Lingered down as lightly as the breeze;
And the happy water whispered to the trees.
—C. G. D. ROBERTS.
Dr. Gilbert Allen, gold-medalist of the Toronto School of Medicine, and just home from a post-graduate course in London and Edinburgh, had his coat off, his sleeves rolled up, and was busy arranging bottles on the shelf of his tiny dispensary. He was whistling cheerily. It was young Dr. Allen's nature to be cheerful even under adverse3 circumstances, and this morning all his prospects4 were bright. For after years of spending money—and largely another man's money, too—he was at last on his feet. His college life had been a very happy one, it is true; so, also, had been the years since his graduation, the first two spent as house surgeon in a Toronto hospital, the last, and best of all, in the Old Land. They had given him breadth and experience; but though Gilbert was willing to concede that experience teaches, he was equally assured that she does not pay bills. Now he was a free man, and master of his profession. He used the last phrase modestly; he was ready and anxious to make the mastery more complete, and at the same time to win a name for himself and a home and a fortune for Rosalie.
As he stacked the bottles noisily in their places he glanced around the little room, and wished he might turn a handspring, just to let off steam and be able to write to Harwood and the other fellows to say his office was big enough to admit of the feat5. He wisely crushed the desire, for he recognized the fact that he was under surveillance. Just outside the windows stretched a little lawn, with a star-shaped flower-bed in the middle. Up and down this green space, following a leisurely6 and devious7 course, journeyed a lawnmower, propelled by a long-limbed youth. His straw hat hung limply from his head, his coat flapped limply from his shoulders, and his trousers bulged8 limply from his big top-boots. Nevertheless, he had a certain lumbering9 airiness of movement, and such a mien10 of lofty indifference11 to his surroundings that the beholder12 was impressed with the idea that he was a very sprightly13 gentleman indeed, and need never work unless he was so minded. Just why he should spend a whole morning cutting a few square yards of short May grass was a problem the doctor had not yet solved. But even in his brief acquaintance, Gilbert had learned that the actions of this young man, who had entered into an important relation to himself as groom14 and general factotum15, were not to be measured by any rational standard.
The slow clatter16 of the lawnmower grew louder, and finally ceased beneath the window. The doctor turned, a bottle in each hand. The open sash was filled by a straw hat which formed the frame for a broad, smiling countenance17.
"Oh, I ain't worryin' about that," responded his man-servant, reassuringly20. "Old Doc. Williams uster say he'd make kindlin' wood o' me, when I didn't hustle21 round, but it never fizzed on me." He hung himself over the window-sill with a sigh of satisfaction, and gazed admiringly at his employer.
A wire door, leading from the veranda22 to the main portion of the house, swung slowly open, and a woman, wearing a big, blue-checked apron23, and carrying a long pewter spoon, looked out anxiously. "Davy!" she called in a loud whisper, "why don't you get on with your work?"
"I'm helpin' the doctor with his mixtures," he answered, in a tone of remonstrance24.
The woman's tight mouth closed emphatically. "Well, hish!" she said, raising her spoon warningly. "Susan Winters is sittin' on her porch, an' she'll hear if you don't look out. It's no use talkin' about things, anyhow."
The wire door creaked again, Mrs. Munn sailed away, and her son hung himself farther over the window-sill. Evidently he had inherited none of his mother's reticence25.
"Say," he ventured, confidentially26, "Elsie Cameron's home; came yesterday, the very day you came. Ain't that funny?"
The young doctor did not seem to see anything humorous in the coincidence. He glanced meaningly toward the lawnmower.
"I bet she thinks it's a kind of a come-down to come back an' work on the farm after doin' nothin' but sing for so long. She's a bully27 singer, I tell you, only she's got red hair."
He waited for some comment, but as there was none forthcoming, except a louder clatter of bottles, he continued: "Everybody thinks she's so awful good-lookin', but I don't think she's half as pretty as Jean—that's her sister. Say"—his voice sank to a whisper—"did anybody tell you about her sister yet?"
There was a note of strained anxiety, almost amounting to terror, in the boy's tone, that commanded Gilbert's attention. He looked around. Perhaps it was some serious illness, and the new doctor was badly in need of a patient.
"No. What's the matter with her?" he asked, interestedly.
Davy glanced about him fearfully, as though he were about to disclose the young woman as the author of a deadly crime. He leaned still farther into the room. "She's—she's my girl!" he exploded, in a loud whisper.
The new doctor turned his back suddenly. There was a long pause. "I must congratulate you," he said at last, in a smothered28 voice.
Davy gazed at his broad back uncertainly. He had heard that formula before, but it had always been delivered to the newly wed29. He was afraid the doctor was under a pleasant misapprehension.
"We're jist kind o' keepin' company—yet," he explained carefully. "An' Jean, she's an awful girl to laugh. An' then there's old lady Cameron—that's her mother. She's a blasted bother. There's never a fella' goes to see them girls but she has to sit 'round an' do all the talkin'. It ain't fair." His tone was deeply aggrieved30. "You won't like it any better'n' me if you keep company with Elsie," he added, after a pause.
The doctor turned, and his expression was so alarming that the youth slipped back several feet into the garden. "That's what everybody's been sayin'," he stammered31, in self-defense. "All the folks was sayin' you'd be sure to keep company with Elsie when she came home. I thought it would be kind o' handy 'count o' me goin' to see Jean. We'd be company home, nights."
The indignation that had been rising in the young doctor's gray eyes vanished. He turned quickly to his bottles and indulged in a spasm33 of silent laughter. But his face was very grave when he looked around again. "Look here, David," he said firmly, "I'd advise you not to discuss my affairs. Neither you nor the rest of the village had better even speculate upon them. You're almost dead sure to be wrong. Now go on with your work."
The boy slowly and reluctantly detached himself from the window-sill, and set the lawnmower on another zigzag34 journey. His hat, his coat, and his trousers hung limper than ever. He moved wearily, and at the end of the garden he sat down under a cherry-tree to muse35 on the strange, sad fact that his new employer promised to be not one whit36 more companionable than old Doc. Williams.
The young doctor finished his work, and went up the stairs three steps at a time, making a commotion37 that brought Mrs. Munn from her pie-baking in hurried alarm. He washed his hands, resumed his coat, and, leaning out of the window, wished with all his might that he had something to do. He was seized with an honest, pagan desire that some one would get sick, or that there might be an accident in the mill—-just a mild accident, of course; or, better still, that that queer specimen38 of humanity sitting under his cherry-tree, down there, should be smitten39 with paralysis40. He confessed that this last seemed the most hopeful outlook, then laughed at himself for his monstrous41 wishes. He seized his hat and ran downstairs. He would go out and explore the village. He must do something, he warned himself, or he would be in danger of rushing into the street and lacerating the first man he met, just for the sake of sewing him up again.
He passed out to the gate. The long, shady village street, bordered by tall, swaying elms, stretched away on either hand, peaceful and deserted42. To the new doctor the place looked half asleep, and uncompromisingly healthful. The clear May morning air was filled with a chorus of robins43 and orioles. A bluebird in the orchard44 bordering his lawn was singing ecstatically. Far up the street the musical cling-clang of the blacksmith's anvil45, and from the depths of the ravine, in the opposite direction, the hum of the sawmill, served only like a lullaby to make the silence more dreamy.
He stepped out upon the boardwalk that ran along the street. Overhead the maples46 and elms met, making a cool tunnel. In this green canopy47 nest-building was being carried on, on a great scale and with tremendous commotion. The doctor picked his way carefully along the undulating surface of the sidewalk, for the boards were damp and rotten, and liable to fly up at one end and break a limb; and though he was anxious for a patient, he did not fancy serving in that capacity himself.
The quiet houses, surrounded by their demure48 gardens, gave no indication that he was being watched from behind many a window-blind. Neither was there any stir to give hint that from the upstairs window of the village shop at the end of the street a telescope was pointing at him, while Granny Long informed the breathless circle about her bed that his necktie was of blue-gray satin, and that his hair was thick and wavy49.
Quite unconscious of the sensation he was creating, the new doctor walked on. He passed a tiny white house set in a square garden bright with early blossoms. A little woman, in a faded lilac gown, sat sewing on the porch, and a green parrot, in a cage at her side, stalked to and fro on his perch50, muttering sullenly51. At sight of the stranger the bird gave an indignant stare, then swung, head downward, from his perch and shouted, "Oh, Lordy, ain't we havin' a slow time!"
The remark so exactly coincided with the new doctor's sentiments that he looked over the cedar52 hedge at the speaker with a feeling of friendly regard. But the little lilac lady seemed quite of another mind. She sprang up in dismayed haste, scattering53 thimble and scissors out on the pathway, and, seizing the cage, fled with it indoors.
Gilbert passed on, feeling that there was one creature, at least, in this new place who was in sympathy with him. His eye traveled with satisfaction along the double row of trim houses and neat gardens; they spoke54 of thrift55 and prosperity. There was only one exception, the place next to the home of the ennuied parrot. Hens scratched merrily in the midst of desert flower-beds, or nested under the lilac bushes, a handsome goose and gander passed in stately promenade56 up and down the front veranda, and the whole place had a happy, go-as-you-please air.
The last in the line was the schoolhouse, a big, square building, scarred and worn, standing57 in the middle of a yard trampled58 bare of grass, and surrounded by the forlorn skeleton of a fence. From the battered59 pump in one corner, to the dilapidated woodshed in the other, the whole premises60 had the appearance of having just weathered a long and terrible siege. The commanding voice of the Duke of Wellington coming through the open windows added to its military suggestiveness.
When he had passed the school the stranger found himself at the end of the village. The row of houses stopped at a rustic61 bridge spanning a ravine. Away up this valley he could see the tall smokestack of the sawmill, with its waving plume62 of smoke coming up out of a fairy mass of delicate May foliage63. The mill-pond gleamed, green and golden brown, between the willow64 clumps65 along its margin66. From the dam a stream issued in a little, noisy, silver waterfall. It babbled67 across the road, under the old bridge, among bracken and mint, and wound this way and that through the deep valley until it lost itself in a swamp far to the south. A hard, beaten path led from the street down into the gold and green depths. It was an alluring68 path, and Gilbert stepped into it. He slid and stumbled down the steep bank, catching69 at blossoming dogwood bushes and fragrant70 cedar boughs71. A boyish light came into his eyes as they caught the flash of the tiny river; here green under an overhanging willow, there snow white under a rain of cherry blossoms, now silver as it ran around a shallow curve, and again gold in the sunlight filtered through a tangle72 of elm boughs and bitter-sweet.
The little valley was as level as a floor at the bottom, carpeted with vivid green grass spangled with dandelions, and intoxicating73 with the perfume of the wild-cherry blossoms. A cow stood knee deep in the stream, and another was feeding off the underbrush half way up the bank. At a sudden curve in the brook a great elm stretched up from a bank of blue violets. On its topmost limb, swinging gaily74, an oriole was blowing gloriously on his little golden trumpet75.
Gilbert flung himself down on the violet bank. He had been born and bred a country boy, and now, after years of city life, the old charm of the free open spaces of earth and sky came over him stronger than ever. He wondered if Rosalie would not be happy, too, if she were to come down into this green-and-gold Paradise with him, and listen to the brook babbling76 along over the pebbles77. And yet, how could he ask her to leave the wealth and ease of her city home and come to this dull village? He reflected, with a deep sigh, upon the humiliating fact that Rosalie would not consider the proposition for an instant, even if he had the courage to make it. Well, he would work hard, and by and by he would go back to the city, and then she would listen—she must listen. He leaned back against the elm and dreamed of that day. He could see the light in Rosalie's eyes as he had seen it that last day in Toronto. He would have been happier to-day if they had not been so bright and merry on the occasion of his departure. But what beautiful eyes they were! Blue—so blue; as blue as—he was gazing at something the exact color—a spot of vivid azure78 that had appeared from among the trees at the top of the opposite bank. It moved, and Gilbert saw that it was the figure of a girl in a violet gown. She made a pretty rural picture as she stood for a moment poised79 upon the fence-top, a white sunbonnet on her head and a basket on her arm. She descended80 sedately81, holding her basket with great care, and tripped down the zigzag path to the edge of the stream. Here some big, white stones, peeping from the golden pools, made a passage to the other side, and the trim lassie began to pick her way daintily across. Gilbert watched her with amused pleasure. He seemed to have stepped into some old rustic ballad82. What was that song the boys used to sing at college? Something about the pretty, dainty maiden83, going a-haying, or a-Maying, or a-something, all of a bright May morning, tra la la! This one was just like her, only she should be in her bare feet, and carry a pail and a stool, and be coming down to milk that cow standing so placidly84 in the stream. He felt an almost irresistible85 desire to sing out, "Where are you going, my pretty maid?" If he were only a gallant86 youth, in a velvet87 cloak and silken hose, he reflected, instead of a commonplace nineteenth-century young man in gray tweed, he would go down the bank and assist her over. The situation absolutely demanded it.
Suddenly he arose, with a smothered laugh. He would have to take a part in the pretty comedy, after all, for the dainty damsel was in distress88. She stood poised on a stone in midstream, like a bird desiring, yet not daring, to fly. A long leap was needed to land her on the next stone, and she paused, perplexed89, evidently mindful of her eggs. Gilbert came quickly down the bank, his eyes twinkling.
"May I help you across?" he asked, coming toward her, hat in hand. He felt that the words fell into a sort of jaunty90 rhythm of their own accord.
The girl looked up quickly, startled at his sudden appearance. The movement caused her sunbonnet to slip back, revealing her face, and Gilbert felt suddenly and unaccountably abashed91, for the girl looked straight into his amused face with a glance of grave and unapproachable dignity. He did not even notice, at first, how pretty she was. He saw only those serious eyes. They were wonderful eyes, too; deep, and of a strange, elusive92 amber93, like the water at her feet. They held the mystery of its deep brown pools, and the light of the golden flecks94 upon its surface. There were the same brown shadows and golden lights repeated in the masses of bronze hair piled like a crown on the top of her shapely head.
From some impulse he did not understand, Gilbert felt a vague desire to apologize for his very existence. It seemed as though that searching glance had read the frivolous95 thoughts in which he had been indulging. He wondered, in deep mortification96, if she had noticed any faint tinge97 of familiarity in his manner.
"I—I beg your pardon. I hope I did not startle you," he said, half stammering98. "I hope you will let me help you across."
"Thank you, you are very kind." Her voice was low, and very musical, her manner was dignity itself. "I did not know the spaces were so wide." She spoke with a frank simplicity99, looking at him very honestly and very gravely, and Gilbert felt tacitly rebuked100. He was struck by the fact that this country girl, in the coarse dress and sunbonnet, whom he had whimsically likened to a rustic lass, to be helped across a brook for a kiss, had instantly, by a mere32 glance, clothed the situation in an impregnable mantle101 of conventionality. He took her basket and held out his hand, feeling as though he were about to assist a princess from her carriage. With a touch she sprang past him and stepped quietly up the bank. "Thank you," she said, sedately, as she took the basket from him. "I think it is Dr. Allen to whom I am indebted, is it not?"
Gilbert clutched his hat again. "Yes, I am very fortunate to have had the privilege," he said, feeling with relief that he was beginning to recover.
"I am Miss Cameron," she said, with a stateliness that seemed to convert the sunbonnet into a crown, and the basket of eggs into a scepter.
Gilbert's mind dived back into the remembrance of his stableboy's remarks of a few minutes earlier. What had he said? He could not remember, except that the village had designated some one of that name as the object of his future attentions, and there was something, too, about red hair. He thought her hair beautiful—quite wonderful, indeed, in its bronze splendor102.
He murmured some polite remark, and was wondering if he might ask to be allowed to carry the basket of eggs up the hill, or if he would be committing an outrage103 by so doing, when he was saved from making a second mistake by a shout from the opposite bank:
"Elsie! Elsie, lassie! Would yon be the new doctor body ye've got there?"
The voice came from a little old man, hobbling, with the aid of a stick, along the water's edge. His small body was almost bent104 double, and his whole person seemed engulfed105 in a huge straw hat, from under which appeared his only prominent feature—a long, wispy106, red beard.
The girl gave a little inarticulate sound, and Gilbert glanced at her. Her stately gravity had vanished, her face was lit with a radiant smile. She ran down to the brink107 of the stream.
"Yes, Uncle Hughie," she called, in a clear, silvery tone, with a new caressing108 quality in it, "it's Dr. Allen. Do you want to speak to him?"
"Yes, yes. Oh, yes, indeed. Come away across, man! Come away! There's a poor, sick body lying down the glen a wee bit. Come away, man, and try your hand on him whatefer."
Gilbert glanced at the girl again, half doubtfully. This was so unlike the first call to a patient which he had so often pictured that he was taken unawares. She seemed to divine his thoughts.
"Will you go?" she said gently. "It is my uncle. He is always helping109 some one in trouble. Perhaps there has been an accident in the mill."
"Of course, of course, I shall be glad," he cried, filled with compunction; and with a word of farewell he sprang nimbly across the stepping-stones.
"Do you need my help, Uncle Hughie?" called the silvery voice behind him.
"Och, it's the good lassie you will be!" came from under the straw hat. "No, no. It is jist a poor tramp body, and the doctor will be curing him."
Gilbert reached the other side, and the queer little figure hobbled toward him with outstretched hand. He took off his hat and made a stately bow, and the young man looked at him with pleasure and surprise. The little old man's face was wrinkled and brown, and bore the marks of pain, but his eyes shone out with a warm, kind brilliancy that went straight to the stranger's heart. They were the girl's eyes, exactly, but with none of her lofty reserve.
"Ech! hech!" he cried, disappearing once more within the hat. "Indeed and indeed, and it's the new doctor! Hoch, yes, yes, it is welcome you will be to Elmbrook. Eh, and we would not be expecting such a fine-looking one. Indeed, no! And it would be a fine Scottish name, too, oh, a fine name indeed, Allen. And—you would not be hafing the Gaelic, I suppose?" His eyes gleamed wistfully from between the hat and the whiskers.
"No," said Gilbert, smiling. "My mother spoke it, but she did not teach us children."
"Och, och, well, well," he said, reassuringly. "It will not be the way of the young Canadians, and perhaps it is better. Come away, now, come away! I would be finding a poor tramp body down the glen here, ech, ech, the peety of it! The peety of it!"
He hobbled away ahead, talking volubly. Gilbert glanced back as he followed, but the princess in the violet gown had disappeared.
"Eh, now, it would jist be the good Lord that would be sending him to me, indeed. Eh, the Almighty110 would be giving me everything in the world that I could be wanting. But I will jist be an awful complainin' body, and sometimes I would be saying, if I would only have the chance to help some one. That's it!" he cried, turning a flashing eye upon Gilbert. "That will be the only thing worth while in this world. Eh, it is you that will be finding that out, Dr. Allen, and a happy man you will be, oh, yes, indeed. It is the doctor bodies that has the chance." He stopped and turned again. "Eh, did ye ever think He would be a doctor Himself?" he added, in an awed111 whisper. "Yes, yes, most folks now would be thinkin' He would jist be a preacher. But I would be rastlin' things out sometimes at night, when the rheumatics would be keeping me awake. The rheumatics would be a fine thing to make a body think, doctor, oh, yes, a fine thing, and I would be wishing one night that old Dr. Williams would be curing me, and then I would be rastlin' it out that He would jist be a doctor Himself. Oh, hoch, yes, yes, indeed it would be wonderful; yes, yes, wonderful!"
The young man regarded him curiously112. Some strange emotion stirred in his heart: a memory of those days when his mother made the Great Physician a very real person to him. It seemed so long ago that he had almost forgotten, and yet he experienced a feeling as though he had suddenly come face to face with a long-lost friend.
"I am afraid such rheumatism113 as you must endure would keep me from thinking of anything but myself," he said, his professional eye taking in the signs of the painful disease in the old man's crippled frame.
His companion gave a joyous114 laugh. "Hoots115! It will jist be a wee tickle116 sometimes. But I will be an awful complainin' body, doctor. Old Dr. Williams could be telling you I would be a terrible burden to him, indeed; and you will be finding me a bother. Yes, oh, yes. That is why I would be so pleased that the Almighty would be sending me a chance to help. For I would jist be grumblin' and a burden all the days—eh, yes, yes, och, hoch!" His voice suddenly dropped to a pitying, caressing tone, such as one might use to a hurt child. "Here he is," he whispered. "Eh, the peety of it!"
A man was half sitting, half lying, on the grassy117 bank of the stream, supported by a pile of balsam boughs. His long body, in its worn, patched clothing, was pitifully emaciated118. His face was ghastly, and deeply marked with the sad lines that grief alone can trace. His hair was white, and yet, somehow, he did not seem aged119, except by suffering. He opened his eyes as the young doctor bent over him. There was the pathetic look in them of an animal that had received its death-wound. But as the light of consciousness returned there was resentment120 in his glance as well as pain. He looked like a man who had been pushed to the edge of despair, but who could still fight, not in hope, but in fierce anger against his lot.
"He must be moved to some house at once," the doctor announced after a brief examination. "He seems to be suffering from exhaustion121 and hunger."
Old Hughie Cameron was fussing about him, making inarticulate, pitying remarks. "Oh, yes, yes, he will jist be coming with me, then," he cried eagerly. "The Cameron door will always be on the latch122 indeed! Oh, yes, the folks will be real pleased, whatefer."
The sick man looked up suddenly and spoke with unlooked-for strength. "I will accept charity from no living man," he said curtly123.
"Hoots, toots!" cried Uncle Hughie, in gentle remonstrance. "Charity! It would jist be a bit of a neighborly act, man! Come away, now, come." His voice was coaxing124. "Here is the doctor, now, waiting to help you. Yes, yes, a fine new doctor, indeed," he added enticingly125.
"Come," said Gilbert authoritatively126. "You must have food and shelter at once. You can't stay here."
The man opened his eyes again. "I haven't a cent of money," he said weakly, but defiantly127. "But if you will take me to some place I can rent, I will earn money and pay for it after. But I will enter no man's house. I will stay here and die—it would be best, anyway." He closed his eyes indifferently.
Old Hughie suddenly plucked the puzzled young doctor's sleeve. "There will be an old shanty128 down the glen here, a wee step," he whispered, "jist by the Drowned Lands. It belongs to Sandy McQuarry, but he would be giv——" He paused, for the fierce eyes opened upon him—"renting it," he substituted hastily.
"I will go there," whispered the sick man, and Gilbert stooped and raised him gently.
"And what will your name be?" asked Uncle Hughie, striving in his pity to say something friendly which this strange man would not resent.
"My name," said the man slowly, "my name"—he stood and looked about him in a dazed way—"yes, yes, it's McIntyre—John McIntyre." He wavered a moment, then fell, fainting, in the young doctor's arms.
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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devious
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| adj.不坦率的，狡猾的；迂回的，曲折的 | |
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bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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lumbering
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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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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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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factotum
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| n.杂役；听差 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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reassuringly
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| ad.安心，可靠 | |
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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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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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26
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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27
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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28
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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29
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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30
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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31
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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33
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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34
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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35
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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36
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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37
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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38
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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39
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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40
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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41
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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42
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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43
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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44
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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45
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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46
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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47
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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48
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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49
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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50
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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51
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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52
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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53
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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54
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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55
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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56
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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57
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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58
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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59
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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60
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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61
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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62
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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63
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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64
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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65
clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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66
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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67
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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68
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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69
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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70
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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71
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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72
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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73
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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74
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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75
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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76
babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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77
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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78
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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79
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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80
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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81
sedately
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| adv.镇静地，安详地 | |
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82
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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83
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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84
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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85
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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86
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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87
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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88
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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89
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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90
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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91
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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93
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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94
flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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95
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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96
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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97
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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98
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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99
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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100
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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102
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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103
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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104
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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105
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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107
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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108
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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109
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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110
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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111
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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113
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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114
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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115
hoots
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| 咄，啐 | |
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116
tickle
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| v.搔痒，胳肢；使高兴；发痒；n.搔痒，发痒 | |
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117
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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118
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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119
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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120
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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121
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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122
latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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123
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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124
coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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125
enticingly
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126
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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127
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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128
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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