“Oh, no,” answered Dorian, “I’ve heard all about it since, and as you’re rather the persecuted3 party, so to speak, it wouldn’t be fair not to tell you that I don’t agree much with Ivywood about all this. I disagree with him; or rather, to speak medically, he disagrees with me. He has, ever since I woke up after an oyster4 supper and found myself in the House of Commons with policemen calling out, ‘Who goes home?’”
“Indeed,” inquired Dalroy, drawing his red bushy eyebrows5 together. “Do the officials in Parliament say, ‘Who goes home?’”
“Yes,” answered Wimpole, indifferently, “it’s a part of some old custom in the days when Members of Parliament might be attacked in the street.”
“Well,” inquired Patrick, in a rational tone, “why aren’t they attacked in the street?”
There was a silence. “It is a holy mystery,” said the Captain at last. “But, ‘Who goes home?’—that is uncommonly6 good.”
The Captain had received the poet into the car with all possible expressions of affability and satisfaction, but the poet, who was keen-sighted enough about people of his own sort, could not help thinking that the Captain was a little absent-minded. As they flew thundering through the mazes8 of South London (for Pump had crossed Westminster Bridge and was making for the Surrey hills), the big blue eyes of the big red-haired man rolled perpetually up and down the streets; and, after longer and longer silences, he found expression for his thoughts.
“Doesn’t it strike you that there are a very large number of chemists in London nowadays?”
“Are there?” asked Wimpole, carelessly. “Well, there certainly are two very close to each other just over there.”
“Yes, and both the same name,” replied Dalroy, “Crooke. And I saw the same Mr. Crooke chemicalizing round the corner. He seems to be a highly omnipresent deity10.”
“A large business, I suppose,” observed Dorian Wimpole.
“Too large for its profits, I should say,” said Dalroy. “What can people want with two chemists of the same sort within a few yards of each other? Do they put one leg into one shop and one into the other and have their corns done in both at once? Or, do they take an acid in one shop and an alkali in the next, and wait for the fizz? Or, do they take the poison in the first shop and the emetic11 in the second shop? It seems like carrying delicacy12 too far. It almost amounts to living a double life.”
“But, perhaps,” said Dorian, “he is an uproariously popular chemist, this Mr. Crooke. Perhaps there’s a rush on some specialty13 of his.”
“It seems to me,” said the Captain, “that there are certain limitations to such popularity in the case of a chemist. If a man sells very good tobacco, people may smoke more and more of it from sheer self-indulgence. But I never heard of anybody exceeding in cod-liver oil. Even castor-oil, I should say, is regarded with respect rather than true affection.”
After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Is it safe to stop here for an instant, Pump?”
“I think so,” replied Humphrey, “if you’ll promise me not to have any adventures in the shop.”
The motor car stopped before yet a fourth arsenal14 of Mr. Crooke and his pharmacy15, and Dalroy went in. Before Pump and his companion could exchange a word, the Captain came out again, with a curious expression on his countenance16, especially round the mouth.
“Mr. Wimpole,” said Dalroy, “will you give us the pleasure of dining with us this evening? Many would consider it an unceremonious invitation to an unconventional meal; and it may be necessary to eat it under a hedge or even up a tree; but you are a man of taste, and one does not apologise for Hump’s rum or Hump’s cheese to persons of taste. We will eat and drink of our best tonight. It is a banquet. I am not very certain whether you and I are friends or enemies, but at least there shall be peace tonight.”
“Friends, I hope,” said the poet, smiling, “but why peace especially tonight?”
“Because there will be war tomorrow,” answered Patrick Dalroy, “whichever side of it you may be on. I have just made a singular discovery.”
And he relapsed into his silence as they flew out of the fringe of London into the woods and hills beyond Croydon. Dalroy remained in the same mood of brooding, Dorian was brushed by the butterfly wing of that fleeting18 slumber19 that will come on a man hurried, through the air, after long lounging in hot drawing rooms; even the dog Quoodle was asleep at the bottom of the car. As for Humphrey Pump, he very seldom talked when he had anything else to do. Thus it happened that long landscapes and perspectives were shot past them like suddenly shifted slides, and long stretches of time elapsed before any of them spoke20 again. The sky was changing from the pale golds and greens of evening to the burning blue of a strong summer night, a night of strong stars. The walls of woodland that flew past them like long assegais, were mostly, at first, of the fenced and park-like sort; endless oblong blocks of black pinewood shut in by boxes of thin grey wood. But soon fences began to sink, and pinewoods to straggle, and roads to split and even to sprawl21. Half an hour later Dalroy had begun to realise something romantic and even faintly reminiscent in the roll of the country, and Humphrey Pump had long known he was on the marches of his native land.
So far as the difference could be defined by a detail, it seemed to consist not so much in the road rising as in the road perpetually winding22. It was more like a path; and even where it was abrupt23 or aimless, it seemed the more alive. They appeared to be ascending25 a big, dim hill that was built of a crowd of little hills with rounded tops; it was like a cluster of domes26. Among these domes the road climbed and curled in multitudinous curves and angles. It was almost impossible to believe that it could turn itself and round on itself so often without tying itself in a knot and choking.
“I say,” said Dalroy, breaking the silence suddenly, “this car will get giddy and fall down.”
“Perhaps,” said Dorian, beaming at him, “my car, as you may have noticed, was much steadier.”
Patrick laughed, but not without a shade of confusion. “I hope you got back your car all right,” he said. “This is really nothing for speed; but it’s an uncommonly good little climber, and it seems to have some climbing to do just now. And even more wandering.”
“The roads certainly seem to be very irregular,” said Dorian, reflectively.
“Well,” cried Patrick, with a queer kind of impatience28, “you’re English and I’m not. You ought to know why the road winds about like this. Why, the Saints deliver us!” he cried, “it’s one of the wrongs of Ireland that she can’t understand England. England won’t understand herself, England won’t tell us why these roads go wriggling29 about. Englishmen won’t tell us! You won’t tell us!”
Dalroy, with an irony far from quiet, emitted a loud yell of victory.
“Right,” he shouted. “More songs of the car club! We’re all poets here, I hope. Each shall write something about why the road jerks about so much. So much as this, for example,” he added, as the whole vehicle nearly rolled over in a ditch.
For, indeed, Pump appeared to be attacking such inclines as are more suitable for a goat than a small motor-car. This may have been exaggerated in the emotions of his companions, who had both, for different reasons, seen much of mere2 flat country lately. The sensation was like a combination of trying to get into the middle of the maze7 at Hampton Court, and climbing the spiral staircase to the Belfry at Bruges.
“This is the right way to Roundabout,” said Dalroy, cheerfully, “charming place; salubrious spot. You can’t miss it. First to the left and right and straight on round the corner and back again. That’ll do for my poem. Get on, you slackers; why aren’t you writing your poems?”
“I’ll try one if you like,” said Dorian, treating his flattered egotism lightly. “But it’s too dark to write; and getting darker.”
Indeed they had come under a shadow between them and the stars, like the brim of a giant’s hat; only through the holes and rents in which the summer stars could now look down on them. The hill, like a cluster of domes, though smooth and even bare in its lower contours was topped with a tangle31 of spanning trees that sat above them like a bird brooding over its nest. The wood was larger and vaguer than the clump32 that is the crown of the hill at Chanctonbury, but was rather like it and held much the same high and romantic position. The next moment they were in the wood itself, and winding in and out among the trees by a ribbon of paths. The emerald twilight33 between the stems, combined with the dragon-like contortions34 of the great grey roots of the beeches35, had a suggestion of monsters and the deep sea; especially as a long litter of crimson36 and copper-coloured fungi37, which might well have been the more gorgeous types of anemone38 or jelly-fish, reddened the ground like a sunset dropped from the sky. And yet, contradictorily39 enough, they had also a strong sense of being high up; and even near to heaven; and the brilliant summer stars that stared through the chinks of the leafy roof might almost have been white starry40 blossoms on the trees of the wood.
But though they had entered the wood as if it were a house, their strongest sensation still was the rotatory; it seemed as if that high green house went round and round like a revolving41 lighthouse or the whiz-gig temple in the old pantomimes. The stars seemed to circle over their heads; and Dorian felt almost certain he had seen the same beech-tree twice.
At length they came to a central place where the hill rose in a sort of cone42 in the thick of its trees, lifting its trees with it. Here Pump stopped the car, and clambering up the slope, came to the crawling colossal43 roots of a very large but very low beech-tree. It spread out to the four quarters of heaven more in the manner of an octopus44 than a tree, and within its low crown of branches there was a kind of hollow, like a cup, into which Mr. Humphrey Pump, of “The Old Ship,” Pebblewick, suddenly and entirely45 disappeared.
When he appeared it was with a kind of rope ladder, which he politely hung over the side for his companions to ascend24 by, but the Captain preferred to swing himself onto one of the octopine branches with a whirl of large wild legs worthy46 of a chimpanzee. When they were established there, each propped47 in the hollow against a branch, almost as comfortably as in an arm chair, Humphrey himself descended48 once more and began to take out their simple stores. The dog was still asleep in the car.
“An old haunt of yours, Hump, I suppose,” said the Captain. “You seem quite at home.”
“I am at home,” answered Pump, with gravity, “at the sign of ‘The Old Ship.’” And he stuck the old blue and red sign-board erect49 among the toadstools, as if inviting50 the passer-by to climb the trees for a drink.
The tree just topped the mound51 or clump of trees, and from it they could see the whole champaign of the country they had passed, with the silver roads roaming about in it like rivers. They were so exalted52 they could almost fancy the stars would burn them.
“Those roads remind me of the songs you’ve all promised,” said Dalroy at last. “Let’s have some supper, Hump, and then recite.”
Humphrey had hung one of the motor lanterns onto a branch above him, and proceeded by the light of it to tap the keg of rum and hand round the cheese.
“What an extraordinary thing,” exclaimed Dorian Wimpole, suddenly. “Why, I’m quite comfortable! Such a thing has never happened before, I should imagine. And how holy this cheese tastes.”
“It has gone on a pilgrimage,” answered Dalroy, “or rather a Crusade. It’s a heroic, a fighting cheese. ‘Cheese of all Cheeses, Cheeses of all the world,’ as my compatriot, Mr. Yeats, says to the Something-or-other of Battle. It’s almost impossible that this cheese can have come out of such a coward as a cow. I suppose,” he added, wistfully, “I suppose it wouldn’t do to explain that in this case Hump had milked the bull. That would be classed by scientists among Irish legends—those that have the Celtic glamour53 and all that. No, I think this cheese must have come from that Dun Cow of Dunsmore Heath, who had horns bigger than elephant’s tusks54, and who was so ferocious55 that one of the greatest of the old heroes of chivalry56 was required to do battle with it. The rum’s good, too. I’ve earned this glass of rum—earned it by Christian57 humility58. For nearly a month I’ve lowered myself to the beasts of the field, and gone about on all fours like a teetotaler. Hump, circulate the bottle—I mean the cask—and let us have some of this poetry you’re so keen about. Each poem must have the same title, you know; it’s a rattling59 good title. It’s called “An Inquiry60 into the Causes geological, historical, agricultural, psychological, psychical61, moral, spiritual and theological of the alleged62 cases of double, treble, quadruple and other curvature in the English Road, conducted by a specially17 appointed secret commission in a hole in a tree, by admittedly judicious64 and academic authorities specially appointed by themselves to report to the Dog Quoodle, having power to add to their number and also to take away the number they first thought of; God save the King.” Having delivered this formula with blinding rapidity, he added rather breathlessly, “that’s the note to strike, the lyric65 note.”
For all his rather formless hilarity66, Dalroy still impressed the poet as being more distrait67 than the others, as if his mind were labouring with some bigger thing in the background. He was in a sort of creative trance; and Humphrey Pump, who knew him like his own soul, knew well that it was not mere literary creation. Rather it was a kind of creation which many modern moralists would call destruction. For Patrick Dalroy was, not a little to his misfortune, what is called a man of action; as Captain Dawson realised when he found his entire person a bright pea-green. Fond as he was of jokes and rhymes, nothing he could write or even sing ever satisfied him like something he could do.
Thus it happened that his contribution to the metrical inquiry into the crooked69 roads was avowedly70 hasty and flippant. While Dorian who was of the opposite temper, the temper that receives impressions instead of pushing out to make them, found his artist’s love of beauty fulfilled as it had never been before in that noble nest; and was far more serious and human than usual. Patrick’s verses ran:
“Some say that Guy of Warwick,
The man that killed the Cow,
Went up against a Loathly Worm
That wasted all the Downs,
And so the roads they twist and squirm
(If I may be allowed the term)
That died in seven towns.
I see no scientific proof
That this idea is sound,
And I should say they wound about
To find the town of Roundabout,
The merry town of Roundabout
That makes the world go round.
Whose lantern lights the meads,
(To steal a phrase Sir Walter Scott
In heaven no longer needs)
Such dance around the trysting-place
The moonstruck lover leads;
There is more faith in honest doubt,
But peace and righteousness (St. John)
In Roundabout can kiss,
And since that’s all that’s found about
The pleasant town of Roundabout,
The roads they simply bound about
To find out where it is.
“Some say that when Sir Lancelot
Grey Merlin wrinkled up the roads
For hope that he should fail;
All roads led back to Lyonesse
And Camelot in the Vale;
Extravagant80 hypothesis,
The plain, shrewd Briton will dismiss
But in the streets of Roundabout
Or roll upon the ground about,
In the happy town of Roundabout
That makes the world go round.”
Patrick Dalroy relieved his feelings by finishing with a shout, draining a stiff glass of his sailor’s wine, turning restlessly on his elbow and looking across the landscape toward London.
Dorian Wimpole had been drinking golden rum and strong starlight and the fragrance84 of forests; and, though his verses, too, were burlesque85, he read them more emotionally than was his wont86.
“Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
That night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
“I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchmen I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
“His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
“My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.”
“Have you written one, Hump?” asked Dalroy. Humphrey, who had been scribbling91 hard under the lamp, looked up with a dismal92 face.
“Yes,” he said. “But I write under a great disadvantage. You see, I know why the road curves about.” And he read very rapidly, all on one note:
“The road turned first toward the left
The path turned next toward the right
Because the mastiff used to bite;
Then left, because of Slippery Height,
And then again toward the right.
We could not take the left because
It would have been against the laws;
Squire closed it in King William’s day
Because it was a Right of Way.
Where Parson’s Ghost it used to walk,
Till someone Parson used to know
Met him blind drunk in Callao.
Then left, a long way round, to skirt
The good land where old Doggy Burt
Was owner of the Crown and Cup,
And would not give his freehold up;
Right, missing the old river-bed,
They tried to make him take instead
Right, since they say Sir Gregory
Went mad and let the Gypsies be,
And so they have their camp secure.
And, though not honest, they are poor,
And that is something; then along
And first to right—no, I am wrong!
Second to right, of course; the first
Is what the holy sisters cursed,
And none defy their awful oaths
Since the policeman lost his clothes
Because of fairies; right again,
What used to be High Toby Lane,
Because the road is firm and good
From past the milestone to the wood;
And I was told by Dr. Lowe
Whom Mr. Wimpole’s aunt would know,
And ain’t so silly as he looks;
The Romans did that little bit
And we’ve done all the rest of it;
By which we hardly seem to score;
Left, and then forward as before
To where they nearly hanged Miss Browne,
Who told them not to cut her down,
But loose the rope or let her swing,
Because it was a waste of string;
Left once again by Hunker’s Cleft,
And right beyond the elm, and left,
By Pill’s right by Nineteen Nicks
And left——”
“No! No! No! Hump! Hump! Hump!” cried Dalroy in a sort of terror. “Don’t be exhaustive! Don’t be a scientist, Hump, and lay waste fairyland! How long does it go on? Is there a lot more of it?”
“And it’s all true?” inquired Dorian Wimpole, with interest.
“Yes,” replied Pump with a smile, “it’s all true.”
“My complaint, exactly,” said the Captain. “What you want is legends. What you want is lies, especially at this time of night, and on rum like this, and on our first and our last holiday. What do you think about rum?” he asked Wimpole.
“About this particular rum, in this particular tree, at this particular moment,” answered Wimpole, “I think it is the nectar of the younger gods. If you ask me in a general, synthetic100 sense what I think of rum—well, I think it’s rather rum.”
“You find it a trifle sweet, I suppose,” said Dalroy, with some bitterness. “Sybarite! By the way,” he said abruptly101, “what a silly word that word ‘Hedonist’ is! The really self-indulgent people generally like sour things and not sweet; bitter things like caviare and curries102 or what not. It’s the Saints who like the sweets. At least I’ve known at least five women who were practically saints, and they all preferred sweet champagne103. Look here, Wimpole! Shall I tell you the ancient oral legend about the origin of rum? I told you what you wanted was legends. Be careful to preserve this one, and hand it on to your children; for, unfortunately, my parents carelessly neglected the duty of handing it on to me. After the words ‘A Farmer had three sons ...’ all that I owe to tradition ceases. But when the three boys last met in the village market-place, they were all sucking sugar-sticks. Nevertheless, they were all discontented, and on that day parted for ever. One remained on his father’s farm, hungering for his inheritance. One went up to London to seek his fortune, as fortunes are found today in that town forgotten of God. The third ran away to sea. And the first two flung away their sugar-sticks in shame; and he on the farm was always drinking smaller and sourer beer for the love of money; and he that was in town was always drinking richer and richer wines, that men might see that he was rich. But he who ran away to sea actually ran on board with the sugar-stick in his mouth; and St. Peter or St. Andrew, or whoever is the patron of men in boats, touched it and turned it into a fountain for the comfort of men upon the sea. That is the sailor’s theory of the origin of rum. Inquiry addressed to any busy Captain with a new crew in the act of shipping104 an unprecedented105 cargo106, will elicit107 a sympathetic agreement.”
“Your rum at least,” said Dorian, good-humouredly, “may well produce a fairy-tale. But, indeed, I think all this would have been a fairy-tale without it.”
Patrick raised himself from his arboreal108 throne, and leaned against his branch with a curious and sincere sense of being rebuked109.
“Yours was a good poem,” he said, with seeming irrelevance110, “and mine was a bad one. Mine was bad, partly because I’m not a poet as you are; but almost as much because I was trying to make up another song at the same time. And it went to another tune68, you see.”
He looked out over the rolling roads and said almost to himself:
They cry in their parliament ‘Who goes home?’
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
And blood on the body when man goes home.
And a voice valedictory—Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?”
Softly and idly as he had said this second rhyme, there were circumstances about his attitude that must have troubled or interested anyone who did not know him well.
“May I ask,” asked Dorian, laughing, “why it is necessary to draw your sword at this stage of the affair?”
“Because we have left the place called Roundabout,” answered Patrick, “and we have come to a place called Rightabout.”
And he lifted his sword toward London, and the grey glint upon it came from a low, grey light in the east.
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1
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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7
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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9
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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10
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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11
emetic
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| n.催吐剂；adj.催吐的 | |
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12
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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13
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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14
arsenal
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| n.兵工厂，军械库 | |
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15
pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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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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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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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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21
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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34
contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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35
beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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36
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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37
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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38
anemone
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| n.海葵 | |
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39
contradictorily
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| adv.反驳地，逆，矛盾地 | |
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40
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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41
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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42
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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43
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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44
octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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45
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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46
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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47
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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50
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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51
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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52
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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54
tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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58
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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59
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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avowedly
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| adv.公然地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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72
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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74
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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75
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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76
scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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81
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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82
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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83
expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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84
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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85
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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86
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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87
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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88
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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89
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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92
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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93
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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94
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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95
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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96
larch
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| n.落叶松 | |
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97
milestone
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| n.里程碑；划时代的事件 | |
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98
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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99
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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100
synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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101
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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102
curries
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| n.咖喱食品( curry的名词复数 ) | |
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103
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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104
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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105
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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106
cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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107
elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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108
arboreal
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| adj.树栖的；树的 | |
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109
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
irrelevance
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| n.无关紧要；不相关；不相关的事物 | |
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111
loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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112
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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