The inhabitants of these towns have a great regard for a tree, though their standard for one is necessarily neither large nor high; and when they tell you of the large trees that once grew here, you must think of them, not as absolutely large, but large compared with the present generation. Their “brave old oaks,” of which they speak with so much respect, and which they will point out to you as relics24 of the primitive25 forest, one hundred or one hundred and fifty, ay, for aught they know, two hundred years old, have a ridiculously dwarfish appearance, which excites a smile in the beholder26. The largest and most venerable which they will show you in such a case are, perhaps, not more than twenty or twenty-five feet high. I was especially amused by the Liliputian old oaks in the south part of Truro. To the inexperienced eye, which appreciated their proportions only, they might appear vast as the tree which saved his royal majesty27, but measured, they were dwarfed28 at once almost into lichens which a deer might eat up in a morning. Yet they will tell you that large schooners29 were once built of timber which grew in Wellfleet. The old houses also are built of the timber of the Cape; but instead of the forests in the midst of which they originally stood, barren heaths, with poverty-grass for heather, now stretch away on every side. The modern houses are built of what is called “dimension timber,” imported from Maine, all ready to be set up, so that commonly they do not touch it again with an axe31. Almost all the wood used for fuel is imported by vessels32 or currents, and of course all the coal. I was told that probably a quarter of the fuel and a considerable part of the lumber34 used in North Truro was drift-wood. Many get all their fuel from the beach.
Of birds not found in the interior of the State,—at least in my neighborhood,—I heard, in the summer, the Black-throated Bunting (Fringilla Americana) amid the shrubbery, and in the open land the Upland Plover35 (Totanus Bartramius), whose quivering notes were ever and anon prolonged into a clear, somewhat plaintive36, yet hawk-like scream, which sounded at a very indefinite distance. The bird may have been in the next field, though it sounded a mile off.
To-day we were walking through Truro, a town of about eighteen hundred inhabitants. We had already come to Pamet River, which empties into the Bay. This was the limit of the Pilgrims’ journey up the Cape from Provincetown, when seeking a place for settlement. It rises in a hollow within a few rods of the Atlantic, and one who lives near its source told us that in high tides the sea leaked through, yet the wind and waves preserve intact the barrier between them, and thus the whole river is steadily37 driven westward38 butt-end foremost,—fountain-head, channel, and light-house at the mouth, all together.
Early in the afternoon we reached the Highland39 Light, whose white tower we had seen rising out of the bank in front of us for the last mile or two. It is fourteen miles from the Nauset Lights, on what is called the Clay Pounds, an immense bed of clay abutting40 on the Atlantic, and, as the keeper told us, stretching quite across the Cape, which is here only about two miles wide. We perceived at once a difference in the soil, for there was an interruption of the desert, and a slight appearance of a sod under our feet, such as we had not seen for the last two days.
After arranging to lodge41 at the light-house, we rambled42 across the Cape to the Bay, over a singularly bleak43 and barren-looking country, consisting of rounded hills and hollows, called by geologists44 diluvial elevations45 and depressions,—a kind of scenery which has been compared to a chopped sea, though this suggests too sudden a transition. There is a delineation47 of this very landscape in Hitchcock’s Report on the Geology of Massachusetts, a work which, by its size at least, reminds one of a diluvial elevation46 itself. Looking southward from the light-house, the Cape appeared like an elevated plateau, sloping very regularly, though slightly, downward from the edge of the bank on the Atlantic side, about one hundred and fifty feet above the ocean, to that on the Bay side. On traversing this we found it to be interrupted by broad valleys or gullies, which become the hollows in the bank when the sea has worn up to them. They are commonly at right angles with the shore, and often extend quite across the Cape. Some of the valleys, however, are circular, a hundred feet deep without any outlet48, as if the Cape had sunk in those places, or its sands had run out. The few scattered49 houses which we passed, being placed at the bottom of the hollows for shelter and fertility, were, for the most part, concealed50 entirely52, as much as if they had been swallowed up in the earth. Even a village with its meeting-house, which we had left little more than a stone’s throw behind, had sunk into the earth, spire53 and all, and we saw only the surface of the upland and the sea on either hand. When approaching it, we had mistaken the belfry for a summer-house on the plain. We began to think that we might tumble into a village before we were aware of it, as into an ant-lion’s hole, and be drawn54 into the sand irrecoverably. The most conspicuous55 objects on the land were a distant windmill, or a meeting-house standing56 alone, for only they could afford to occupy an exposed place. A great part of the township, however, is a barren, heath-like plain, and perhaps one third of it lies in common, though the property of individuals. The author of the old “Description of Truro,” speaking of the soil, says: “The snow, which would be of essential service to it provided it lay level and covered the ground, is blown into drifts and into the sea.” This peculiar57 open country, with here and there a patch of shrubbery, extends as much as seven miles, or from Pamet River on the south to High Head on the north, and from Ocean to Bay. To walk over it makes on a stranger such an impression as being at sea, and he finds it impossible to estimate distances in any weather. A windmill or a herd58 of cows may seem to be far away in the horizon, yet, after going a few rods, he will be close upon them. He is also deluded59 by other kinds of mirage60. When, in the summer, I saw a family a-blueberrying a mile off, walking about amid the dwarfish bushes which did not come up higher than their ankles, they seemed to me to be a race of giants, twenty feet high at least.
The highest and sandiest portion next the Atlantic was thinly covered with Beach-grass and Indigo-weed. Next to this the surface of the upland generally consisted of white sand and gravel61, like coarse salt, through which a scanty63 vegetation found its way up. It will give an ornithologist64 some idea of its barrenness if I mention that the next June, the month of grass. I found a night-hawk’s eggs there, and that almost any square rod thereabouts, taken at random65, would be an eligible66 site for such a deposit. The kildeer-plover, which loves a similar locality, also drops its eggs there, and fills the air above with its din1. This upland also produced Cladonia lichens, poverty-grass, savory-leaved aster67 (Diplopappus linariifolius), mouse-ear, bear-berry, &c. On a few hillsides the savory-leaved aster and mouse-ear alone made quite a dense68 sward, said to be very pretty when the aster is in bloom. In some parts the two species of poverty-grass (Hudsonia tomentosa and ericoides), which deserve a better name, reign69 for miles in littli hemispherical tufts or islets, like moss70, scattered over the waste. They linger in bloom there till the middle of July. Occasionally near the beach these rounded beds, as also those of the sea-sandwort (Honkenya peploides), were filled with sand within an inch of their tops, and were hard, like large ant-hills, while the surrounding sand was soft. In summer, if the poverty-grass grows at the head of a Hollow looking toward the sea, in a bleak position where the wind rushes up, the northern or exposed half of the tuft is sometimes all black and dead like an oven-broom, while the opposite half is yellow with blossoms, the whole hillside thus presenting a remarkable contrast when seen from the poverty-stricken and the flourishing side. This plant, which in many places would be esteemed71 an ornament72, is here despised by many on account of its being associated with barrenness. It might well be adopted for the Barnstable coat-of-arms, in a field sableux. I should be proud of it. Here and there were tracts73 of Beach-grass mingled with the Sea-side Goldenrod and Beach-pea, which reminded us still more forcibly of the ocean.
We read that there was not a brook74 in Truro. Yet there were deer here once, which must often have panted in vain; but I am pretty sure that I afterward75 saw a small fresh-water brook emptying into the south side of Pamet River, though I was so heedless as not to taste it. At any rate, a little boy near by told me that he drank at it. There was not a tree as far as we could see, and that was many miles each way, the general level of the upland being about the same everywhere. Even from the Atlantic side we overlooked the Bay, and saw to Manomet Point in Plymouth, and better from that side because it was the highest. The almost universal bareness and smoothness of the landscape were as agreeable as novel, making it so much the more like the deck of a vessel33. We saw vessels sailing south into the Bay, on the one hand, and north along the Atlantic shore, on the other, all with an aft wind.
The single road which runs lengthwise the Cape, now winding76 over the plain, now through the shrubbery which scrapes the wheels of the stage, was a mere cart-track in the sand, commonly without any fences to confine it, and continually changing from this side to that, to harder ground, or sometimes to avoid the tide. But the inhabitants travel the waste here and there pilgrim-wise and staff in hand, by narrow footpaths77, through which the sand flows out and reveals the nakedness of the land. We shuddered78 at the thought of living there and taking our afternoon walks over those barren swells79, where we could overlook every step of our walk before taking it, and would have to pray for a fog or a snow-storm to conceal51 our destiny. The walker there must soon eat his heart.
In the north part of the town there is no house from shore to shore for several miles, and it is as wild and solitary80 as the Western Prairies—used to be. Indeed, one who has seen every house in Truro will be surprised to hear of the number of the inhabitants, but perhaps five hundred of the men and boys of this small town were then abroad on their fishing grounds. Only a few men stay at home to till the sand or watch for blackfish. The farmers are fishermen-farmers and understand better ploughing the sea than the land. They do not disturb their sands much, though there is a plenty of sea-weed in the creeks81, to say nothing of blackfish occasionally rotting the shore. Between the Pond and East Harbor Village there was an interesting plantation82 of pitch-pines, twenty or thirty acres in extent, like those which we had already seen from the stage. One who lived near said that the land was purchased by two men for a shilling or twenty-five cents an acre. Some is not considered worth writing a deed for. This soil or sand, which was partially83 covered with poverty and beach grass, sorrel, &c., was furrowed84 at intervals86 of about four feet and the seed dropped by a machine. The pines had come up admirably and grown the first year three or four inches, and the second six inches and more. Where the seed had been lately planted the white sand was freshly exposed in an endless furrow85 winding round and round the sides of the deep hollows, in a vertical87 spiral manner, which produced a very singular effect, as if you were looking into the reverse side of a vast banded shield. This experiment, so important to the Cape, appeared very successful, and perhaps the time will come when the greater part of this kind of land in Barnstable County will be thus covered with an artificial pine forest, as has been done in some parts of France. In that country 12,500 acres of downs had been thus covered in 1811 near Bayonne. They are called pignadas, and according to Loudon “constitute the principal riches of the inhabitants, where there was a drifting desert before.” It seemed a nobler kind of grain to raise than corn even.
A few years ago Truro was remarkable among the Cape towns for the number of sheep raised in it; but I was told that at this time only two men kept sheep in the town, and in 1855, a Truro boy ten years old told me that he had never seen one. They were formerly88 pastured on the unfenced lands or general fields, but now the owners were more particular to assert their rights, and it cost too much for fencing. The rails are cedar89 from Maine, and two rails will answer for ordinary purposes, but four are required for sheep. This was the reason assigned by one who had formerly kept them for not keeping them any longer. Fencing stuff is so expensive that I saw fences made with only one rail, and very often the rail when split was carefully tied with a string. In one of the villages I saw the next summer a cow tethered by a rope six rods long, the rope long in proportion as the feed was short and thin. Sixty rods, ay, all the cables of the Cape, would have been no more than fair. Tethered in the desert for fear that she would get into Arabia Felix! I helped a man weigh a bundle of hay which he was selling to his neighbor, holding one end of a pole from which it swung by a steel-yard hook, and this was just half his whole crop. In short, the country looked so barren that I several times refrained from asking the inhabitants for a string or a piece of wrapping-paper, for fear I should rob them, for they plainly were obliged to import these things as well as rails, and where there were no newsboys, I did not see what they would do for waste paper.
The objects around us, the make-shifts of fishermen ashore90, often made us look down to see if we were standing on terra firma. In the wells everywhere a block and tackle were used to raise the bucket, instead of a windlass, and by almost every house was laid up a spar or a plank91 or two full of auger-holes, saved from a wreck92. The windmills were partly built of these, and they were worked into the public bridges. The light-house keeper, who was having his barn shingled94, told me casually95 that he had made three thousand good shingles96 for that purpose out of a mast. You would sometimes see an old oar62 used for a rail. Frequently also some fair-weather finery ripped off a vessel by a storm near the coast was nailed up against an outhouse. I saw fastened to a shed near the lighthouse a long new sign with the words “ANGLO SAXON” on it in large gilt97 letters, as if it were a useless part which the ship could afford to lose, or which the sailors had discharged at the same time with the pilot. But it interested somewhat as if it had been a part of the Argo, clipped off in passing through the Symplegades.
To the fisherman, the Cape itself is a sort of store-ship laden98 with supplies,—a safer and larger craft which carries the women and children, the old men and the sick; and indeed sea-phrases are as common on it as on board a vessel. Thus is it ever with a sea-going people. The old Northmen used to speak of the “keel-ridge93” of the country, that is, the ridge of the Doffrafield Mountains, as if the land were a boat turned bottom up. I was frequently reminded of the Northmen here. The inhabitants of the Cape are often at once farmers and sea-rovers; they are more than vikings or kings of the bays, for their sway extends over the open sea also. A farmer in Wellfleet, at whose house I afterward spent a night, who had raised fifty bushels of potatoes the previous year, which is a large crop for the Cape, and had extensive salt-works, pointed99 to his schooner30, which lay in sight, in which he and his man and boy occasionally ran down the coast a-trading as far as the Capes100 of Virginia. This was his market-cart, and his hired man knew how to steer101 her. Thus he drove two teams a-field,
“ere the high seas appeared
Though probably he would not hear much of the “gray fly” on his way to Virginia.
A great proportion of the inhabitants of the Cape are always thus abroad about their teaming on some ocean highway or other, and the history of one of their ordinary trips would cast the Argonautic expedition into the shade. I have just heard of a Cape Cod103 captain who was expected home in the beginning of the winter from the West Indies, but was long since given up for lost, till his relations at length have heard with joy, that, after getting within forty miles of Cape Cod light, he was driven back by nine successive gales104 to Key West, between Florida and Cuba, and was once again shaping his course for home. Thus he spent his winter. In ancient times the adventures of these two or three men and boys would have been made the basis of a myth, but now such tales are crowded into a line of shorthand signs, like an algebraic formula in the shipping106 news. “Wherever over the world,” said Palfrey in his oration107 at Barnstable, “you see the stars and stripes floating, you may have good hope that beneath them some one will be found who can tell you the soundings of Barnstable, or Wellfleet, or Chatham Harbor.”
I passed by the home of somebody’s (or everybody’s) Uncle Bill, one day over on the Plymouth shore. It was a schooner half keeled-up on the mud: we aroused the master out of a sound sleep at noonday, by thumping108 on the bottom of his vessel till he presented himself at the hatchway, for we wanted to borrow his clam-digger. Meaning to make him a call, I looked out the next morning, and lo! he had run over to “the Pines” the evening before, fearing an easterly storm. He outrode the great gale105 in the spring of 1851, dashing about alone in Plymouth Bay. He goes after rockweed, lighters109 vessels, and saves wrecks110. I still saw him lying in the mud over at “the Pines” in the horizon, which place he could not leave if he would till flood tide. But he would not then probably. This waiting for the tide is a singular feature in life by the sea-shore. A frequent answer is, “Well! you can’t start for two hours yet.” It is something new to a landsman, and at first he is not disposed to wait. History says that “two inhabitants of Truro were the first who adventured to the Falkland Isles111 in pursuit of whales. This voyage was undertaken in the year 1774, by the advice of Admiral Montague of the British navy, and was crowned with success.”
At the Pond Village we saw a pond three eighths of a mile long densely112 filled with cat-tail flags, seven feet high,—enough for all the coopers in New England.
The western shore was nearly as sandy as the eastern, but the water was much smoother, and the bottom was partially covered with the slender grass-like seaweed (Zostera), which we had not seen on the Atlantic side; there were also a few rude sheds for trying fish on the beach there, which made it appear less wild. In the few marshes113 on this side we afterward saw Samphire, Rosemary, and other plants new to us inlanders.
In the summer and fall sometimes, hundreds of blackfish (the Social Whale, Globicephalus Melas of De Kay; called also Black Whale-fish, Howling Whale, Bottlehead, etc.), fifteen feet or more in length, are driven ashore in a single school here. I witnessed such a scene in July, 1855. A carpenter who was working at the lighthouse arriving early in the morning remarked that he did not know but he had lost fifty dollars by coming to his work; for as he came along the Bay side he heard them driving a school of blackfish ashore, and he had debated with himself whether he should not go and join them and take his share, but had concluded to come to his work. After breakfast I came over to this place, about two miles distant, and near the beach met some of the fishermen returning from their chase. Looking up and down the shore, I could see about a mile south some large black masses on the sand, which I knew must be blackfish, and a man or two about them. As I walked along towards them I soon came to a huge carcass whose head was gone and whose blubber had been stripped off some weeks before; the tide was just beginning to move it, and the stench compelled me to go a long way round. When I came to Great Hollow I found a fisherman and some boys on the watch, and counted about thirty blackfish, just killed, with many lance wounds, and the water was more or less bloody114 around. They were partly on shore and partly in the water, held by a rope round their tails till the tide should leave them. A boat had been somewhat stove by the tail of one. They were a smooth shining black, like India-rubber, and had remarkably115 simple and lumpish forms for animated116 creatures, with a blunt round snout or head, whale-like, and simple stiff-looking flippers. The largest were about fifteen feet long, but one or two were only five feet long, and still without teeth. The fisherman slashed117 one with his jackknife, to show me how thick the blubber was,—about three inches; and as I passed my finger through the cut it was covered thick with oil. The blubber looked like pork, and this man said that when they were trying it the boys would sometimes come round with a piece of bread in one hand, and take a piece of blubber in the other to eat with it, preferring it to pork scraps118. He also cut into the flesh beneath, which was firm and red like beef, and he said that for his part he preferred it when fresh to beef. It is stated that in 1812 blackfish were used as food by the poor of Bretagne. They were waiting for the tide to leave these fishes high and dry, that they might strip off the blubber and carry it to their try-works in their boats, where they try it on the beach. They get commonly a barrel of oil, worth fifteen or twenty dollars, to a fish. There were many lances and harpoons119 in the boats,—much slenderer instruments than I had expected. An old man came along the beach with a horse and wagon120 distributing the dinners of the fishermen, which their wives had put up in little pails and jugs121, and which he had collected in the Pond Village, and for this service, I suppose, he received a share of the oil. If one could not tell his own pail, he took the first he came to.
As I stood there they raised the cry of “another school,” and we could see their black backs and their blowing about a mile northward122, as they went leaping over the sea like horses. Some boats were already in pursuit there, driving them toward the beach. Other fishermen and boys running up began to jump into the boats and push them off from where I stood, and I might have gone too had I chosen. Soon there were twenty-five or thirty boats in pursuit, some large ones under sail, and others rowing with might and main, keeping outside of the school, those nearest to the fishes striking on the sides of their boats and blowing horns to drive them on to the beach. It was an exciting race. If they succeed in driving them ashore each boat takes one share, and then each man, but if they are compelled to strike them off shore each boat’s company take what they strike. I walked rapidly along the shore toward the north, while the fishermen were rowing still more swiftly to join their companions, and a little boy who walked by my side was congratulating himself that his father’s boat was beating another one. An old blind fisherman whom we met, inquired, “Where are they? I can’t see. Have they got them?” In the mean while the fishes had turned and were escaping northward toward Provincetown, only occasionally the back of one being seen. So the nearest crews were compelled to strike them, and we saw several boats soon made fast, each to its fish, which, four or five rods ahead, was drawing it like a race-horse straight toward the beach, leaping half out of water, blowing blood and water from its hole, and leaving a streak123 of foam124 behind. But they went ashore too far north for us, though we could see the fishermen leap out and lance them on the sand. It was just like pictures of whaling which I have seen, and a fisherman told me that it was nearly as dangerous. In his first trial he had been much excited, and in his haste had used a lance with its scabbard on, but nevertheless had thrust it quite through his fish.
I learned that a few days before this one hundred and eighty blackfish had been driven ashore in one school at Eastham, a little farther south, and that the keeper of Billingsgate Point light went out one morning about the same time and cut his initials on the backs of a large school which had run ashore in the night, and sold his right to them to Provincetown for one thousand dollars, and probably Provincetown made as much more. Another fisherman told me that nineteen years ago three hundred and eighty were driven ashore in one school at Great Hollow. In the Naturalists’ Library, it is said that, in the winter of 1809-10, one thousand one hundred and ten “approached the shore of Hralfiord, Iceland, and were captured.” De Kay says it is not known why they are stranded125. But one fisherman declared to me that they ran ashore in pursuit of squid, and that they generally came on the coast about the last of July.
About a week afterward, when I came to this shore, it was strewn, as far as I could see with a glass, with the carcasses of blackfish stripped of their blubber and their heads cut off; the latter lying higher up. Walking on the beach was out of the question on account of the stench. Between Provincetown and Truro they lay in the very path of the stage. Yet no steps were taken to abate126 the nuisance, and men were catching127 lobsters128 as usual just off the shore. I was told that they did sometimes tow them out and sink them; yet I wondered where they got the stones to sink them with. Of course they might be made into guano, and Cape Cod is not so fertile that her inhabitants can afford to do without this manure,—to say nothing of the diseases they may produce.
After my return home, wishing to learn what was known about the Blackfish, I had recourse to the reports of the zoological surveys of the State, and I found that Storer had rightfully omitted it in his Report on the Fishes, since it is not a fish; so I turned to Emmons’s Report of the Mammalia, but was surprised to find that the seals and whales were omitted by him, because he had had no opportunity to observe them. Considering how this State has risen and thriven by its fisheries.—that the legislature which authorized129 the Zoological Survey sat under the emblem130 of a codfish,—that Nantucket and New Bedford are within our limits,—that an early riser may find a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of blackfish on the shore in a morning,—that the Pilgrims saw the Indians cutting up a blackfish on the shore at Eastham, and called a part of that shore “Grampus Bay,” from the number of blackfish they found there, before they got to Plymouth,—and that from that time to this these fishes have continued to enrich one or two counties almost annually131, and that their decaying carcasses were now poisoning the air of one county for more than thirty miles,—I thought it remarkable that neither the popular nor scientific name was to be found in a report on our mammalia,—a catalogue of the productions of our land and water.
We had here, as well as all across the Cape, a fair view of Provincetown, five or six miles distant over the water toward the west, under its shrubby sand-hills, with its harbor now full of vessels whose masts mingled with the spires132 of its churches, and gave it the appearance of a quite large seaport133 town.
The inhabitants of all the lower Cape towns enjoy thus the prospect134 of two seas. Standing on the western or larboard shore, and looking; across to where the distant mainland looms135, they can say. This is Massachusetts Bay; and then, after an hour’s sauntering walk, they may stand on the starboard side, beyond which no land is seen to loom14, and say, This is the Atlantic Ocean.
On our way back to the lighthouse, by whose white-washed tower we steered136 as securely as the mariner137 by its light at night, we passed through a graveyard138, which apparently139 was saved from being blown away by its slates140, for they had enabled a thick bed of huckleberry-bushes to root themselves amid the graves. We thought it would be worth the while to read the epitaphs where so many were lost at sea; however, as not only their lives, but commonly their bodies also, were lost or not identified, there were fewer epitaphs of this sort than we expected, though there were not a few. Their graveyard is the ocean. Near the eastern side we started up a fox in a hollow, the only kind of wild quadruped, if I except a skunk141 in a salt-marsh, that we saw in all our walk (unless painted and box tortoises may be called quadrupeds). He was a large, plump, shaggy fellow, like a yellow dog, with, as usual, a white tip to his tail, and looked as if he fared well on the Cape. He cantered away into the shrub-oaks and bayberry-bushes which chanced to grow there, but were hardly high enough to conceal him. I saw another the next summer leaping over the top of a beach-plum a little farther north, a small arc of his course (which I trust is not yet run), from which I endeavored in vain to calculate his whole orbit: there were too many unknown attractions to be allowed for. I also saw the exuviae of a third fast sinking into the sand, and added the skull142 to my collection. Hence I concluded that they must be plenty thereabouts; but a traveller may meet with more than an inhabitant, since he is more likely to take an unfrequented route across the country. They told me that in some years they died off in great numbers by a kind of madness, under the effect of which they were seen whirling round and round as if in pursuit of their tails. In Crantz’s account of Greenland, he says: “They (the foxes) live upon birds and their eggs, and, when they can’t get them, upon crowberries, mussels, crabs143, and what the sea casts out.”
Just before reaching the light-house, we saw the sun set in the Bay,—for standing on that narrow Cape was, as I have said, like being on the deck of a vessel, or rather at the masthead of a man-of-war, thirty miles at sea, though we knew that at the same moment the sun was setting behind our native hills, which were just below the horizon in that direction. This sight drove everything else quite out of our heads, and Homer and the Ocean came in again with a rush,—
Ἐν δ’ ἔπεσ’ Ὠκεανῷ λαμπρὸν φάος ἠελίοιο,
the shining torch of the sun fell into the ocean.
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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shrubby
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| adj.灌木的，灌木一般的，灌木繁茂著的 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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dwarfish
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| a.像侏儒的，矮小的 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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sylvan
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| adj.森林的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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locusts
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| n.蝗虫( locust的名词复数 )；贪吃的人；破坏者；槐树 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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15
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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16
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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17
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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18
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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19
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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20
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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21
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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22
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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23
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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24
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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25
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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26
beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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27
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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28
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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30
schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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31
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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32
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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33
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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34
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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35
plover
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| n.珩，珩科鸟，千鸟 | |
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36
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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37
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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38
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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39
highland
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| n.(pl.)高地，山地 | |
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40
abutting
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| adj.邻接的v.（与…）邻接( abut的现在分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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41
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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42
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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43
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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44
geologists
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| 地质学家，地质学者( geologist的名词复数 ) | |
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45
elevations
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| （水平或数量）提高( elevation的名词复数 )； 高地； 海拔； 提升 | |
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46
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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47
delineation
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| n.记述；描写 | |
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48
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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49
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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50
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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51
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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52
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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53
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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54
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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55
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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56
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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57
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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58
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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59
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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61
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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62
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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63
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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64
ornithologist
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| n.鸟类学家 | |
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65
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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66
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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67
aster
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| n.紫菀属植物 | |
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68
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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69
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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70
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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71
esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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72
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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73
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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74
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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75
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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76
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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77
footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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78
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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79
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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80
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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81
creeks
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| n.小湾( creek的名词复数 )；小港；小河；小溪 | |
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82
plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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83
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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84
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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85
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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86
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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87
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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88
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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89
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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90
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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91
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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92
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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93
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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94
shingled
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| adj.盖木瓦的；贴有墙面板的v.用木瓦盖(shingle的过去式和过去分词形式) | |
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95
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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96
shingles
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| n.带状疱疹；（布满海边的）小圆石( shingle的名词复数 )；屋顶板；木瓦（板）；墙面板 | |
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97
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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98
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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99
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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100
capes
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| 碎谷； 斗篷( cape的名词复数 )； 披肩； 海角； 岬 | |
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101
steer
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| vt.驾驶，为…操舵；引导；vi.驾驶 | |
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102
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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103
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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104
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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105
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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106
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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107
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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108
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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109
lighters
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| n.打火机，点火器( lighter的名词复数 ) | |
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110
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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111
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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112
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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113
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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114
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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115
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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116
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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117
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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118
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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119
harpoons
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| n.鱼镖，鱼叉( harpoon的名词复数 )v.鱼镖，鱼叉( harpoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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120
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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121
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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122
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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123
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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124
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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125
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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126
abate
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| vi.(风势，疼痛等)减弱，减轻，减退 | |
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127
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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128
lobsters
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| 龙虾( lobster的名词复数 )； 龙虾肉 | |
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129
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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130
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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131
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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132
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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133
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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134
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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135
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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136
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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137
mariner
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| n.水手号不载人航天探测器，海员，航海者 | |
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138
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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139
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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140
slates
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| （旧时学生用以写字的）石板( slate的名词复数 )； 板岩； 石板瓦； 石板色 | |
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141
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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142
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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143
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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