behavior seems; how quickly and unexpectedly he can pass from the most perfect quiescence110 into a fit of most intense activity. I came upon such a fellow the other day in crossing the Common, who, just as I espied111 him, swooped112 upon a bunch of sparrows in an elm. He missed his aim, and in half a minute made a second attempt upon a similar group in another tree. This time he singled out one of the flock, and took chase after it; but the terrified creature ducked and turned, and finally got away, whereupon the shrike betook himself to a perch113, and fell to making all manner of noises,—squeaks, whistles, twitters, and what not,—hopping about nervously114 meanwhile. The passers-by all stopped to look at the show (perhaps because they saw me staring upward), till finally a laborer115 yielded to the school-boy instinct and let fly a stone. The scamp was not greatly frightened by this demonstration116, and merely flew to the tip of one of the tall cotton-woods, where he immediately resumed his vocal117 practice.
It ought to be helpful to a man's independence of spirit to fall in once in a while with such a self-reliant and nonchalant brother. For one, I wish I were better able to profit by his example. He seems made for hard times and short rations63. Doubtless it is a delusion118 of the fancy, but he and winter are so connected in my thought that I can hardly conceive of him as knowing what summer means, or as caring to know.
To a person of my tastes it is one of winter's capital recommendations that it brings its own birds with it, thus affording sundry ornithological119 pleasures which otherwise one would be compelled to go without. The tree-sparrows, for instance, are very good cold-weather acquaintances of mine. There is nothing peculiarly taking about their dress or demeanor120; but they are steady-going, good-humored, diligent121 people, whose presence you may always depend upon. I lately witnessed a very pretty trick of theirs. It was in the marsh122 just over the fence from Beacon123 Street, where a company of the birds, a dozen perhaps, were breakfasting off the seeds of evening primrose124. Less skillful acrobats125 than their neighbors and frequent traveling companions, the red-poll linnets, it is not easy for them to feed while hanging upon the pods. So, taking the weeds one by one, they alighted at the very tip, and then with various twitchings and stampings shook the stalk as violently as possible, after which they dropped quickly upon the snow to gather up the results of their labors126. As I say, it was an extremely pretty performance, and by itself would have rewarded me for my morning tramp, putting me in mind, as it did, of happy hours long since past, when I climbed into the tops of nut-trees on business of the same sort. One of the principal uses of friendship, human or other, is this of keeping the heart young.
I hope I am not lacking in a wholesome disrespect for sentimentality and affectation; for artificial ecstasies127 over sunsets and landscapes, birds and flowers; the fashionable cant128 of nature-worship, which is enough almost to seal a true worshiper's lips under a vow129 of everlasting130 silence. But such repugnances belong to the library and the parlor131, and are left behind when a man goes abroad, either by himself or in any other really good company. For my own part the first lisp of a chickadee out of a wayside thicket132 disperses133 with a breath all such unhappy and unhallowed recollections. Here is a voice sincere, and the response is instantaneous and irresistible134.
It would be a breach135 of good manners, an inexcusable ingratitude136, to write never so briefly137 of the New England winter without noting this, the most engaging and characteristic enlivener of our winter woods; who revels138 in snow and ice, and is never lacking in abundant measures of faith and cheerfulness, enough not only for himself, but for any chance wayfarer139 of our own kind. He is every whit43 as independent as the shrike, but in how opposite a manner!—with a self-reliance that is never self-sufficiency, and bravery that offers no suspicion of bravado140. Happy in himself, he is at the same time of a most companionable spirit. Perfect little philosopher! What a paradise New England would be if all her inhabitants were like him!
In such a winter climate as ours it is emphatically true that we "know not what shall be on the morrow." The season is not straitened in its resources, and caters141 to all tastes in a way which some may look upon as fickleness142, but which I prefer to regard as catholicity. Its days are of many types, and it spreads them out before us like a patient shopkeeper,—as if it recognized in the Yankee a customer hard to suit. I do not mean to affirm that the weather and I are never at odds143; but all in all, in the long run and theoretically, I approve its methods. What a humdrum144 round life would be if nothing ever happened but the expected! I wonder if there are beings anywhere who have forgotten how it feels to be surprised. The children of this world, at all events, were not intended for any such condition of fixity. When there is no longer anything new under the sun, it will be time to get above it.
Even in so simple and regular a proceeding145 as a morning walk, one wishes always to see something new, or failing of that, something old in a new light; an easy enough task, if one has eyes. For as we cannot drink twice of the same river, so we cannot twice take the same ramble146. I went over the same course yesterday and to-day; but yesterday's landscape and sky were different from to-day's. I saw different birds, and had different thoughts; and after all, the principal part of a walk is what goes on in the mind. Still, the activities of the intellect are greatly under the influence of external surroundings, a fact which makes largely in favor of a varied147 year like that we have been praising. The experience of it tends to widen and diversify148 the thinking of men. In a smaller degree it answers the same end as travel. For aught I know, it may possibly have its little share in the onerous149 task of liberalizing systems of theology. Who shall say that our New England climate, with its frequent and extreme contrasts,—what I have called its habit of catholicity,—may not have had more or less to do with that diffusion150 of free thought which has made the home of the Pilgrims the birthplace of heresies151 without number? The suggestion is fanciful, perhaps. Let it pass. Such profundities152 do not come within my province. Only I must believe that, even in the matter of weather, it is good for us to be educated out of bigotry153 into a large-minded toleration. Hence it is, in part, that I give my suffrage154 for our Massachusetts winter, which not only widens the scope of the year, but contains within itself a variety wellnigh endless.
I have kept my subject out-of-doors. It is well always to have at least one point of originality155. Let it be mine, in the present instance, that I have said nothing about the pleasures of the fireside, about long evenings and drawn156 curtains. If I were in winter's place, I should not greatly care to hear people tell how comfortable they could make themselves by jealously shutting me out. Their speech might be eloquent157, and their language eulogistic158; but somehow I should not feel that they were praising me.
该作者的其它作品
The Clerk of the Woods
该作者的其它作品
The Clerk of the Woods
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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pried
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的过去式和过去分词 )；撬开 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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laity
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| n.俗人；门外汉 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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guilds
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sect
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sundry
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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propensity
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rigors
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loathe
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provincial
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rotation
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paradox
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alleged
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makers
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vouched
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astronomers
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fickle
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peculiar
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dependence
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berate
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muffle
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| v.围裹；抑制；发低沉的声音 | |
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pettishly
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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36
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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39
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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40
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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41
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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43
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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44
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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45
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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46
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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47
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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48
worthier
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| 应得某事物( worthy的比较级 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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49
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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50
antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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51
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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52
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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53
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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54
frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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55
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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56
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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57
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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58
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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59
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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60
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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61
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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62
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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63
rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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65
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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66
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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67
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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69
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
outgrowing
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的现在分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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71
groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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72
buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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73
wrestle
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| vi.摔跤，角力；搏斗；全力对付 | |
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74
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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75
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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76
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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77
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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78
temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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79
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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80
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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81
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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82
effaces
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| v.擦掉( efface的第三人称单数 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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83
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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84
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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85
pageants
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| n.盛装的游行( pageant的名词复数 )；穿古代服装的游行；再现历史场景的娱乐活动；盛会 | |
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86
provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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87
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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88
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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89
questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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90
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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91
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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92
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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93
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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94
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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95
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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96
abbreviated
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| adj. 简短的，省略的 动词abbreviate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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97
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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98
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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99
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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100
epicure
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| n.行家，美食家 | |
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101
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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102
scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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103
ornithology
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| n.鸟类学 | |
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104
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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105
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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106
jaunts
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| n.游览( jaunt的名词复数 ) | |
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107
industriously
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108
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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109
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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110
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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111
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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114
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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115
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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116
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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117
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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118
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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119
ornithological
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| adj.鸟类学的 | |
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120
demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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121
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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122
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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123
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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124
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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125
acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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126
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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127
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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128
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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129
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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130
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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131
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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132
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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133
disperses
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| v.（使）分散( disperse的第三人称单数 )；疏散；驱散；散布 | |
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134
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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135
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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136
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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137
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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138
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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139
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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140
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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141
caters
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的第三人称单数 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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142
fickleness
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| n.易变；无常；浮躁；变化无常 | |
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143
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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144
humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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145
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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146
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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147
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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148
diversify
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| v.（使）不同，（使）变得多样化 | |
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149
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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150
diffusion
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| n.流布；普及；散漫 | |
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151
heresies
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| n.异端邪说，异教( heresy的名词复数 ) | |
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152
profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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153
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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154
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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155
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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156
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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157
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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158
eulogistic
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| adj.颂扬的，颂词的 | |
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