I watched her for a minute or two; she was the old Miranda, owned by some of the Caplins, and I knew her by an odd shaped patch of newish duck that was set into the peak of her dingy8 mainsail. Her vagaries9 offered such an exciting subject for conversation that my heart rejoiced at the sound of a hoarse10 voice behind me. At that moment, before I had time to answer, I saw something large and shapeless flung from the Miranda's deck that splashed the water high against her black side, and my companion gave a satisfied chuckle11. The old lobster smack's sail caught the breeze again at this moment, and she moved off down the bay. Turning, I found old Elijah Tilley, who had come softly out of his dark fish-house, as if it were a burrow12.
“Boy got kind o' drowsy13 steerin' of her; Monroe he hove him right overboard; 'wake now fast enough,” explained Mr. Tilley, and we laughed together.
I was delighted, for my part, that the vicissitudes14 and dangers of the Miranda, in a rocky channel, should have given me this opportunity to make acquaintance with an old fisherman to whom I had never spoken. At first he had seemed to be one of those evasive and uncomfortable persons who are so suspicious of you that they make you almost suspicious of yourself. Mr. Elijah Tilley appeared to regard a stranger with scornful indifference16. You might see him standing17 on the pebble18 beach or in a fish-house doorway19, but when you came nearer he was gone. He was one of the small company of elderly, gaunt-shaped great fisherman whom I used to like to see leading up a deep-laden boat by the head, as if it were a horse, from the water's edge to the steep slope of the pebble beach. There were four of these large old men at the Landing, who were the survivors20 of an earlier and more vigorous generation. There was an alliance and understanding between them, so close that it was apparently21 speechless. They gave much time to watching one another's boats go out or come in; they lent a ready hand at tending one another's lobster traps in rough weather; they helped to clean the fish or to sliver22 porgies for the trawls, as if they were in close partnership23; and when a boat came in from deep-sea fishing they were never too far out of the way, and hastened to help carry it ashore24, two by two, splashing alongside, or holding its steady head, as if it were a willful sea colt. As a matter of fact no boat could help being steady and way-wise under their instant direction and companionship. Abel's boat and Jonathan Bowden's boat were as distinct and experienced personalities25 as the men themselves, and as inexpressive. Arguments and opinions were unknown to the conversation of these ancient friends; you would as soon have expected to hear small talk in a company of elephants as to hear old Mr. Bowden or Elijah Tilley and their two mates waste breath upon any form of trivial gossip. They made brief statements to one another from time to time. As you came to know them you wondered more and more that they should talk at all. Speech seemed to be a light and elegant accomplishment26, and their unexpected acquaintance with its arts made them of new value to the listener. You felt almost as if a landmark27 pine should suddenly address you in regard to the weather, or a lofty-minded old camel make a remark as you stood respectfully near him under the circus tent.
I often wondered a great deal about the inner life and thought of these self-contained old fishermen; their minds seemed to be fixed28 upon nature and the elements rather than upon any contrivances of man, like politics or theology. My friend, Captain Bowden, who was the nephew of the eldest29 of this group, regarded them with deference30; but he did not belong to their secret companionship, though he was neither young nor talkative.
“They've gone together ever since they were boys, they know most everything about the sea amon'st them,” he told me once. “They was always just as you see 'em now since the memory of man.”
These ancient seafarers had houses and lands not outwardly different from other Dunnet Landing dwellings32, and two of them were fathers of families, but their true dwelling31 places were the sea, and the stony33 beach that edged its familiar shore, and the fish-houses, where much salt brine from the mackerel kits34 had soaked the very timbers into a state of brown permanence and petrifaction35. It had also affected36 the old fishermen's hard complexions37, until one fancied that when Death claimed them it could only be with the aid, not of any slender modern dart38, but the good serviceable harpoon39 of a seventeenth century woodcut.
Elijah Tilley was such an evasive, discouraged-looking person, heavy-headed, and stooping so that one could never look him in the face, that even after his friendly exclamation40 about Monroe Pennell, the lobster smack's skipper, and the sleepy boy, I did not venture at once to speak again. Mr. Tilley was carrying a small haddock in one hand, and presently shifted it to the other hand lest it might touch my skirt. I knew that my company was accepted, and we walked together a little way.
“You mean to have a good supper,” I ventured to say, by way of friendliness41.
“Goin' to have this 'ere haddock an' some o' my good baked potatoes; must eat to live,” responded my companion with great pleasantness and open approval. I found that I had suddenly left the forbidding coast and come into the smooth little harbor of friendship.
“You ain't never been up to my place,” said the old man. “Folks don't come now as they used to; no, 'tain't no use to ask folks now. My poor dear she was a great hand to draw young company.”
I remembered that Mrs. Todd had once said that this old fisherman had been sore stricken and unconsoled at the death of his wife.
“I should like very much to come,” said I. “Perhaps you are going to be at home later on?”
Mr. Tilley agreed, by a sober nod, and went his way bent-shouldered and with a rolling gait. There was a new patch high on the shoulder of his old waistcoat, which corresponded to the renewing of the Miranda's mainsail down the bay, and I wondered if his own fingers, clumsy with much deep-sea fishing, had set it in.
“Was there a good catch to-day?” I asked, stopping a moment. “I didn't happen to be on the shore when the boats came in.”
“No; all come in pretty light,” answered Mr. Tilley. “Addicks an' Bowden they done the best; Abel an' me we had but a slim fare. We went out 'arly, but not so 'arly as sometimes; looked like a poor mornin'. I got nine haddick, all small, and seven fish; the rest on 'em got more fish than haddick. Well, I don't expect they feel like bitin' every day; we l'arn to humor 'em a little, an' let 'em have their way 'bout6 it. These plaguey dog-fish kind of worry 'em.” Mr. Tilley pronounced the last sentence with much sympathy, as if he looked upon himself as a true friend of all the haddock and codfish that lived on the fishing grounds, and so we parted.
Later in the afternoon I went along the beach again until I came to the foot of Mr. Tilley's land, and found his rough track across the cobblestones and rocks to the field edge, where there was a heavy piece of old wreck43 timber, like a ship's bone, full of tree-nails. From this a little footpath44, narrow with one man's treading, led up across the small green field that made Mr. Tilley's whole estate, except a straggling pasture that tilted45 on edge up the steep hillside beyond the house and road. I could hear the tinkle-tankle of a cow-bell somewhere among the spruces by which the pasture was being walked over and forested from every side; it was likely to be called the wood lot before long, but the field was unmolested. I could not see a bush or a brier anywhere within its walls, and hardly a stray pebble showed itself. This was most surprising in that country of firm ledges46, and scattered47 stones which all the walls that industry could devise had hardly begun to clear away off the land. In the narrow field I noticed some stout48 stakes, apparently planted at random49 in the grass and among the hills of potatoes, but carefully painted yellow and white to match the house, a neat sharp-edged little dwelling, which looked strangely modern for its owner. I should have much sooner believed that the smart young wholesale50 egg merchant of the Landing was its occupant than Mr. Tilley, since a man's house is really but his larger body, and expresses in a way his nature and character.
I went up the field, following the smooth little path to the side door. As for using the front door, that was a matter of great ceremony; the long grass grew close against the high stone step, and a snowberry bush leaned over it, top-heavy with the weight of a morning-glory vine that had managed to take what the fishermen might call a half hitch51 about the door-knob. Elijah Tilley came to the side door to receive me; he was knitting a blue yarn52 stocking without looking on, and was warmly dressed for the season in a thick blue flannel53 shirt with white crockery buttons, a faded waistcoat and trousers heavily patched at the knees. These were not his fishing clothes. There was something delightful54 in the grasp of his hand, warm and clean, as if it never touched anything but the comfortable woolen55 yarn, instead of cold sea water and slippery fish.
“What are the painted stakes for, down in the field?” I hastened to ask, and he came out a step or two along the path to see; and looked at the stakes as if his attention were called to them for the first time.
“Folks laughed at me when I first bought this place an' come here to live,” he explained. “They said 'twa'n't no kind of a field privilege at all; no place to raise anything, all full o' stones. I was aware 'twas good land, an' I worked some on it—odd times when I didn't have nothin' else on hand—till I cleared them loose stones all out. You never see a prettier piece than 'tis now; now did ye? Well, as for them painted marks, them's my buoys56. I struck on to some heavy rocks that didn't show none, but a plow'd be liable to ground on 'em, an' so I ketched holt an' buoyed57 'em same's you see. They don't trouble me no more'n if they wa'n't there.”
“You haven't been to sea for nothing,” I said laughing.
“One trade helps another,” said Elijah with an amiable58 smile. “Come right in an' set down. Come in an' rest ye,” he exclaimed, and led the way into his comfortable kitchen. The sunshine poured in at the two further windows, and a cat was curled up sound asleep on the table that stood between them. There was a new-looking light oilcloth of a tiled pattern on the floor, and a crockery teapot, large for a household of only one person, stood on the bright stove. I ventured to say that somebody must be a very good housekeeper59.
“That's me,” acknowledged the old fisherman with frankness. “There ain't nobody here but me. I try to keep things looking right, same's poor dear left 'em. You set down here in this chair, then you can look off an' see the water. None on 'em thought I was goin' to get along alone, no way, but I wa'n't goin' to have my house turned upsi' down an' all changed about; no, not to please nobody. I was the only one knew just how she liked to have things set, poor dear, an' I said I was goin' to make shift, and I have made shift. I'd rather tough it out alone.” And he sighed heavily, as if to sigh were his familiar consolation60.
We were both silent for a minute; the old man looked out the window, as if he had forgotten I was there.
“You must miss her very much?” I said at last.
“I do miss her,” he answered, and sighed again. “Folks all kep' repeatin' that time would ease me, but I can't find it does. No, I miss her just the same every day.”
“How long is it since she died?” I asked.
“Eight year now, come the first of October. It don't seem near so long. I've got a sister that comes and stops 'long o' me a little spell, spring an' fall, an' odd times if I send after her. I ain't near so good a hand to sew as I be to knit, and she's very quick to set everything to rights. She's a married woman with a family; her son's folks lives at home, an' I can't make no great claim on her time. But it makes me a kind o' good excuse, when I do send, to help her a little; she ain't none too well off. Poor dear always liked her, and we used to contrive61 our ways together. 'Tis full as easy to be alone. I set here an' think it all over, an' think considerable when the weather's bad to go outside. I get so some days it feels as if poor dear might step right back into this kitchen. I keep a-watchin' them doors as if she might step in to ary one. Yes, ma'am, I keep a-lookin' off an' droppin' o' my stitches; that's just how it seems. I can't git over losin' of her no way nor no how. Yes, ma'am, that's just how it seems to me.”
I did not say anything, and he did not look up.
“I git feelin' so sometimes I have to lay everything by an' go out door. She was a sweet pretty creatur' long's she lived,” the old man added mournfully. “There's that little rockin' chair o' her'n, I set an' notice it an' think how strange 'tis a creatur' like her should be gone an' that chair be here right in its old place.”
“I wish I had known her; Mrs. Todd told me about your wife one day,” I said.
“You'd have liked to come and see her; all the folks did,” said poor Elijah. “She'd been so pleased to hear everything and see somebody new that took such an int'rest. She had a kind o' gift to make it pleasant for folks. I guess likely Almiry Todd told you she was a pretty woman, especially in her young days; late years, too, she kep' her looks and come to be so pleasant lookin'. There, 'tain't so much matter, I shall be done afore a great while. No; I sha'n't trouble the fish a great sight more.”
The old widower62 sat with his head bowed over his knitting, as if he were hastily shortening the very thread of time. The minutes went slowly by. He stopped his work and clasped his hands firmly together. I saw he had forgotten his guest, and I kept the afternoon watch with him. At last he looked up as if but a moment had passed of his continual loneliness.
“Yes, ma'am, I'm one that has seen trouble,” he said, and began to knit again.
The visible tribute of his careful housekeeping, and the clean bright room which had once enshrined his wife, and now enshrined her memory, was very moving to me; he had no thought for any one else or for any other place. I began to see her myself in her home,—a delicate-looking, faded little woman, who leaned upon his rough strength and affectionate heart, who was always watching for his boat out of this very window, and who always opened the door and welcomed him when he came home.
“I used to laugh at her, poor dear,” said Elijah, as if he read my thought. “I used to make light of her timid notions. She used to be fearful when I was out in bad weather or baffled about gittin' ashore. She used to say the time seemed long to her, but I've found out all about it now. I used to be dreadful thoughtless when I was a young man and the fish was bitin' well. I'd stay out late some o' them days, an' I expect she'd watch an' watch an' lose heart a-waitin'. My heart alive! what a supper she'd git, an' be right there watchin' from the door, with somethin' over her head if 'twas cold, waitin' to hear all about it as I come up the field. Lord, how I think o' all them little things!”
“This was what she called the best room; in this way,” he said presently, laying his knitting on the table, and leading the way across the front entry and unlocking a door, which he threw open with an air of pride. The best room seemed to me a much sadder and more empty place than the kitchen; its conventionalities lacked the simple perfection of the humbler room and failed on the side of poor ambition; it was only when one remembered what patient saving, and what high respect for society in the abstract go to such furnishing that the little parlor63 was interesting at all. I could imagine the great day of certain purchases, the bewildering shops of the next large town, the aspiring64 anxious woman, the clumsy sea-tanned man in his best clothes, so eager to be pleased, but at ease only when they were safe back in the sailboat again, going down the bay with their precious freight, the hoarded65 money all spent and nothing to think of but tiller and sail. I looked at the unworn carpet, the glass vases on the mantelpiece with their prim66 bunches of bleached67 swamp grass and dusty marsh68 rosemary, and I could read the history of Mrs. Tilley's best room from its very beginning.
“You see for yourself what beautiful rugs she could make; now I'm going to show you her best tea things she thought so much of,” said the master of the house, opening the door of a shallow cupboard. “That's real chiny, all of it on those two shelves,” he told me proudly. “I bought it all myself, when we was first married, in the port of Bordeaux. There never was one single piece of it broke until— Well, I used to say, long as she lived, there never was a piece broke, but long at the last I noticed she'd look kind o' distressed69, an' I thought 'twas 'count o' me boastin'. When they asked if they should use it when the folks was here to supper, time o' her funeral, I knew she'd want to have everything nice, and I said 'certain.' Some o' the women they come runnin' to me an' called me, while they was takin' of the chiny down, an' showed me there was one o' the cups broke an' the pieces wropped in paper and pushed way back here, corner o' the shelf. They didn't want me to go an' think they done it. Poor dear! I had to put right out o' the house when I see that. I knowed in one minute how 'twas. We'd got so used to sayin' 'twas all there just's I fetched it home, an' so when she broke that cup somehow or 'nother she couldn't frame no words to come an' tell me. She couldn't think 'twould vex70 me, 'twas her own hurt pride. I guess there wa'n't no other secret ever lay between us.”
The French cups with their gay sprigs of pink and blue, the best tumblers, an old flowered bowl and tea caddy, and a japanned waiter or two adorned71 the shelves. These, with a few daguerreotypes in a little square pile, had the closet to themselves, and I was conscious of much pleasure in seeing them. One is shown over many a house in these days where the interest may be more complex, but not more definite.
“Those were her best things, poor dear,” said Elijah as he locked the door again. “She told me that last summer before she was taken away that she couldn't think o' anything more she wanted, there was everything in the house, an' all her rooms was furnished pretty. I was goin' over to the Port, an' inquired for errands. I used to ask her to say what she wanted, cost or no cost—she was a very reasonable woman, an' 'twas the place where she done all but her extra shopping. It kind o' chilled me up when she spoke15 so satisfied.”
“You don't go out fishing after Christmas?” I asked, as we came back to the bright kitchen.
“No; I take stiddy to my knitting after January sets in,” said the old seafarer. “'Tain't worth while, fish make off into deeper water an' you can't stand no such perishin' for the sake o' what you get. I leave out a few traps in sheltered coves72 an' do a little lobsterin' on fair days. The young fellows braves it out, some on 'em; but, for me, I lay in my winter's yarn an' set here where 'tis warm, an' knit an' take my comfort. Mother learnt me once when I was a lad; she was a beautiful knitter herself. I was laid up with a bad knee, an' she said 'twould take up my time an' help her; we was a large family. They'll buy all the folks can do down here to Addicks' store. They say our Dunnet stockin's is gettin' to be celebrated73 up to Boston,—good quality o' wool an' even knittin' or somethin'. I've always been called a pretty hand to do nettin', but seines is master cheap to what they used to be when they was all hand worked. I change off to nettin' long towards spring, and I piece up my trawls and lines and get my fishin' stuff to rights. Lobster pots they require attention, but I make 'em up in spring weather when it's warm there in the barn. No; I ain't one o' them that likes to set an' do nothin'.”
“You see the rugs, poor dear did them; she wa'n't very partial to knittin',” old Elijah went on, after he had counted his stitches. “Our rugs is beginnin' to show wear, but I can't master none o' them womanish tricks. My sister, she tinkers 'em up. She said last time she was here that she guessed they'd last my time.”
“The old ones are always the prettiest,” I said.
“You ain't referrin' to the braided ones now?” answered Mr. Tilley. “You see ours is braided for the most part, an' their good looks is all in the beginnin'. Poor dear used to say they made an easier floor. I go shufflin' round the house same's if 'twas a bo't, and I always used to be stubbin' up the corners o' the hooked kind. Her an' me was always havin' our jokes together same's a boy an' girl. Outsiders never'd know nothin' about it to see us. She had nice manners with all, but to me there was nobody so entertainin'. She'd take off anybody's natural talk winter evenin's when we set here alone, so you'd think 'twas them a-speakin'. There, there!”
I saw that he had dropped a stitch again, and was snarling74 the blue yarn round his clumsy fingers. He handled it and threw it off at arm's length as if it were a cod42 line; and frowned impatiently, but I saw a tear shining on his cheek.
I said that I must be going, it was growing late, and asked if I might come again, and if he would take me out to the fishing grounds someday.
“Yes, come any time you want to,” said my host, “'tain't so pleasant as when poor dear was here. Oh, I didn't want to lose her an' she didn't want to go, but it had to be. Such things ain't for us to say; there's no yes an' no to it.”
“You find Almiry Todd one o' the best o' women?” said Mr. Tilley as we parted. He was standing in the doorway and I had started off down the narrow green field. “No, there ain't a better hearted woman in the State o' Maine. I've known her from a girl. She's had the best o' mothers. You tell her I'm liable to fetch her up a couple or three nice good mackerel early tomorrow,” he said. “Now don't let it slip your mind. Poor dear, she always thought a sight o' Almiry, and she used to remind me there was nobody to fish for her; but I don't rec'lect it as I ought to. I see you drop a line yourself very handy now an' then.”
We laughed together like the best of friends, and I spoke again about the fishing grounds, and confessed that I had no fancy for a southerly breeze and a ground swell75.
“Nor me neither,” said the old fisherman. “Nobody likes 'em, say what they may. Poor dear was disobliged by the mere76 sight of a bo't. Almiry's got the best o' mothers, I expect you know; Mis' Blackett out to Green Island; and we was always plannin' to go out when summer come; but there, I couldn't pick no day's weather that seemed to suit her just right. I never set out to worry her neither, 'twa'n't no kind o' use; she was so pleasant we couldn't have no fret77 nor trouble. 'Twas never 'you dear an' you darlin'' afore folks, an' 'you divil' behind the door!”
As I looked back from the lower end of the field I saw him still standing, a lonely figure in the doorway. “Poor dear,” I repeated to myself half aloud; “I wonder where she is and what she knows of the little world she left. I wonder what she has been doing these eight years!”
I gave the message about the mackerel to Mrs. Todd.
“Been visitin' with 'Lijah?” she asked with interest. “I expect you had kind of a dull session; he ain't the talkin' kind; dwellin' so much long o' fish seems to make 'em lose the gift o' speech.” But when I told her that Mr. Tilley had been talking to me that day, she interrupted me quickly.
“Then 'twas all about his wife, an' he can't say nothin' too pleasant neither. She was modest with strangers, but there ain't one o' her old friends can ever make up her loss. For me, I don't want to go there no more. There's some folks you miss and some folks you don't, when they're gone, but there ain't hardly a day I don't think o' dear Sarah Tilley. She was always right there; yes, you knew just where to find her like a plain flower. 'Lijah's worthy78 enough; I do esteem79 'Lijah, but he's a ploddin' man.”
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1
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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lobster
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| n.龙虾，龙虾肉 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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bout
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| n.侵袭，发作；一次(阵，回)；拳击等比赛 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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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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pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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apparently
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sliver
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partnership
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ashore
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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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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eldest
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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kits
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| 衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 )； 成套用品； 配套元件 | |
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petrifaction
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| n.石化，化石；吓呆；惊呆 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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complexions
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| 肤色( complexion的名词复数 )； 面色； 局面； 性质 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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harpoon
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| n.鱼叉；vt.用鱼叉叉，用鱼叉捕获 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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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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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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woolen
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| adj.羊毛(制)的；毛纺的 | |
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buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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buoyed
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| v.使浮起( buoy的过去式和过去分词 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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