In the distance, where the green of the earth joins the blue of the sky, gleams the silver line of a river.
As far as the eye an reach, the ground is covered with blueberry bushes; red leaves peeping among green ones; bloom of blue fruit hanging in full warm clusters,—spheres of velvet3 mellowed4 by summer sun, moistened with crystal dew, spiced with fragrance5 of woods.
In among the blueberry bushes grow huckleberries, “choky pears,” and black-snaps.
Gnarled oaks and stunted6 pines lift themselves out of the wilderness7 of shrubs8. They look dwarfed9 and gloomy, as if Nature had been an untender mother, and denied them proper nourishment10.
The road is a little-traveled one, and furrows11 of feathery grasses grow between the long, hot, sandy stretches of the wheel-ruts.
The first goldenrod gleams among the loose stones at the foot of the alder12 bushes. Whole families of pale butterflies, just out of their long sleep, perch13 on the brilliant stalks and tilter14 up and down in the sunshine.
Straggling processions of wooly15 brown caterpillars16 wend their way in the short grass by the wayside, where the wild carrot and the purple bull-thistle are coming into bloom.
The song of birds is seldom heard, and the blueberry plains are given over to silence save for the buzzing of gorged17 flies, the humming of bees, and the chirping18 of crickets that stir the drowsy19 air when the summer begins to wane20.
It is so still that the shuffle-shuffle of a footstep can be heard in the distance, the tinkle21 of a tin pail swinging musically to and fro, the swish of an alder switch cropping the heads of the roadside weeds. All at once a voice breaks the stillness. Is it a child's, a woman's, or a man's? Neither yet all three.
“I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding,
An' hear the whis-sle of the jol-ly
—swain.”
Everybody knows the song, and everybody knows the cracked voice. The master of this bit of silent wilderness is coming home: it is Tom o' the blueb'ry plains.
He is more than common tall, with a sandy beard, and a mop of tangled22 hair straggling beneath his torn straw hat. A square of wet calico drips from under the back of the hat. His gingham shirt is open at the throat, showing his tanned neck and chest. Warm as it is, he wears portions of at least three coats on his back. His high boots, split in foot and leg, are mended and spliced24 and laced and tied on with bits of shingle25 rope. He carries a small tin pail of molasses. It has a bail26 of rope, and a battered27 cover with a knob of sticky newspaper. Over one shoulder, suspended on a crooked28 branch, hangs a bundle of basket stuff,—split willow29 withes and the like; over the other swings a decrepit30, bottomless, three-legged chair.
I call him the master of the plains, but in faith he had no legal claim to the title. If he owned a habitation or had established a home on any spot in the universe, it was because no man envied him what he took; for Tom was one of God's fools, a foot-loose pilgrim in this world of ours, a poor addle-pated, simple-minded, harmless creature,—in village parlance31, a “softy.”
Mother or father, sister or brother, he had none, nor ever had, so far as any one knew; but how should people who had to work from sun-up to candlelight to get the better of the climate have leisure to discover whether or no Blueb'ry Tom had any kin2?
At some period in an almost forgotten past there had been a house on Tom's particular patch of the plains. It had long since tumbled into ruins and served for fire-wood and even the chimney bricks had disappeared one by one, as the monotonous32 seasons came and went.
Tom had settled himself in an old tool-shop, corn-house, or rude out-building of some sort that had belonged to the ruined cottage. Here he had set up his house-hold gods; and since no one else had ever wanted a home in this dreary33 tangle23 of berry bushes, where the only shade came from stunted pines that flung shriveled arms to the sky and dropped dead cones34 to the sterile35 earth, here he remained unmolested.
In the lower part of the hut he kept his basket stuff and his collection of two-legged and three-legged chairs. In the course of evolution they never sprouted36 another leg, those chairs; as they were given to him, so they remained. The upper floor served for his living-room, and was reached by a ladder from the ground, for there was no stairway inside.
No one had ever been in the little upper chamber37. When a passer-by chanced to be-think him that Tom's hermitage was close at hand, he sometimes turned in his team by a certain clump38 of white birches and drove nearer to the house, intending to remind Tom that there was a chair to willow-bottom the next time he came to the village. But at the noise of the wheels Tom drew in his ladder; and when the visitor alighted and came within sight, it was to find the inhospitable host standing40 in the opening of the second-story window, a quaint41 figure framed in green branches, the ladder behind him, and on his face a kind of impenetrable dignity, as he shook his head and said, “Tom ain't ter hum; Tom's gone to Bonny Eagle.”
There was something impressive about his way of repelling42 callers; it was as effectual as a door slammed in the face, and yet there was a sort of mendacious43 courtesy about it. No one ever cared to go further; and indeed there was no mystery to tempt44 the curious, and no spoil to attract the mischievous45 or the malicious46. Any one could see, without entering, the straw bed in the far corner, the beams piled deep with red and white oak acorns47, the strings48 of dried apples and bunches of everlastings49 hanging from the rafters, and the half-finished baskets filled with blown bird's-eggs, pine cones, and pebbles50.
No home in the village was better loved than Tom's retreat in the blueberry plains. Whenever he approached it, after a long day's tramp, when he caught the first sight of the white birches that marked the gateway51 to his estate and showed him where to turn off the public road into his own private grounds, he smiled a broader smile than usual, and broke into his well-known song:
“I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding,
An' hear the whis-sle of the jol-ly
—swain.”
Poor Tom could never catch the last note. He had sung the song for more than forty years, but the memory of this tone was so blurred52, and his cherished ideal of it so high (or so low, rather), that he never managed to reach it.
Oh, if only summer were eternal! Who could wish a better supper than ripe berries and molasses? Nor was there need of sleeping under roof nor of lighting53 candles to grope his way to pallet of straw, when he might have the blue vault54 of heaven arching over him, and all God's stars for lamps, and for a bed a horse blanket stretched over an elastic55 couch of pine needles. There were two gaunt pines that had been dropping their polished spills for centuries, perhaps silently adding, year by year, another layer of aromatic56 springiness to poor Tom's bed. Flinging his tired body on this grateful couch, burying his head in the crushed sweet fern of his pillow with one deep-drawn sigh of pleasure,—there, haunted by no past and harassed57 by no future, slept God's fool as sweetly as a child.
Yes, if only summer were eternal, and youth as well!
But when the blueberries had ripened58 summer after summer, and the gaunt pine-trees had gone on for many years weaving poor Tom's mattress59, there came a change in the aspect of things. He still made his way to the village, seeking chairs to mend; but he was even more unkempt than of old, his tall figure was bent60, and his fingers trembled as he wove the willow strands61 in and out, and over and under.
There was little work to do, moreover, for the village had altogether retired62 from business, and was no longer in competition with its neighbors: the dam was torn away, the sawmills were pulled down; husbands and fathers were laid in the churchyard, sons and brothers and lovers had gone West, and mothers and widows and spinsters stayed on, each in her quiet house alone. “'T ain't no hardship when you get used to it,” said the Widow Buzzell. “Land sakes! a lantern 's 's good 's a man any time, if you only think so, 'n' 't ain't half so much trouble to keep it filled up!”
But Tom still sold a basket occasionally, and the children always gathered about him for the sake of hearing him repeat his well-worn formula,—“Tom allers puts two handles on baskets: one to take 'em up by, one to set 'em down by.” This was said with a beaming smile and a wise shake of the head, as if he were announcing a great discovery to an expectant world. And then he would lay down his burden of basket stuff, and, sitting under an apple-tree in somebody's side yard, begin his task of willow-bottoming an old chair. It was a pretty sight enough, if one could keep back the tears,—the kindly63, simple fellow with the circle of children about his knees. Never a village fool without a troop of babies at his heels. They love him, too, till we teach them to mock.
When he was younger, he would sing,
“Rock-a-by, baby, on the treetop,”
and dance the while, swinging his unfinished basket to and fro for a cradle. He was too stiff in the joints64 for dancing nowadays, but he still sang the “bloomin' gy-ar-ding” when ever they asked him, particularly if some apple-cheeked little maid would say, “Please, Tom!” He always laughed then, and, patting the child's hand, said, “Pooty gal,—got eyes!” The youngsters dance with glee at this meaningless phrase, just as their mothers had danced years before when it was said to them.
Summer waned65. In the moist places the gentian uncurled its blue fringes; purple asters and gay Joe Pye waved their colors by the roadside; tall primroses66 put their yellow bonnets67 on, and peeped over the brooks68 to see themselves; and the dusty pods of the milkweed were bursting with their silky fluffs, the spinning of the long summer. Autumn began to paint the maples69 red and the elms yellow, for the early days of September brought a frost. Some one remarked at the village store that old Blueb'ry Tom must not be suffered to stay on the plains another winter, now that he was getting so feeble,—not if the “seleckmen” had to root him out and take him to the poor-farm. He would surely starve or freeze, and his death would be laid at their door.
Tom was interviewed. Persuasion70, logic71, sharp words, all failed to move him one jot72 or tittle. He stood in his castle door, with the ladder behind him, smiling, always smiling (none but the fool smiles always, nor always weeps), and saying to all visitors, “Tom ain't ter hum; Tom's gone to Bonny Eagle; Tom don' want to go to the poor-farm.”
November came in surly.
The cheerful stir and bustle73 of the harvest were over, the corn was shocked, the apples and pumpkins74 were gathered into barns. The problem of Tom's future was finally laid before the selectmen; and since the poor fellow's mild obstinancy had defeated all attempts to conquer it, the sheriff took the matter in hand.
The blueberry plains looked bleak75 and bare enough now. It had rained incessantly76 for days, growing ever colder and colder as it rained. The sun came out at last, but it shone in a wintry sort of way,—like a duty smile,—as if light, not heat, were its object. A keen wind blew the dead leaves hither and thither77 in a wild dance that had no merriment in it. A blackbird flew under an old barrel by the wayside, and, ruffling78 himself into a ball, remarked despondently79 that feathers were no sort of protection in this kind of climate. A snowbird, flying by, glanced in at the barrel, and observed that anybody who minded a little breeze like that had better join the woodcocks, who were leaving for the South by the night express.
The blueberry bushes were stripped bare of green. The stunted pines and sombre hemlocks80 looked in tone with the landscape now; where all was dreary they did not seem amiss.
“Je-whilikins!” exclaimed the sheriff as he drew up his coat collar. “A madhouse is the place for the man who wants to live ou'doors in the winter time; the poor-farm is too good for him.”
But Tom was used to privation, and even to suffering. “Ou'doors” was the only home he knew, and with all its rigors81 he loved it. He looked over the barren plains, knowing, in a dull sort of way, that they would shortly be covered with snow; but he had three coats, two of them with sleeves, and the crunch-crunch of the snow under his tread was music to his ears. Then, too, there were a few hospitable39 firesides where he could always warm himself; and the winter would soon be over, the birds would come again,—new birds, singing the old songs,—the sap would mount in the trees, the buds swell82 on the blueberry bushes, and the young ivory leaves push their ruddy tips through the softening83 ground. The plains were fatherland and mother-country, home and kindred, to Tom. He loved the earth that nourished him, and he saw through all the seeming death in nature the eternal miracle of the resurrection. To him winter was never cruel. He looked underneath84 her white mantle85, saw the infant spring hidden in her warm bosom86, and was content to wait. Content to wait? Content to starve, content to freeze, if only he need not be carried into captivity87.
The poor-farm was not a bad place, either, if only Tom had been a reasonable being. To be sure, when Hannah Sophia Palmer asked old Mrs. Pinkham how she liked it, she answered, with a patient sigh, that “her 'n' Mr. Pinkham hed lived there goin' on nine year, workin' their fingers to the bone 'most, 'n' yet they hadn't been able to lay up a cent!” If this peculiarity88 of administration was its worst feature, it was certainly one that would have had no terrors for Tom o' the blueb'ry plains. Terrors of some sort, nevertheless, the poor-farm had for him; and when the sheriff's party turned in by the clump of white birches and approached the cabin, they found that fear had made the simple wise. Tom had provished the little upper chamber, and, in place of the piece of sacking that usually served him for a door in winter, he had woven a defense89 of willow. In fine, he had taken all his basket stuff, and, treating the opening through which he entered and left his home precisely90 as if it were a bottomless chair, he had filled it in solidly, weaving to and fro, by night as well as by day, till he felt, poor fool, as safely intrenched as if he were in the heart of a fortress91.
The sheriff tied his horse to a tree, and Rube Hobson and Pitt Packard got out of the double wagon. Two men laughed when they saw the pathetic defense, but the other shut his lips together and caught his breath. (He had been born on a poor-farm, but no one knew it at Pleasant River.) They called Tom's name repeatedly, but no other sound broke the silence of the plains save the rustling92 of the wind among the dead leaves.
“Numb-head!” muttered the sheriff, pounding on the side of the cabin with his whip-stock. “Come out and show yourself! We know you're in there, and it's no use hiding!”
At last in response to a deafening93 blow from Rube Hobson's hard fist, there came the answering note of a weak despairing voice.
“Tom ain't ter hum,” it said; “Tom's gone to Bonny Eagle.”
“That's all right!” guffawed94 the men; “but you've got to go some more, and go a diff'rent way. It ain't no use fer you to hold back; we've got a ladder, and by Jiminy! you go with us this time!”
The ladder was put against the side of the hut, and Pitt Packard climbed up, took his jack-knife, slit95 the woven door from top to bottom, and turned back the flap.
The men could see the inside of the chamber now. They were humorous persons who could strain a joke to the snapping point, but they felt, at last, that there was nothing especially amusing in the situation. Tom was huddled96 in a heap on the straw bed in the far corner. The vacant smile had fled from his face, and he looked, for the first time in his life, quite distraught.
“Come along, Tom,” said the sheriff kindly; “we 're going to take you where you can sleep in a bed, and have three meals a day.”
“I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding,”
sang Tom quaveringly, as he hid his head in a paroxysm of fear.
“Well, there ain't no bloomin' gardings to walk in jest now, so come along and be peaceable.”
But there was no alternative. They dragged him off the bed and down the ladder as gently as possible; then Rube Hobson held him on the back seat of the wagon, while the sheriff unhitched the horse. As they were on the point of starting, the captive began to wail98 and struggle more than ever, the burden of his plaint being a wild and tremulous plea for his pail of molasses.
“Dry up, old softy, or I'll put the buggy robe over your head!” muttered Rube Hobson, who had not had much patience when he started on the trip, and had lost it all by this time.
“By thunder! he shall hev his molasses, if he thinks he wants it!” said Pitt Packard, and he ran up the ladder and brought it down, comforting the shivering creature thus, for he lapsed99 into a submissive silence that lasted until the unwelcome journey was over.
Tom remained at the poorhouse precisely twelve hours. It did not enter the minds of the authorities that any one so fortunate as to be admitted into that happy haven100 would decline to stay there. The unwilling101 guest disappeared early on the morrow of his arrival, and, after some search, they followed him to the old spot. He had climbed into his beloved retreat, and, having learned nothing from experience, had mended the willow door as best he could, and laid him down in peace. They dragged him out again, and this time more impatiently; for it was exasperating102 to see a man (even if he were a fool) fight against a bed and three meals a day.
The second attempt was little more successful than the first. As a place of residence, the poor-farm did not seem any more desirable or attractive on near acquaintance than it did at long range. Tom remained a week, because he was kept in close confinement103; but when they judged that he was weaned from his old home, they loosed his bonds, and—back to the plains he sped, like an arrow shot from the bow, or like a bit of iron leaping to the magnet.
What should be done with him?
Public opinion was divided. Some people declared that the village had done its duty, and if the “dog-goned lunk-head” wanted to starve and freeze, it was his funeral, not theirs. Others thought that the community had no resource but to bear the responsibility of its irresponsible children, however troublesome they might be. There was entire unanimity104 of view so far as the main issues were concerned. It was agreed that nobody at the poor-farm had leisure to stand guard over Tom night and day, and that the sheriff could not be expected to spend his time forcing him out of his hut on the blueberry plains.
There was but one more expedient105 to be tried, a very simple and ingenious but radical106 and comprehensive one, which, in Rube Hobson's opinion, would strike at the root of the matter.
Tom had fled from captivity for the third time.
He had stolen out at daybreak, and, by an unexpected stroke of fortune, the molasses pail was hanging on a nail by the shed door. The remains107 of a battered old bushel basket lay on the wood-pile: bottom it had none, nor handles; rotundity of side had long since disappeared, and none but its maker108 would have known it for a basket. Tom caught it up in his flight, and, seizing the first crooked stick that offered, he slung109 the dear familiar burden over his shoulder and started off on a jog-trot.
Heaven, how happy he was! It was the rosy110 dawn of an Indian summer day,—a warm jewel of a day, dropped into the bleak world of yesterday without a hint of beneficent intention; one of those enchanting111 weather surprises with which Dame112 Nature reconciles us to her stern New England rule.
The joy that comes of freedom, and the freedom that comes of joy, unbent the old man's stiffened113 joints. He renewed his youth at every mile. He ran like a lapwing. When his feet first struck the sandy soil of the plains, he broke into old song of the “bloom-in' gy-ar-ding” and the “jolly swain,” and in the marvelous mental and spiritual exhilaration born of the supreme114 moment he almost grasped that impossible last note. His heard could hardly hold its burden of rapture115 when he caught the well-known gleam of the white birches. He turned into the familiar path, boy's blood thumping116 in old man's veins117. The past week had been a dreadful dream. A few steps more and he would be within sight, within touch of home,—home at last! No—what was wrong? He must have gone beyond it, in his reckless haste! Strange that he could have forgotten the beloved spot! Can lover mistake the way to sweetheart's window? Can child lose the path to mother's knee?
He turned,—ran hither and thither, like one distraught. A nameless dread118 flitted through his dull mind, chilling his warm blood, paralyzing the activity of the moment before. At last, with a sob119 like that of a frightened child who flies from some imagined evil lurking120 in darkness, he darted121 back to the white birches and started anew. This time he trusted to blind instinct; his feet knew the path, and, left to themselves, they took him through the tangle of dry bushes straight to his—
It had vanished!
Nothing but ashes remained to mark the spot,—nothing but ashes! And these, ere many days, the autumn winds would scatter122, and the leafless branches on which they fell would shake them off lightly, never dreaming that they hid the soul of a home. Nothing but ashes!
Poor Tom o' the blueb'ry plains!
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1
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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2
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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3
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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4
mellowed
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| （使）成熟( mellow的过去式和过去分词 )； 使色彩更加柔和，使酒更加醇香 | |
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5
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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6
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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7
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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8
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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9
dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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10
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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11
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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12
alder
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| n.赤杨树 | |
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13
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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14
tilter
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| 倾斜体； 翻钢机 | |
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15
wooly
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| adj.毛茸茸的；糊涂的 | |
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16
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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17
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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18
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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19
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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21
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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22
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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23
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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24
spliced
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| adj.（针织品）加固的n.叠接v.绞接( splice的过去式和过去分词 )；捻接（两段绳子）；胶接；粘接（胶片、磁带等） | |
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25
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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26
bail
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| v.舀（水），保释；n.保证金，保释，保释人 | |
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27
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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28
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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29
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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32
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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34
cones
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| n.（人眼）圆锥细胞；圆锥体( cone的名词复数 )；球果；圆锥形东西；（盛冰淇淋的）锥形蛋卷筒 | |
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35
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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36
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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37
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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38
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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39
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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40
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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41
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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42
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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43
mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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44
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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45
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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46
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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47
acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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48
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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49
everlastings
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| 永久，无穷（everlasting的复数形式） | |
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50
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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51
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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52
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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53
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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54
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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55
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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56
aromatic
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| adj.芳香的，有香味的 | |
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57
harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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58
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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60
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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61
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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62
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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64
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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65
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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66
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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67
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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68
brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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69
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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70
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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71
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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72
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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73
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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74
pumpkins
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| n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 )；南瓜的果肉，南瓜囊 | |
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75
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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76
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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77
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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78
ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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79
despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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80
hemlocks
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| 由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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81
rigors
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| 严格( rigor的名词复数 )； 严酷； 严密； （由惊吓或中毒等导致的身体）僵直 | |
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82
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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83
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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84
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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85
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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86
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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87
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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88
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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89
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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90
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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91
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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92
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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93
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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94
guffawed
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| v.大笑，狂笑( guffaw的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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96
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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97
wailed
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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99
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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100
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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101
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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102
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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103
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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104
unanimity
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| n.全体一致，一致同意 | |
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105
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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106
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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107
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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108
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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109
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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110
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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111
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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112
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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113
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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114
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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115
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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116
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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117
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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118
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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119
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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120
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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121
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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122
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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