"If it were to clear up I wouldn't know how to behave, it would seem so unnatural," said Kate. "Do you, by any chance, remember what the sun looks like, Phil?"
"Does the sun ever shine in Saskatchewan anyhow?" I asked with assumed sarcasm1, just to make Kate's big, bonny black eyes flash.
They did flash; but Kate laughed immediately after, as she sat down on a chair in front of me and cradled her long, thin, spirited dark face in her palms.
"We have more sunny weather in Saskatchewan than in all the rest of Canada put together, in an average year," she said, clicking her strong, white teeth and snapping her eyes at me. "But I can't blame you for feeling sceptical about it, Phil. If I went to a new country and it rained every day—all day—all night—after I got there for three whole weeks I'd think things not lawful4 to be uttered about the climate too. So, little cousin, I forgive you. Remember that 'into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary5.' Oh, if you'd only come to visit me last fall. We had such a bee-yew-tiful September last year. We were drowned in sunshine. This fall we're drowned in water. Old settlers tell of a similar visitation in '72, though they claim even that wasn't quite as bad as this."
I was sitting rather disconsolately6 by an upper window of Uncle Kenneth Morrison's log house at Arrow Creek7. Below was what in dry weather—so, at least, I was told—was merely a pretty, grassy8 little valley, but which was now a considerable creek of muddy yellow water, rising daily. Beyond was a cheerless prospect9 of sodden10 prairie and dripping "bluff11."
"It would be a golden, mellow12 land, with purple hazes13 over the bluffs14, in a normal fall," assured Kate. "Even now if the sun were just to shine out for a day and a good 'chinook' blow you'd see a surprising change. I feel like chanting continually that old rhyme I learned in the first primer,
'Rain, rain, go away,
Come again some other day:
—some other day next summer—
Phil and Katie want to play.'
"I wish the 'sometime' would come soon, then," I said, rather grumpily.
"You know it hasn't really rained for three days," protested Kate. "It's been damp and horrid16 and threatening, but it hasn't rained. I defy you to say that it has actually rained."
"When it's so wet underfoot that you can't stir out without rubber boots it might as well be wet overhead too," I said, still grumpily.
"I believe you're homesick, girl," said Kate anxiously.
"No, I'm not," I answered, laughing, and feeling ashamed of my ungraciousness. "Nobody could be homesick with such a jolly good fellow as you around, Kate. It's only that this weather is getting on my nerves a bit. I'm fit for treasons, stratagems17, and spoils. If your chinook doesn't come soon, Kitty, I'll do something quite desperate."
"I feel that way myself," admitted Kate. "Real reckless, Phil. Anyhow, let's put on our despised rubber boots and sally out for a wade18."
"Here's Jim Nash coming on horseback down the trail," I said. "Let's wait and see if he's got the mail."
We hurried down, Kate humming, "Somewhere the sun is shining," solely19, I believe, because she knew it aggravated20 me. At any other time I should probably have thrown a pillow at her, but just now I was too eager to see if Jim Nash had brought any mail.
I had come from Ontario, the first of September, to visit Uncle Kenneth Morrison's family. I had been looking forward to the trip for several years. My cousin Kate and I had always corresponded since they had "gone west" ten years before; and Kate, who revelled21 in the western life, had sung the praises of her adopted land rapturously and constantly. It was quite a joke on her that, when I did finally come to visit her, I should have struck the wettest autumn ever recorded in the history of the west. A wet September in Saskatchewan is no joke, however. The country was almost "flooded out." The trails soon became nearly impassable. All our plans for drives and picnics and inter-neighbour visiting—at that time a neighbour meant a man who lived at least six miles away—had to be given up. Yet I was not lonesome, and I enjoyed my visit in spite of everything. Kate was a host in herself. She was twenty-eight years old—eight years my senior—but the difference in our ages had never been any barrier to our friendship. She was a jolly, companionable, philosophical23 soul, with a jest for every situation, and a merry solution for every perplexity. The only fault I had to find with her was her tendency to make parodies24. Kate's parodies were perfectly25 awful and always got on my nerves.
She was dreadfully ashamed of the way the Saskatchewan weather was behaving after all her boasting. She was thin at the best of times, but now she grew positively27 scraggy with the worry of it. I am afraid I took an unholy delight in teasing her, and abused the western weather even more than was necessary.
Jim Nash—the lank28 youth who was hired to look after the place during Uncle Kenneth's absence on a prolonged threshing expedition—had brought some mail. Kate's share was a letter, postmarked Bothwell, a rising little town about one hundred and twenty miles from Arrow Creek. Kate had several friends there, and one of our plans had been to visit Bothwell and spend a week with them. We had meant to drive, of course, since there was no other way of getting there, and equally of course the plan had been abandoned because of the wet weather.
"Mother," exclaimed Kate, "Mary Taylor is going to be married in a fortnight's time! She wants Phil and me to go up to Bothwell for the wedding."
"What a pity you can't go," remarked Aunt Jennie placidly29. Aunt Jennie was always a placid30 little soul, with a most enviable knack31 of taking everything easy. Nothing ever worried her greatly, and when she had decided32 that a thing was inevitable33 it did not worry her at all.
"But I am going," cried Kate. "I will go—I must go. I positively cannot let Mary Taylor—my own beloved Molly—go and perpetrate matrimony without my being on hand to see it. Yes, I'm going—and if Phil has a spark of the old Blair pioneer spirit in her, she'll go too."
"Of course I'll go if you go," I said.
Aunt Jennie did not think we were in earnest, so she merely laughed at first, and said, "How do you propose to go? Fly—or swim?"
"We'll drive, as usual," said Kate calmly. "I'd feel more at home in that way of locomotion34. We'll borrow Jim Nash's father's democrat35, and take the ponies36. We'll put on old clothes, raincoats, rubber caps and boots, and we'll start tomorrow. In an ordinary time we could easily do it in six days or less, but this fall we'll probably need ten or twelve."
"You don't really mean to go, Kate!" said Aunt Jennie, beginning to perceive that Kate did mean it.
"I do," said Kate, in a convincing tone.
Aunt Jennie felt a little worried—as much as she could feel worried over anything—and she tried her best to dissuade37 Kate, although she plainly did not have much hope of doing so, having had enough experience with her determined38 daughter to realize that when Kate said she was going to do a thing she did it. It was rather funny to listen to the ensuing dialogue.
"Kate, you can't do it. It's a crazy idea! The road is one hundred and twenty miles long."
"I've driven it twice, Mother."
"Yes, but not in such a wet year. The trail is impassable in places."
"Oh, there are always plenty of dry spots to be found if you only look hard for them."
"But you don't know where to look for them, and goodness knows what you'll get into while you are looking."
"We'll call at the M.P. barracks and get an Indian to guide us. Indians always know the dry spots."
"The stage driver has decided not to make another trip till the October frosts set in."
"But he always has such a heavy load. It will be quite different with us, you must remember. We'll travel light—just our provisions and a valise containing our wedding garments."
"But we won't. I'm a good driver and I haven't nerves—but I have nerve. Besides, you forget that we'll have an Indian guide with us."
"There was a company of Hudson Bay freighters ambushed40 and killed along that very trail by Blackfoot Indians in 1839," said Aunt Jennie dolefully.
"Fifty years ago! Their ghosts must have ceased to haunt it by this time," said Kate flippantly.
"Well, you'll get wet through and catch your deaths of cold," protested Aunt Jennie.
"No fear of it. We'll be cased in rubber. And we'll borrow a good tight tent from the M.P.s. Besides, I'm sure it's not going to rain much more. I know the signs."
"Which being interpreted means, 'Wait for a day or two, because then your father may be home and he'll squelch42 your mad expedition,'" said Kate, with a sly glance at me. "No, no, my mother, your wiles43 are in vain. We'll hit the trail tomorrow at sunrise. So just be good, darling, and help us pack up some provisions. I'll send Jim for his father's democrat."
Aunt Jennie resigned herself to the inevitable and betook herself to the pantry with the air of a woman who washes her hands of the consequences. I flew upstairs to pack some finery. I was wild with delight over the proposed outing. I did not realize what it actually meant, and I had perfect confidence in Kate, who was an expert driver, an experienced camper out, and an excellent manager. If I could have seen what was ahead of us I would certainly not have been quite so jubilant and reckless, but I would have gone all the same. I would not miss the laughter-provoking memories of that trip out of my life for anything. I have always been glad I went.
We left at sunrise the next morning; there was a sunrise that morning, for a wonder. The sun came up in a pinky-saffron sky and promised us a fine day. Aunt Jennie bade us goodbye and, estimable woman that she was, did not trouble us with advice or forebodings.
Mr. Nash had sent over his "democrat," a light wagon44 with springs; and Kate's "shaganappies," Tom and Jerry—native ponies, the toughest horse flesh to be found in the world—were hitched45 to it. Kate and I were properly accoutred for our trip and looked—but I try to forget how we looked! The memory is not flattering.
We drove off in the gayest of spirits. Our difficulties began at the start, for we had to drive a mile before we could find a place to ford46 the creek. Beyond that, however, we had a passable trail for three miles to the little outpost of the Mounted Police, where five or six men were stationed on detachment duty.
"Sergeant47 Baker48 is a friend of mine," said Kate. "He'll be only too glad to lend me all we require."
The sergeant was a friend of Kate's, but he looked at her as if he thought she was crazy when she told him where we were going.
"You'd better take a canoe instead of a team," he said sarcastically49. "I've a good notion to arrest you both as horse thieves and prevent you from going on such a mad expedition."
"You know nothing short of arrest would stop me," said Kate, nodding at him with laughing eyes, "and you really won't go to such an extreme, I know. So please be nice, even if it comes hard, and lend us some things. I've come a-borrying."
"I won't lend you a thing," declared the sergeant. "I won't aid and abet50 you in any such freak as this. Go home now, like a good girl."
"I'm not going home," said Kate. "I'm not a 'good girl'—I'm a wicked old maid, and I'm going to Bothwell. If you won't lend us a tent we'll go without—and sleep in the open—and our deaths will lie forever at your door. I'll come back and haunt you, if you don't lend me a tent. I'll camp on your very threshold and you won't be able to go out of your door without falling over my spook."
"I've more fear of being accountable for your death if I do let you go," said Sergeant Baker dubiously51. "However, I see that nothing but physical force will prevent you. What do you want?"
"I want," said Kate, "a cavalry52 tent, a sheet-iron camp stove, and a good Indian guide—old Peter Crow for choice. He's such a respectable-looking old fellow, and his wife often works for us."
The sergeant gave us the tent and stove, and sent a man down to the Reserve for Peter Crow. Moreover, he vindicated53 his title of friend by making us take a dozen prairie chickens and a large ham—besides any quantity of advice. We didn't want the advice but we hugely welcomed the ham. Presently our guide appeared—quite a spruce old Indian, as Indians go. I had never been able to shake off my childhood conviction that an Indian was a fearsome creature, hopelessly addicted54 to scalping knives and tomahawks, and I secretly felt quite horrified55 at the idea of two defenceless females starting out on a lonely prairie trail with an Indian for guide. Even old Peter Crow's meek56 appearance did not quite reassure57 me; but I kept my qualms58 to myself, for I knew Kate would only laugh at me.
It was ten when we finally got away from the M.P. outpost. Sergeant Baker bade us goodbye in a tone which seemed to intimate that he never expected to see either of us again. What with his dismal predictions and my secret horror of Indians, I was beginning to feel anything but jubilant over our expedition. Kate, however, was as blithe59 and buoyant as usual. She knew no fear, being one of those enviable folk who can because they think they can. One hundred and twenty miles of half-flooded prairie trail—camping out at night in the solitude60 of the Great Lone22 Land—rain—muskegs—Indian guides—nothing had any terror for my dauntless cousin.
For the next three hours, however, we got on beautifully. The trail was fair, though somewhat greasy61; the sun shone, though with a somewhat watery62 gleam, through the mists; and Peter Crow, coiled up on the folded tent behind the seat, slept soundly and snored mellifluously63. That snore reassured64 me greatly. I had never thought of Indians as snoring. Surely one who did couldn't be dreaded65 greatly.
We stopped at one o'clock and had a cold lunch, sitting in our wagon, while Peter Crow wakened up and watered the ponies. We did not get on so well in the afternoon. The trail descended66 into low-lying ground where travelling was very difficult. I had to admit old Peter Crow was quite invaluable67. He knew, as Kate had foretold68, "all the dry spots"—that is to say, spots less wet than others. But, even so, we had to make so many detours69 that by sunset we were little more than six miles distant from our noon halting place.
"We'd better set camp now, before it gets any darker," said Kate. "There's a capital spot over there, by that bluff of dead poplar. The ground seems pretty dry too. Peter, cut us a set of tent poles and kindle70 a fire."
We had agreed to pay him a dollar a day for the trip, but none of the money was to be paid until we got to Bothwell. Kate told him this. But all the reply she got was a stolid72, "Want dollar. No make fire without dollar."
We were getting cold and it was getting dark, so finally Kate, under the law of necessity, paid him his dollar. Then he carried out our orders at his own sweet leisure. In course of time he got a fire lighted, and while we cooked supper he set up the tent and prepared our beds, by cutting piles of brush and covering them with rugs.
Kate and I had a hilarious73 time cooking that supper. It was my first experience of camping out and, as I had become pretty well convinced that Peter Crow was not the typical Indian of old romance, I enjoyed it all hugely. But we were both very tired, and as soon as we had finished eating we betook ourselves to our tent and found our brush beds much more comfortable than I had expected. Old Peter coiled up on his blanket outside by the fire, and the great silence of a windless prairie enwrapped us. In a few minutes we were sound asleep and never wakened until seven o'clock.
When we arose and lifted the flap of the tent we saw a peculiar74 sight. The little elevation75 on which we had pitched our camp seemed to be an island in a vast sea of white mist, dotted here and there with other islands. On every hand to the far horizon stretched that strange, phantasmal ocean, and a hazy76 sun looked over the shifting billows. I had never seen a western mist before and I thought it extremely beautiful; but Kate, to whom it was no novelty, was more cumbered with breakfast cares.
"I'm ravenous," she said, as she bustled77 about among our stores. "Camping out always does give one such an appetite. Aren't you hungry, Phil?"
"Comfortably so," I admitted. "But where are our ponies? And where is Peter Crow?"
"Probably the ponies have strayed away looking for pea vines. They love and adore pea vines," said Kate, stirring up the fire from under its blanket of grey ashes. "And Peter Crow has gone to look for them, good old fellow. When you do get a conscientious78 Indian there is no better guide in the world, but they are rare. Now, Philippa-girl, just pry79 out the sergeant's ham and shave a few slices off it for our breakfast. Some savoury fried ham always goes well on the prairie."
I went for the ham but could not find it. A thorough search among our effects revealed it not.
"Kate, I can't find the ham," I called out. "It must have fallen out somewhere on the trail."
"It couldn't have fallen out," she said incredulously. "That is impossible. The tent was fastened securely over everything. Nothing could have jolted81 out."
"Well, then, where is the ham?" I said.
That question was unanswerable, as Kate discovered after another thorough search. The ham was gone—that much was certain.
"I believe Peter Crow has levanted with the ham," I said decidedly.
"I don't believe Peter Crow could be so dishonest," said Kate rather shortly. "His wife has worked for us for years, and she's as honest as the sunlight."
"Honesty isn't catching," I remarked, but I said nothing more just then, for Kate's black eyes were snapping.
"Anyway, we can't have ham for breakfast," she said, twitching82 out the frying pan rather viciously. "We'll have to put up with canned chicken—if the cans haven't disappeared too."
They hadn't, and we soon produced a very tolerable breakfast. But neither of us had much appetite.
"Do you suppose Peter Crow has taken the horses as well as the ham?" I asked.
"No," gloomily responded Kate, who had evidently been compelled by the logic83 of hard facts to believe in Peter's guilt84, "he would hardly dare to do that, because he couldn't dispose of them without being found out. They've probably strayed away on their own account when Peter decamped. As soon as this mist lifts I'll have a look for them. They can't have gone far."
We were spared this trouble, however, for when we were washing up the dishes the ponies returned of their own accord. Kate caught them and harnessed them.
"Are we going on?" I asked mildly.
"Of course we're going on," said Kate, her good humour entirely85 restored. "Do you suppose I'm going to be turned from my purpose by the defection of a miserable86 old Indian? Oh, wait till he comes round in the winter, begging."
"Will he come?" I asked.
"Will he? Yes, my dear, he will—with a smooth, plausible87 story to account for his desertion and a bland88 denial of ever having seen our ham. I shall know how to deal with him then, the old scamp."
"When you do get a conscientious Indian there's no better guide in the world, but they are rare," I remarked with a far-away look.
Kate laughed.
"Don't rub it in, Phil. Come, help me to break camp. We'll have to work harder and hustle89 for ourselves, that's all."
"But is it safe to go on without a guide?" I inquired dubiously. I hadn't felt very safe with Peter Crow, but I felt still more unsafe without him.
"Safe! Of course, it's safe—perfectly safe. I know the trail, and we'll just have to drive around the wet places. It would have been easier with Peter, and we'd have had less work to do, but we'll get along well enough without him. I don't think I'd have bothered with him at all, only I wanted to set Mother's mind at rest. She'll never know he isn't with us till the trip is over, so that is all right. We're going to have a glorious day. But, oh, for our lost ham! 'The Ham That Was Never Eaten.' There's a subject for a poem, Phil. You write one when we get back to civilization. Methinks I can sniff90 the savoury odour of that lost ham on all the prairie breezes."
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these—it might have been,"
I quoted, beginning to wash the dishes.
"Saw ye my wee ham, saw ye my ain ham,
Saw ye my pork ham down on yon lea?
Crossed it the prairie last night in the darkness
Borne by an old and unprincipled Cree?"
sang Kate, loosening the tent ropes. Altogether, we got a great deal more fun out of that ham than if we had eaten it.
As Kate had predicted, the day was glorious. The mists rolled away and the sun shone brightly. We drove all day without stopping, save for dinner—when the lost ham figured largely in our conversation—of course. We said so many witty91 things about it—at least, we thought them witty—that we laughed continuously through the whole meal, which we ate with prodigious92 appetite.
But with all our driving we were not getting on very fast. The country was exceedingly swampy93 and we had to make innumerable detours.
"'The longest way round is the shortest way to Bothwell,'" said Kate, when we drove five miles out of our way to avoid a muskeg. By evening we had driven fully26 twenty-five miles, but we were only ten miles nearer Bothwell than when we had broken camp in the morning.
"We'll have to camp soon," sighed Kate. "I believe around this bluff will be a good place. Oh, Phil, I'm tired—dead tired! My very thoughts are tired. I can't even think anything funny about the ham. And yet we've got to set up the tent ourselves, and attend to the horses; and we'll have to scrape some of the mud off this beautiful vehicle."
"We can leave that till the morning," I suggested.
"No, it will be too hard and dry then. Here we are—and here are two tepees of Indians also!"
There they were, right around the bluff. The inmates94 were standing95 in a group before them, looking at us as composedly as if we were not at all an unusual sight.
"Oh, don't," I said in alarm. "They're such a villainous-looking lot—so dirty—and they've got so little clothing on. I wouldn't sleep a wink97 near them. Look at that awful old squaw with only one eye. They'd steal everything we've got left, Kate. Remember the ham—oh, pray remember the fate of our beautiful ham."
"I shall never forget that ham," said Kate wearily, "but, Phil, we can't drive far enough to be out of their reach if they really want to steal our provisions. But I don't believe they will. I believe they have plenty of food—Indians in tepees mostly have. The men hunt, you know. Their looks are probably the worst of them. Anyhow, you can't judge Indians by appearances. Peter Crow looked respectable—and he was a whited sepulchre. Now, these Indians look as bad as Indians can look—so they may turn out to be angels in disguise."
"Very much disguised, certainly," I acquiesced98 satirically. "They seem to me to belong to the class of a neighbour of ours down east. Her family is always in rags, because she says, 'a hole is an accident, a patch is a disgrace,' Set camp here if you like, Kate. But I'll not sleep a wink with such neighbours."
I cheerfully ate my words later on. Never were appearances more deceptive99 than in the case of those Stoneys. There is an old saying that many a kind heart beats behind a ragged100 coat. The Indians had no coats for their hearts to beat behind—nothing but shirts—some of them hadn't even shirts! But the shirts were certainly ragged enough, and their hearts were kind.
Those Indians were gentlemen. They came forward and unhitched our horses, fed, and watered them; they pitched our tent, and built us a fire, and cut brush for our beds. Kate and I had simply nothing to do except sit on our rugs and tell them what we wanted done. They would have cooked our supper for us if we had allowed it. But, tired as we were, we drew the line at that. Their hearts were pure gold, but their hands! No, Kate and I dragged ourselves up and cooked our own suppers. And while we ate it, those Indians fell to and cleaned all the mud off our democrat for us. To crown all—it is almost unbelievable but it is true, I solemnly avow—they wouldn't take a cent of payment for it all, urge them as we might and did.
"Well," said Kate, as we curled up on our brush beds that night, "there certainly is a special Providence102 for unprotected females. I'd forgive Peter Crow for deserting us for the sake of those Indians, if he hadn't stolen our lovely ham into the bargain. That was altogether unpardonable."
In the morning the Indians broke camp for us and harnessed our shaganappies. We drove off, waving our hands to them, the delightful103 creatures. We never saw any of them again. I fear their kind is scarce, but as long as I live I shall remember those Stoneys with gratitude104.
We got on fairly well that third day, and made about fifteen miles before dinner time. We ate three of the sergeant's prairie chickens for dinner, and enjoyed them.
"But only think how delicious the ham would have been," said Kate.
Our real troubles began that afternoon. We had not been driving long when the trail swooped105 down suddenly into a broad depression—a swamp, so full of mud-holes that there didn't seem to be anything but mud-holes. We pulled through six of them—but in the seventh we stuck, hard and fast. Pull as our ponies could and did, they could not pull us out.
"What are we to do?" I said, becoming horribly frightened all at once. It seemed to me that our predicament was a dreadful one.
"Keep cool," said Kate. She calmly took off her shoes and stockings, tucked up her skirt, and waded106 to the horses' heads.
"Can't I do anything?" I implored.
"Yes, take the whip and spare it not," said Kate. "I'll encourage them here with sundry107 tugs108 and inspiriting words. You urge them behind with a good lambasting."
Accordingly we encouraged and urged, tugged109 and lambasted, with a right good will, but all to no effect. Our ponies did their best, but they could not pull the democrat out of that slough110.
"Oh, what—" I began, and then I stopped. I resolved that I would not ask that question again in that tone in that scrape. I would be cheerful and courageous111 like Kate—splendid Kate!
"I shall have to unhitch them, tie one of them to that stump112, and ride off on the other for help," said Kate.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Till I find it," grinned Kate, who seemed to think the whole disaster a capital joke. "I may have to go clean back to the tepees—and further. For that matter, I don't believe there were any tepees. Those Indians were too good to be true—they were phantoms113 of delight—such stuff as dreams are made of. But even if they were real they won't be there now—they'll have folded their tents like the Arabs and as silently stolen away. But I'll find help somewhere."
"I can't stay here alone. You may be gone for hours," I cried, forgetting all my resolutions of courage and cheerfulness in an access of panic.
"I can't ride bareback," I moaned.
"Then you'll have to stay here," said Kate decidedly. "There's nothing to hurt you, Phil. Sit in the wagon and keep dry. Eat something if you get hungry. I may not be very long."
I realized that there was nothing else to do; and, rather ashamed of my panic, I resigned myself to the inevitable and saw Kate off with a smile of encouragement. Then I waited. I was tired and frightened—horribly frightened. I sat there and imagined scores of gruesome possibilities. It was no use telling myself to be brave. I couldn't be brave. I never was in such a blue funk before or since. Suppose Kate got lost—suppose she couldn't find me again—suppose something happened to her—suppose she couldn't get help—suppose it came on night and I there all alone—suppose Indians—not gentlemanly Stoneys or even Peter Crows, but genuine, old-fashioned Indians—should come along—suppose it began to pour rain!
It did begin to rain, the only one of my suppositions which came true. I hoisted115 an umbrella and sat there grimly, in that horseless wagon in the mud-hole.
Many a time since have I laughed over the memory of the appearance I must have presented sitting in that mud-hole, but there was nothing in the least funny about it at the time. The worst feature of it all was the uncertainty116. I could have waited patiently enough and conquered my fears if I had known that Kate would find help and return within a reasonable time—at least before dark. But everything was doubtful. I was not composed of the stuff out of which heroines are fashioned and I devoutly117 wished we had never left Arrow Creek.
Shouts—calls—laughter—Kate's dear voice in an encouraging cry from the hill behind me!
"Halloo, honey! Hold the fort a few minutes longer. Here we are. Bless her, hasn't she been a brick to stay here all alone like this—and a tenderfoot at that?"
I could have cried with joy. But I saw that there were men with Kate—two men—white men—and I laughed instead. I had not been brave—I had been an arrant118 little coward, but I vowed119 that nobody, not even Kate, should suspect it. Later on Kate told me how she had fared in her search for assistance.
"When I left you, Phil, I felt much more anxious than I wanted to let you see. I had no idea where to go. I knew there were no houses along our trail and I might have to go clean back to the tepees—fifteen miles bareback. I didn't dare try any other trail, for I knew nothing of them and wasn't sure that there were even tepees on them. But when I had gone about six miles I saw a welcome sight—nothing less than a spiral of blue, homely-looking smoke curling up from the prairie far off to my right. I decided to turn off and investigate. I rode two miles and finally I came to a little log shack120. There was a bee-yew-tiful big horse in a corral close by. My heart jumped with joy. But suppose the inmates of the shack were half-breeds! You can't realize how relieved I felt when the door opened and two white men came out. In a few minutes everything was explained. They knew who I was and what I wanted, and I knew that they were Mr. Lonsdale and Mr. Hopkins, owners of a big ranch121 over by Deer Run. They were 'shacking122 out' to put up some hay and Mrs. Hopkins was keeping house for them. She wanted me to stop and have a cup of tea right off, but I thought of you, Phil, and declined. As soon as they heard of our predicament those lovely men got their two biggest horses and came right with me."
It was not long before our democrat was on solid ground once more, and then our rescuers insisted that we go back to the shack with them for the night. Accordingly we drove back to the shack, attended by our two gallant123 deliverers on white horses. Mrs. Hopkins was waiting for us, a trim, dark-haired little lady in a very pretty gown, which she had donned in our honour. Kate and I felt like perfect tramps beside her in our muddy old raiment, with our hair dressed by dead reckoning—for we had not included a mirror in our baggage. There was a mirror in the shack, however—small but good—and we quickly made ourselves tidy at least, and Kate even went to the length of curling her bangs—bangs were in style then and Kate had long, thick ones—using the stem of a broken pipe of Mr. Hopkins's for a curler. I was so tired that my vanity was completely crushed out—for the time being—and I simply pinned my bangs back. Later on, when I discovered that Mr. Lonsdale was really the younger son of an English earl, I wished I had curled them, but it was too late then.
He didn't look in the least like a scion124 of aristocracy. He wore a cowboy rig and had a scrubby beard of a week's growth. But he was very jolly and played the violin beautifully. After tea—and a lovely tea it was, although, as Kate remarked to me later, there was no ham—we had an impromptu125 concert. Mr. Lonsdale played the violin; Mrs. Hopkins, who sang, was a graduate of a musical conservatory126; Mr. Hopkins gave a comic recitation and did a Cree war-dance; Kate gave a spirited account of our adventures since leaving home and mother; and I described—with trimmings—how I felt sitting alone in the democrat in a mud-hole, in a pouring rain on a vast prairie.
Mrs. Hopkins, Kate, and I slept in the one bed the shack boasted, screened off from public view by a calico curtain. Mr. Lonsdale reposed127 in his accustomed bunk128 by the stove, but poor Mr. Hopkins had to sleep on the floor. He must have been glad Kate and I stayed only one night.
The fourth morning found us blithely129 hitting the trail in renewed confidence and spirits. We parted from our kind friends in the shack with mutual130 regret. Mr. Hopkins gave us a haunch of jumping deer and Mrs. Hopkins gave us a box of home-made cookies. Mr. Lonsdale at first thought he couldn't give us anything, for he said all he had with him was his pipe and his fiddle131; but later on he said he felt so badly to see us go without any token of his good will that he felt constrained132 to ask us to accept a piece of rope that he had tied his outfit133 together with.
The fourth day we got on so nicely that it was quite monotonous134. The sun shone, the chinook blew, our ponies trotted135 over the trail gallantly136. Kate and I sang, told stories, and laughed immoderately over everything. Even a poor joke seems to have a subtle flavour on the prairie. For the first time I began to think Saskatchewan beautiful, with those far-reaching parklike meadows dotted with the white-stemmed poplars, the distant bluffs bannered with the airiest of purple hazes, and the little blue lakes that sparkled and shimmered137 in the sunlight on every hand.
The only thing approaching an adventure that day happened in the afternoon when we reached a creek which had to be crossed.
"We must investigate," said Kate decidedly. "It would never do to risk getting mired here, for this country is unsettled and we must be twenty miles from another human being."
Kate again removed her shoes and stockings and puddled about that creek until she found a safe fording place. I am afraid I must admit that I laughed most heartlessly at the spectacle she presented while so employed.
Kate grinned. "I don't care what I look like," she said, "but I feel wretchedly unpleasant. This water is simply swarming139 with wigglers."
"Goodness, what are they?" I exclaimed.
"Oh, they're tiny little things like leeches," responded Kate. "I believe they develop into mosquitoes later on, bad 'cess to them. What Mr. Nash would call my pedal extremities140 are simply being devoured141 by the brutes142. Ugh! I believe the bottom of this creek is all soft mud. We may have to drive—no, as I'm a living, wiggler-haunted human being, here's firm bottom. Hurrah143, Phil, we're all right!"
In a few minutes we were past the creek and bowling144 merrily on our way. We had a beautiful camping ground that night—a fairylike little slope of white poplars with a blue lake at its foot. When the sun went down a milk-white mist hung over the prairie, with a young moon kissing it. We boiled some slices of our jumping deer and ate them in the open around a cheery camp-fire. Then we sought our humble145 couches, where we slept the sleep of just people who had been driving over the prairie all day. Once in the night I wakened. It was very dark. The unearthly stillness of a great prairie was all around me. In that vast silence Kate's soft breathing at my side seemed an intrusion of sound where no sound should be.
"Philippa Blair, can you believe it's yourself?" I said mentally. "Here you are, lying on a brush bed on a western prairie in the middle of the night, at least twenty miles from any human being except another frail146 creature of your own sex. Yet you're not even frightened. You are very comfy and composed, and you're going right to sleep again."
And right to sleep again I went.
Our fifth day began ominously147. We had made an early start and had driven about six miles when the calamity148 occurred. Kate turned a corner too sharply, to avoid a big boulder149; there was a heart-breaking sound.
"The tongue of the wagon is broken," cried Kate in dismay. All too surely it was. We looked at each other blankly.
"What can we do?" I said.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Kate helplessly. When Kate felt helpless I thought things must be desperate indeed. We got out and investigated the damage.
"It's not a clean break," said Kate. "It's a long, slanting150 break. If we had a piece of rope I believe I could fix it."
"Mr. Lonsdale's piece of rope!" I cried.
"The very thing," said Kate, brightening up.
The rope was found and we set to work. With the aid of some willow151 withes and that providential rope we contrived152 to splice153 the tongue together in some shape.
Although the trail was good we made only twelve miles the rest of the day, so slowly did we have to drive. Besides, we were continually expecting that tongue to give way again, and the strain was bad for our nerves. When we came at sunset to the junction154 of the Black River trail with ours, Kate resolutely156 turned the shaganappies down it.
"We'll go and spend the night with the Brewsters," she said. "They live only ten miles down this trail. I went to school in Regina with Hannah Brewster, and though I haven't seen her for ten years I know she'll be glad to see us. She's a lovely person, and her husband is a very nice man. I visited them once after they were married."
We soon arrived at the Brewster place. It was a trim, white-washed little log house in a grove157 of poplars. But all the blinds were down and we discovered the door was locked. Evidently the Brewsters were not at home.
"Never mind," said Kate cheerfully, "we'll light a fire outside and cook our supper and then we'll spend the night in the barn. A bed of prairie hay will be just the thing."
"I'm going to get into the house if I have to break a window," said Kate resolutely. "Hannah would want us to do that. She'd never get over it, if she heard we came to her house and couldn't get in."
Fortunately we did not have to go to the length of breaking into Hannah's house. The kitchen window went up quite easily. We turned the shaganappies loose to forage159 for themselves, grass and water being abundant. Then we climbed in at the window, lighted our lantern, and found ourselves in a very snug160 little kitchen. Opening off it on one side was a trim, nicely furnished parlour and on the other a well-stocked pantry.
"We'll light the fire in the stove in a jiffy and have a real good supper," said Kate exultantly161. "Here's cold roast beef—and preserves and cookies and cheese and butter."
Before long we had supper ready and we did full justice to the absent Hannah's excellent cheer. After all, it was quite nice to sit down once more to a well-appointed table and eat in civilized162 fashion.
Then we washed up all the dishes and made everything snug and tidy. I shall never be sufficiently163 thankful that we did so.
Kate piloted me upstairs to the spare room.
"This is fixed164 up much nicer than it was when I was here before," she said, looking around. "Of course, Hannah and Ted2 were just starting out then and they had to be economical. They must have prospered165, to be able to afford such furniture as this. Well, turn in, Phil. Won't it be rather jolly to sleep between sheets once more?"
We slept long and soundly until half-past eight the next morning; and dear knows if we would have wakened then of our own accord. But I heard somebody saying in a very harsh, gruff voice, "Here, you two, wake up! I want to know what this means."
We two did wake up, promptly166 and effectually. I never wakened up so thoroughly167 in my life before. Standing in our room were three people, one of them a man. He was a big, grey-haired man with a bushy black beard and an angry scowl168. Beside him was a woman—a tall, thin, angular personage with red hair and an indescribable bonnet169. She looked even crosser and more amazed than the man, if that were possible. In the background was another woman—a tiny old lady who must have been at least eighty. She was, in spite of her tininess, a very striking-looking personage; she was dressed all in black, and had snow-white hair, a dead-white face, and snapping, vivid, coal-black eyes. She looked as amazed as the other two, but she didn't look cross.
I knew something must be wrong—fearfully wrong—but I didn't know what. Even in my confusion, I found time to think that if that disagreeable-looking red-haired woman was Hannah Brewster, Kate must have had a queer taste in school friends. Then the man said, more gruffly than ever, "Come now. Who are you and what business have you here?"
Kate raised herself on one elbow. She looked very wild. I heard the old black-and-white lady in the background chuckle170 to herself.
"No," said the big woman, speaking for the first time. "This place belongs to us. We bought it from the Brewsters in the spring. They moved over to Black River Forks. Our name is Chapman."
Poor Kate fell back on the pillow, quite overcome. "I—I beg your pardon," she said. "I—I thought the Brewsters lived here. Mrs. Brewster is a friend of mine. My cousin and I are on our way to Bothwell and we called here to spend the night with Hannah. When we found everyone away we just came in and made ourselves at home."
"A likely story," said the red woman.
"We weren't born yesterday," said the man.
Madam Black-and-White didn't say anything, but when the other two had made their pretty speeches she doubled up in a silent convulsion of mirth, shaking her head from side to side and beating the air with her hands.
If they had been nice to us, Kate would probably have gone on feeling confused and ashamed. But when they were so disagreeable she quickly regained172 her self-possession. She sat up again and said in her haughtiest173 voice, "I do not know when you were born, or where, but it must have been somewhere where very peculiar manners were taught. If you will have the decency174 to leave our room—this room—until we can get up and dress we will not transgress175 upon your hospitality" (Kate put a most satirical emphasis on that word) "any longer. And we shall pay you amply for the food we have eaten and the night's lodging176 we have taken."
The black-and-white apparition177 went through the motion of clapping her hands, but not a sound did she make. Whether he was cowed by Kate's tone, or appeased178 by the prospect of payment, I know not, but Mr. Chapman spoke179 more civilly. "Well, that's fair. If you pay up it's all right."
"They shall do no such thing as pay you," said Madam Black-and-White in a surprisingly clear, resolute155, authoritative180 voice. "If you haven't any shame for yourself, Robert Chapman, you've got a mother-in-law who can be ashamed for you. No strangers shall be charged for food or lodging in any house where Mrs. Matilda Pitman lives. Remember that I've come down in the world, but I haven't forgot all decency for all that. I knew you was a skinflint when Amelia married you and you've made her as bad as yourself. But I'm boss here yet. Here, you, Robert Chapman, take yourself out of here and let those girls get dressed. And you, Amelia, go downstairs and cook a breakfast for them."
I never, in all my life, saw anything like the abject181 meekness182 with which those two big people obeyed that mite183. They went, and stood not upon the order of their going. As the door closed behind them, Mrs. Matilda Pitman laughed silently, and rocked from side to side in her merriment.
"Ain't it funny?" she said. "I mostly lets them run the length of their tether but sometimes I has to pull them up, and then I does it with a jerk. Now, you can take your time about dressing184, my dears, and I'll go down and keep them in order, the mean scalawags."
When we descended the stairs we found a smoking-hot breakfast on the table. Mr. Chapman was nowhere to be seen, and Mrs. Chapman was cutting bread with a sulky air. Mrs. Matilda Pitman was sitting in an armchair, knitting. She still wore her bonnet and her triumphant185 expression. "Set right in, dears, and make a good breakfast," she said.
"We are not hungry," said Kate, almost pleadingly. "I don't think we can eat anything. And it's time we were on the trail. Please excuse us and let us go on."
Mrs. Matilda Pitman shook a knitting needle playfully at Kate. "Sit down and take your breakfast," she commanded. "Mrs. Matilda Pitman commands you. Everybody obeys Mrs. Matilda Pitman—even Robert and Amelia. You must obey her too."
We did obey her. We sat down and, such was the influence of her mesmeric eyes, we ate a tolerable breakfast. The obedient Amelia never spoke; Mrs. Matilda Pitman did not speak either, but she knitted furiously and chuckled186. When we had finished Mrs. Matilda Pitman rolled up her knitting. "Now, you can go if you want to," she said, "but you don't have to go. You can stay here as long as you like, and I'll make them cook your meals for you."
I never saw Kate so thoroughly cowed.
"Thank you," she said faintly. "You are very kind, but we must go."
"Well, then," said Mrs. Matilda Pitman, throwing open the door, "your team is ready for you. I made Robert catch your ponies and harness them. And I made him fix that broken tongue properly. I enjoy making Robert do things. It's almost the only sport I have left. I'm eighty and most things have lost their flavour, except bossing Robert."
Our democrat and ponies were outside the door, but Robert was nowhere to be seen; in fact, we never saw him again.
"I do wish," said Kate, plucking up what little spirit she had left, "that you would let us—ah—uh"—Kate quailed187 before Mrs. Matilda Pitman's eye—"recompense you for our entertainment."
"Mrs. Matilda Pitman said before—and meant it—that she doesn't take pay for entertaining strangers, nor let other people where she lives do it, much as their meanness would like to do it."
We got away. The sulky Amelia had vanished, and there was nobody to see us off except Mrs. Matilda Pitman.
"Don't forget to call the next time you come this way," she said cheerfully, waving her knitting at us. "I hope you'll get safe to Bothwell. If I was ten years younger I vow101 I'd pack a grip and go along with you. I like your spunk188. Most of the girls nowadays is such timid, skeery critters. When I was a girl I wasn't afraid of nothing or nobody."
We said and did nothing until we had driven out of sight and earshot. Then Kate laid down the reins189 and laughed until the tears came.
"Oh, Phil, Phil, will you ever forget this adventure?" she gasped.
"I shall never forget Mrs. Matilda Pitman," I said emphatically.
We had no further adventures that day. Robert Chapman had fixed the tongue so well—probably under Mrs. Matilda Pitman's watchful190 eyes—that we could drive as fast as we liked; and we made good progress. But when we pitched camp that night Kate scanned the sky with an anxious expression. "I don't like the look of it," she said. "I'm afraid we're going to have a bad day tomorrow."
We had. When we awakened191 in the morning rain was pouring down. This in itself might not have prevented us from travelling, but the state of the trail did. It had been raining the greater part of the night and the trail was little more than a ditch of slimy, greasy, sticky mud.
If we could have stayed in the tent the whole time it would not have been quite so bad. But we had to go out twice to take the ponies to the nearest pond and water them; moreover, we had to collect pea vines for them, which was not an agreeable occupation in a pouring rain. The day was very cold too, but fortunately there was plenty of dead poplar right by our camp. We kept a good fire on in the camp stove and were quite dry and comfortable as long as we stayed inside. Even when we had to go out we did not get very wet, as we were well protected. But it was a long dreary day. Finally when the dark came down and supper was over Kate grew quite desperate. "Let's have a game of checkers," she suggested.
"Where is your checkerboard?" I asked.
"Oh, I'll soon furnish that," said Kate.
She cut out a square of brown paper, in which a biscuit box had been wrapped, and marked squares off on it with a pencil. Then she produced some red and white high-bush cranberries192 for men. A cranberry193 split in two was a king.
We played nine games of checkers by the light of our smoky lantern. Our enjoyment194 of the game was heightened by the fact that it had ceased raining. Nevertheless, when morning came the trail was so drenched195 that it was impossible to travel on it.
"We must wait till noon," said Kate.
"That trail won't be dry enough to travel on for a week," I said disconsolately.
"My dear; the chinook is blowing up," said Kate. "You don't know how quickly a trail dries in a chinook. It's like magic."
I did not believe a chinook or anything else could dry up that trail by noon sufficiently for us to travel on. But it did. As Kate said, it seemed like magic. By one o'clock we were on our way again, the chinook blowing merrily against our faces. It was a wind that blew straight from the heart of the wilderness196 and had in it all the potent197 lure198 of the wild. The yellow prairie laughed and glistened199 in the sun.
We made twenty-five miles that afternoon and, as we were again fortunate enough to find a bluff of dead poplar near which to camp, we built a royal camp-fire which sent its flaming light far and wide over the dark prairie.
We were in jubilant spirits. If the next day were fine and nothing dreadful happened to us, we would reach Bothwell before night.
But our ill luck was not yet at an end. The next morning was beautiful. The sun shone warm and bright; the chinook blew balmily and alluringly200; the trail stretched before us dry and level. But we sat moodily201 before our tent, not even having sufficient heart to play checkers. Tom had gone lame3—so lame that there was no use in thinking of trying to travel with him. Kate could not tell what was the matter.
Wait we did, with all the patience we could command. But the day was long and wearisome, and at night Tom's foot did not seem a bit better.
We went to bed gloomily, but joy came with the morning. Tom's foot was so much improved that Kate decided we could go on, though we would have to drive slowly.
"There's no chance of making Bothwell today," she said, "but at least we shall be getting a little nearer to it."
"I don't believe there is such a place as Bothwell, or any other town," I said pessimistically. "There's nothing in the world but prairie, and we'll go on driving over it forever, like a couple of female Wandering Jews. It seems years since we left Arrow Creek."
"Well, we've had lots of fun out of it all, you know," said Kate. "Mrs. Matilda Pitman alone was worth it. She will be an amusing memory all our lives. Are you sorry you came?"
"No, I'm not," I concluded, after honest, soul-searching reflection. "No, I'm glad, Kate. But I think we were crazy to attempt it, as Sergeant Baker said. Think of all the might-have-beens."
"Nothing else will happen," said Kate. "I feel in my bones that our troubles are over."
Kate's bones proved true prophets. Nevertheless, that day was a weary one. There was no scenery. We had got into a barren, lakeless, treeless district where the world was one monotonous expanse of grey-brown prairie. We just crawled along. Kate had her hands full driving those ponies. Jerry was in capital fettle and couldn't understand why he mightn't tear ahead at full speed. He was so much disgusted over being compelled to walk that he was very fractious. Poor Tom limped patiently along. But by night his lameness203 had quite disappeared, and although we were still a good twenty-five miles from Bothwell we could see it quite distinctly far ahead on the level prairie.
"'Tis a sight for sore eyes, isn't it?" said Kate, as we pitched camp.
There is little more to be told. Next day at noon we rattled204 through the main and only street of Bothwell. Curious sights are frequent in prairie towns, so we did not attract much attention. When we drew up before Mr. Taylor's house Mary Taylor flew out and embraced Kate publicly.
"You darling! I knew you'd get here if anyone could. They telegraphed us you were on the way. You're a brick—two bricks."
"No, I'm not a brick at all, Miss Taylor," I confessed frankly205. "I've been an arrant coward and a doubting Thomas and a wet blanket all through the expedition. But Kate is a brick and a genius and an all-round, jolly good fellow."
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1
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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ted
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| vt.翻晒，撒，撒开 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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disconsolately
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| adv.悲伤地，愁闷地；哭丧着脸 | |
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creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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13
hazes
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| n.（烟尘等的）雾霭( haze的名词复数 )；迷蒙；迷糊；（尤指热天引起的）薄雾v.（使）笼罩在薄雾中( haze的第三人称单数 )；戏弄，欺凌（新生等，有时作为加入美国大学生联谊会的条件） | |
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14
bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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wade
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| v.跋涉，涉水；n.跋涉 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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parodies
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| n.拙劣的模仿( parody的名词复数 )；恶搞；滑稽的模仿诗文；表面上模仿得笨拙但充满了机智用来嘲弄别人作品的作品v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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lank
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| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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democrat
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士；民主党党员 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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39
mired
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| abbr.microreciprocal degree 迈尔德（色温单位）v.深陷( mire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
ambushed
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| v.埋伏( ambush的过去式和过去分词 )；埋伏着 | |
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41
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
squelch
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| v.压制，镇压；发吧唧声 | |
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43
wiles
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| n.（旨在欺骗或吸引人的）诡计，花招；欺骗，欺诈( wile的名词复数 ) | |
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44
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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45
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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46
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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47
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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48
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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49
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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50
abet
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| v.教唆，鼓励帮助 | |
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51
dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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52
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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53
vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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54
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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55
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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56
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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57
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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58
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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59
blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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60
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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61
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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62
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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63
mellifluously
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| adj.声音甜美的，悦耳的 | |
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64
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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65
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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66
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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67
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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68
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
detours
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| 绕行的路( detour的名词复数 )； 绕道，兜圈子 | |
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70
kindle
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| v.点燃，着火 | |
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71
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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72
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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73
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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74
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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75
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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76
hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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77
bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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78
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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79
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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80
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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81
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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83
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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84
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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85
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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86
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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87
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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88
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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89
hustle
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| v.推搡；竭力兜售或获取；催促；n.奔忙(碌) | |
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90
sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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91
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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92
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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93
swampy
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| adj.沼泽的，湿地的 | |
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94
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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95
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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96
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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97
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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98
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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100
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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101
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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102
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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103
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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104
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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105
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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108
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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111
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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112
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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113
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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114
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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115
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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117
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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118
arrant
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| adj.极端的；最大的 | |
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119
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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120
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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121
ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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122
shacking
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| vi.未婚而同居（shack的现在分词形式） | |
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123
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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124
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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125
impromptu
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| adj.即席的，即兴的；adv.即兴的(地)，无准备的(地) | |
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126
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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127
reposed
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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129
blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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130
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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131
fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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132
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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133
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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134
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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135
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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136
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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137
shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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139
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 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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140
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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141
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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142
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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143
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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144
bowling
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| n.保龄球运动 | |
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145
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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146
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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147
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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148
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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149
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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150
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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151
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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152
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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153
splice
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| v.接合，衔接；n.胶接处，粘接处 | |
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154
junction
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| n.连接，接合；交叉点，接合处，枢纽站 | |
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155
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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156
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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157
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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158
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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159
forage
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| n.(牛马的)饲料，粮草；v.搜寻，翻寻 | |
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160
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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161
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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162
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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163
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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164
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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165
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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167
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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168
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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169
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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170
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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171
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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172
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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173
haughtiest
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| haughty（傲慢的，骄傲的）的最高级形式 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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175
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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176
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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177
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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178
appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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179
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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180
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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181
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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182
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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183
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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184
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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185
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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186
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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188
spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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189
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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190
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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191
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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192
cranberries
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| n.越橘( cranberry的名词复数 ) | |
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193
cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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194
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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195
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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196
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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197
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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198
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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199
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
alluringly
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| 诱人地，妩媚地 | |
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201
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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202
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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203
lameness
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| n. 跛, 瘸, 残废 | |
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204
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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205
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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206
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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