Thrums had been known to me for years before I succeeded the captious11 dominie at the school-house in the glen. The dear old soul who originally induced me to enter the Auld Licht kirk by lamenting12 the “want of Christ” in the minister's discourses13 was my first landlady14. For the last ten years of her life she was bedridden, and only her interest in the kirk kept her alive. Her case against the minister was that he did not call to denounce her sufficiently16 often for her sins, her pleasure being to hear him bewailing her on his knees as one who was probably past praying for. She was as sweet and pure a woman as I ever knew, and had her wishes been horses, she would have sold them and kept (and looked after) a minister herself.
There are few Auld Licht communities in Scotland nowadays—perhaps because people are now so well off, for the most devout17 Auld Lichts were always poor, and their last years were generally a grim struggle with the workhouse. Many a heavy-eyed, back-bent19 weaver3 has won his Waterloo in Thrums fighting on his stumps20. There are a score or two of them left still, for, though there are now two factories in the town, the clatter21 of the hand-loom can yet be heard, and they have been starving themselves of late until they have saved up enough money to get another minister.
The square is packed away in the centre of Thrums, and irregularly built little houses squeeze close to it like chickens clustering round a hen. Once the Auld Lichts held property in the square, but other denominations23 have bought them out of it, and now few of them are even to be found in the main streets that make for the rim18 of the cup. They live in the kirk wynd, or in retiring little houses, the builder of which does not seem to have remembered that it is a good plan to have a road leading to houses until after they were finished. Narrow paths straggling round gardens, some of them with stunted24 gates, which it is commoner to step over than, to open, have been formed to reach these dwellings25, but in winter they are running streams, and then the best way to reach a house such as that of Tammy Mealmaker the wright, pronounced wir-icht, is over a broken dyke26 and a pig-sty. Tammy, who died a bachelor, had been soured in his youth by a disappointment in love, of which he spoke27 but seldom. She lived far away in a town which he had wandered in the days when his blood ran hot, and they became engaged. Unfortunately, however, Tammy forgot her name, and he never knew the address; so there the affair ended, to his silent grief. He admitted himself, over his snuff-mull of an evening, that he was a very ordinary character, but a certain halo of horror was cast over the whole family by their connection with little Joey Sutie, who was pointed28 at in Thrums as the laddie that whistled when he went past the minister. Joey became a pedler, and was found dead one raw morning dangling29 over a high wall within a few miles of Thrums. When climbing the dyke his pack had slipped back, the strap30 round his neck, and choked him.
You could generally tell an Auld Licht in Thrums when you passed him, his dull, vacant face wrinkled over a heavy wob. He wore tags of yarn32 round his trousers beneath the knee, that looked like ostentatious garters, and frequently his jacket of corduroy was put on beneath his waistcoat. If he was too old to carry his load on his back, he wheeled it on a creaking barrow, and when he met a friend they said, “Ay, Jeames,” and “Ay, Davit,” and then could think of nothing else. At long intervals33 they passed through the square, disappearing or coming into sight round the town-house which stands on the south side of it, and guards the entrance to a steep brae that leads down and then twists up on its lonely way to the county town. I like to linger over the square, for it was from an upper window in it that I got to know Thrums. On Saturday nights, when the Auld Licht young men came into the square dressed and washed to look at the young women errand-going, and to laugh some time afterward34 to each other, it presented a glare of light; and here even came the cheap jacks35 and the Fair Circassian, and the showman, who, besides playing “The Mountain Maid and the Shepherd's Bride,” exhibited part of the tall of Balaam's ass31, the helm of Noah's ark, and the tartan plaid in which Flora37 McDonald wrapped Prince Charlie. More select entertainment, such as Shuffle38 Kitty's wax-work, whose motto was, “A rag to pay, and in you go,” were given in a hall whose approach was by an outside stair. On the Muckle Friday, the fair for which children storing their pocket-money would accumulate sevenpence halfpenny in less than six months, the square was crammed39 with gingerbread stalls, bag-pipers, fiddlers, and monstrosities who were gifted with second-sight. There was a bearded man, who had neither legs nor arms, and was drawn40 through the streets in a small cart by four dogs. By looking at you he could see all the clock-work inside, as could a boy who was led about by his mother at the end of a string. Every Friday there was the market, when a dozen ramshackle carts containing vegetables and cheap crockery filled the centre of the square, resting in line on their shafts41. A score of farmers' wives or daughters in old-world garments squatted42 against the town-house within walls of butter on cabbage-leaves, eggs and chickens. Toward evening the voice of the buckie-man shook the square, and rival fish-cadgers, terrible characters who ran races on horseback, screamed libels at each other over a fruiterer's barrow. Then it was time for douce Auld Lichts to go home, draw their stools near the fire, spread their red handkerchiefs over their legs to prevent their trousers getting singed43, and read their “Pilgrim's Progress.”
In my school-house, however, I seem to see the square most readily in the Scotch44 mist which so often filled it, loosening the stones and choking the drains. There was then no rattle45 of rain against my window-sill, nor dancing of diamond drops on the roofs, but blobs of water grew on the panes47 of glass to reel heavily down them. Then the sodden48 square would have shed abundant tears if you could have taken it in your hands and wrung49 it like a dripping cloth. At such a time the square would be empty but for one vegetable-cart left in the care of a lean collie, which, tied to the wheel, whined50 and shivered underneath51. Pools of water gather in the coarse sacks that have been spread over the potatoes and bundles of greens, which turn to manure52 in their lidless barrels. The eyes of the whimpering dog never leave a black close over which hangs the sign of the Bull, probably the refuge of the hawker. At long intervals a farmer's gig rumbles53 over the bumpy54, ill-paved square, or a native, with his head buried in his coat, peeps out of doors, skurries across the way, and vanishes. Most of the leading shops are here, and the decorous draper ventures a few yards from the pavement to scan the sky, or note the effect of his new arrangement in scarves. Planted against his door is the butcher, Henders Todd, white-aproned, and with a knife in his hand, gazing interestedly at the draper, for a mere55 man may look at an elder. The tinsmith brings out his steps, and, mounting them, stealthily removes the saucepans and pepper-pots that dangle56 on a wire above his sign-board. Pulling to his door he shuts out the foggy light that showed in his solder-strewn workshop. The square is deserted57 again. A bundle of sloppy58 parsley slips from the hawker's cart and topples over the wheel in driblets. The puddles59 in the sacks overflow4 and run together. The dog has twisted his chain round a barrel and yelps60 sharply. As if in response comes a rush of other dogs. A terrified fox-terrier tears across the square with half a score of mongrels, the butcher's mastiff, and some collies at his heels; he is doubtless a stranger, who has insulted them by his glossy61 coat. For two seconds the square shakes to an invasion of dogs, and then again there is only one dog in sight.
No one will admit the Scotch mist. It “looks saft.” The tinsmith “wudna wonder but what it was makkin' for rain.” Tammas Haggart and Pete Lunan dander into sight bareheaded, and have to stretch out their hands to discover what the weather is like. By-and-bye they come to a standstill to discuss the immortality62 of the soul, and then they are looking silently at the Bull. Neither speaks, but they begin to move toward the inn at the same time, and its door closes on them before they know what they are doing. A few minutes afterward Jinny Dundas, who is Pete's wife, runs straight for the Bull in her short gown, which is tucked up very high, and emerges with her husband soon afterward. Jinny is voluble, but Pete says nothing. Tammas follows later, putting his head out at the door first, and looking cautiously about him to see if any one is in sight. Pete is a U.P., and may be left to his fate, but the Auld Licht minister thinks that, though it be hard work, Tammas is worth saving.
To the Auld Licht of the past there were three degrees of damnation—auld kirk, playacting, chapel63. Chapel was the name always given to the English Church, of which I am too much an Auld Licht myself to care to write even now. To belong to the chapel was, in Thrums, to be a Roman Catholic, and the boy who flung a clod of earth at the English minister—who called the Sabbath Sunday—or dropped a “divet” down his chimney was held to be in the right way. The only pleasant story Thrums could tell of the chapel was that its steeple once fell. It is surprising that an English church was ever suffered to be built in such a place; though probably the county gentry64 had something to do with it. They travelled about too much to be good men. Small though Thrums used to be, it had four kirks in all before the disruption, and then another, which split into two immediately afterward. The spire65 of the parish church, known as the auld kirk, commands a view of the square, from which the entrance to the kirk-yard would be visible, if it were not hidden by the town-house. The kirk-yard has long been crammed, and is not now in use, but the church is sufficiently large to hold nearly all the congregations in Thrums. Just at the gate lived Pete Todd, the father of Sam'l, a man of whom the Auld Lichts had reason to be proud. Pete was an every-day man at ordinary times, and was even said, when his wife, who had been long ill, died, to have clasped his hands and exclaimed, “Hip66, hip, hurrah67!” adding only as an afterthought, “The Lord's will be done.” But midsummer was his great opportunity. Then took place the rouping of the seats in the parish church. The scene was the kirk itself, and the seats being put up to auction68 were knocked down to the highest bidder69. This sometimes led to the breaking of the peace. Every person was present who was at all particular as to where he sat, and an auctioneer was engaged for the day. He rouped the kirk-seats like potato-drills, beginning by asking for a bid. Every seat was put up to auction separately; for some were much more run after than others, and the men were instructed by their wives what to bid for. Often the women joined in, and as they bid excitedly against each other the church rang with opprobrious70 epithets71. A man would come to the roup late, and learn that the seat he wanted had been knocked down. He maintained that he had been unfairly treated, or denounced the local laird to whom the seat-rents went. If he did not get the seat he would leave the kirk. Then the woman who had forestalled72 him wanted to know what he meant by glaring at her so, and the auction was interrupted. Another member would “thrip down the throat” of the auctioneer that he had a right to his former seat if he continued to pay the same price for it. The auctioneer was screamed at for favoring his friends, and at times the group became so noisy that men and women had to be forcibly ejected. Then was Pete's chance. Hovering73 at the gate, he caught the angry people on their way home and took them into his workshop by an outside stair. There he assisted them in denouncing the parish kirk, with the view of getting them to forswear it. Pete made a good many Auld Lichts in his time out of unpromising material.
Sights were to be witnessed in the parish church at times that could not have been made more impressive by the Auld Lichts themselves. Here sinful women were grimly taken to task by the minister, who, having thundered for a time against adultery in general, called upon one sinner in particular to stand forth74. She had to step forward into a pew near the pulpit, where, alone and friendless, and stared at by the congregation, she cowered75 in tears beneath his denunciations. In that seat she had to remain during the forenoon service. She returned home alone, and had to come back alone to her solitary76 seat in the afternoon. All day no one dared speak to her. She was as much an object of contumely as the thieves and smugglers who, in the end of last century, it was the privilege of Feudal77 Bailie Wood (as he was called) to whip round the square.
It is nearly twenty years since the gardeners had their last “walk” in Thrums, and they survived all the other benefit societies that walked once every summer. There was a “weavers' walk” and five or six others, the “women's walk” being the most picturesque79. These were processions of the members of benefit societies through the square and wynds, and all the women walked in white, to the number of a hundred or more, behind the Tillie-drum band, Thrums having in those days no band of its own.
From the northwest corner of the square a narrow street sets off, jerking this way and that, as if uncertain what point to make for. Here lurks80 the post-office, which had once the reputation of being as crooked81 in its ways as the street itself.
A railway line runs into Thrums now. The sensational82 days of the post-office were when the letters were conveyed officially in a creaking old cart from Tilliedrum. The “pony” had seen better days than the cart, and always looked as if he were just on the point of succeeding in running away from it. Hooky Crewe was driver—so called because an iron hook was his substitute for a right arm. Robbie Proctor, the blacksmith, made the hook and fixed83 it in. Crewe suffered from rheumatism84, and when he felt it coming on he stayed at home. Sometimes his cart came undone85 in a snow-drift; when Hooky, extricated86 from the fragments by some chance wayfarer87, was deposited with his mail-bag (of which he always kept a grip by the hook) in a farmhouse88. It was his boast that his letters always reached their destination eventually. They might be a long time about it, but “slow and sure” was his motto. Hooky emphasized his “slow and sure” by taking a snuff. He was a godsend to the postmistress, for to his failings or the infirmities of his gig were charged all delays.
At the time I write of, the posting of the letter took as long and was as serious an undertaking89 as the writing. That means a good deal, for many of the letters were written to dictation by the Thrums school-master, Mr. Fleemister, who belonged to the Auld Kirk. He was one of the few persons in the community who looked upon the despatch90 of his letters by the post-mistress as his right, and not a favor on her part; there was a long-standing feud78 between them accordingly. After a few tumblers of Widow Stables' treacle-beer—in the concoction91 of which she was the acknowledged mistress for miles around—the schoolmaster would sometimes go the length of hinting that he could get the post-mistress dismissed any day. This mighty92 power seemed to rest on a knowledge of “steamed” letters. Thrums had a high respect for the school-master; but among themselves the weavers agreed that, even if he did write to the Government, Lizzie Harrison, the post-mistress, would refuse to transmit the letter. The more shrewd ones among us kept friends with both parties; for, unless you could write “writ-hand,” you could not compose a letter without the school-master's assistance; and, unless Lizzie was so courteous93 as to send it to its destination, it might lie—or so it was thought—much too long in the box. A letter addressed by the schoolmaster found great disfavor in Lizzie's eyes. You might explain to her that you had merely called in his assistance because you were a poor hand at writing yourself, but that was held no excuse. Some addressed their own envelopes with much labor94, and sought to palm off the whole as their handiwork. It reflects on the post-mistress somewhat that she had generally found them out by next day, when, if in a specially95 vixenish mood, she did not hesitate to upbraid96 them for their perfidy97.
To post a letter you did not merely saunter to the post-office and drop it into the box. The cautious correspondent first went into the shop and explained to Lizzie how matters stood. She kept what she called a bookseller's shop as well as the post-office; but the supply of books corresponded exactly to the lack of demand for them, and her chief trade was in nick-nacks, from marbles and money-boxes up to concertinas. If he found the post-mistress in an amiable98 mood, which was only now and then, the caller led up craftily99 to the object of his visit. Having discussed the weather and the potato-disease, he explained that his sister Mary, whom Lizzie would remember, had married a fishmonger in Dundee. The fishmonger had lately started on himself and was doing well. They had four children. The youngest had had a severe attack of measles100. No news had been got of Mary for twelve months; and Annie, his other sister, who lived in Thrums, had been at him of late for not writing. So he had written a few lines; and, in fact, he had the letter with him. The letter was then produced, and examined by the postmistress. If the address was in the schoolmaster's handwriting, she professed101 her inability to read it. Was this a t or an l or an i? was that a b or a d? This was a cruel revenge on Lizzie's part; for the sender of the letter was completely at her mercy. The school-master's name being tabooed in her presence, he was unable to explain that the writing was not his own; and as for deciding between the t's and l's, he could not do it. Eventually he would be directed to put the letter into the box. They would do their best with it, Lizzie said, but in a voice that suggested how little hope she had of her efforts to decipher it proving successful.
There was an opinion among some of the people that the letter should not be stamped by the sender. The proper thing to do was to drop a penny for the stamp into the box along with the letter, and then Lizzie would see that it was all right. Lizzie's acquaintance with the handwriting of every person in the place who could write gave her a great advantage. You would perhaps drop into her shop some day to make a purchase, when she would calmly produce a letter you had posted several days before. In explanation she would tell you that you had not put a stamp on it, or that she suspected there was money in it, or that you had addressed it to the wrong place. I remember an old man, a relative of my own, who happened for once in his life to have several letters to post at one time. The circumstance was so out of the common that he considered it only reasonable to make Lizzie a small present.
Perhaps the post-mistress was belied102; but if she did not “steam” the letters and confide103 their titbits to favored friends of her own sex, it is difficult to see how all the gossip got out. The school-master once played an unmanly trick on her, with the view of catching104 her in the act. He was a bachelor who had long been given up by all the maids in the town. One day, however, he wrote a letter to an imaginary lady in the county-town, asking her to be his, and going into full particulars about his income, his age, and his prospects105. A male friend in the secret, at the other end, was to reply, in a lady's handwriting, accepting him, and also giving personal particulars. The first letter was written; and an answer arrived in due course—two days, the school-master said, after date. No other person knew of this scheme for the undoing106 of the post-mistress, yet in a very short time the school-master's coming marriage was the talk of Thrums. Everybody became suddenly aware of the lady's name, of her abode107, and of the sum of money she was to bring her husband. It was even noised abroad that the school-master had represented his age as a good ten years less than it was. Then the school-master divulged108 everything. To his mortification109, he was not quite believed. All the proof he could bring forward to support his story was this: that time would show whether he got married or not. Foolish man! this argument was met by another, which was accepted at once. The lady had jilted the school-master. Whether this explanation came from the post-office, who shall say? But so long as he lived the school-master was twitted about the lady who threw him over. He took his revenge in two ways. He wrote and posted letters exceedingly abusive of the post-mistress. The matter might be libellous; but then, as he pointed out, she would incriminate herself if she “brought him up” about it. Probably Lizzie felt his other insult more. By publishing his suspicions of her on every possible occasion he got a few people to seal their letters. So bitter was his feeling against her that he was even willing to supply the wax.
They know all about post-offices in Thrums now, and even jeer110 at the telegraph-boy's uniform. In the old days they gathered round him when he was seen in the street, and escorted him to his destination in triumph. That, too, was after Lizzie had gone the way of all the earth. But perhaps they are not even yet as knowing as they think themselves. I was told the other day that one of them took out a postal111 order, meaning to send the money to a relative, and kept the order as a receipt.
I have said that the town is sometimes full of snow. One frosty Saturday, seven years ago, I trudged112 into it from the school-house, and on the Monday morning we could not see Thrums anywhere.
I was in one of the proud two-storied houses in the place, and could have shaken hands with my friends without from the upper windows. To get out of doors you had to walk upstairs. The outlook was a sea of snow fading into white hills and sky, with the quarry113 standing out red and ragged114 to the right like a rock in the ocean. The Auld Licht manse was gone, but had left its garden-trees behind, their lean branches soft with snow. Roofs were humps in the white blanket. The spire of the Established Kirk stood up cold and stiff, like a monument to the buried inhabitants.
Those of the natives who had taken the precaution of conveying spades into their houses the night before, which is my plan at the school-house, dug themselves out. They hobbled cautiously over the snow, sometimes sinking into it to their knees, when they stood still and slowly took in the situation. It had been snowing more or less for a week, but in a commonplace kind of way, and they had gone to bed thinking all was well. This night the snow must have fallen as if the heavens had opened up, determined115 to shake themselves free of it for ever.
The man who first came to himself and saw what was to be done was young Henders Ramsay. Henders had no fixed occupation, being but an “orra man” about the place, and the best thing known of him is that his mother's sister was a Baptist. He feared God, man, nor the minister; and all the learning he had was obtained from assiduous study of a grocer's window. But for one brief day he had things his own way in the town, or, speaking strictly116, on the top of it. With a spade, a broom, and a pickaxe, which sat lightly on his broad shoulders (he was not even back-bent, and that showed him no respectable weaver), Henders delved117 his way to the nearest house, which formed one of a row, and addressed the inmates118 down the chimney. They had already been clearing it at the other end, or his words would have been choked. “You're snawed up, Davit,” cried Henders, in a voice that was entirely119 business-like; “hae ye a spade?” A conversation ensued up and down this unusual channel of communication. The unlucky householder, taking no thought of the morrow, was without a spade. But if Henders would clear away the snow from his door he would be “varra obleeged.” Henders, however, had to come to terms first. “The chairge is saxpence, Davit,” he shouted. Then a haggling120 ensued. Henders must be neighborly. A plate of broth121, now—or, say, twopence. But Henders was obdurate122. “I'se nae time to argy-bargy wi' ye, Davit. Gin ye're no willin' to say saxpence, I'm aff to Will'um Pyatt's. He's buried too.” So the victim had to make up his mind to one of two things: he must either say saxpence or remain where he was.
If Henders was “promised,” he took good care that no snowed-up inhabitant should perjure123 himself. He made his way to a window first, and, clearing the snow from the top of it, pointed out that he could not conscientiously124 proceed further until the debt had been paid. “Money doon,” he cried, as soon as he reached a pane46 of glass; or, “Come awa wi' my saxpence noo.”
The belief that this day had not come to Henders unexpectedly was borne out by the method of the crafty125 callant. His charges varied126 from sixpence to half-a-crown, according to the wealth and status of his victims; and when, later on, there were rivals in the snow, he had the discrimination to reduce his minimum fee to threepence. He had the honor of digging out three ministers at one shilling, one and threepence, and two shillings respectively.
Half a dozen times within the next fortnight the town was re-buried in snow. This generally happened in the night-time; but the inhabitants were not to be caught unprepared again. Spades stood ready to their hands in the morning, and they fought their way above ground without Henders Ramsay's assistance. To clear the snow from the narrow wynds and pends, however, was a task not to be attempted; and the Auld Lichts, at least, rested content when enough light got into their workshops to let them see where their looms127 stood. Wading128 through beds of snow they did not much mind; but they wondered what would happen to their houses when the thaw129 came.
The thaw was slow in coming. Snow during the night and several degrees of frost by day were what Thrums began to accept as a revised order of nature. Vainly the Thrums doctor, whose practice extends into the glens, made repeated attempts to reach his distant patients, twice driving so far into the dreary130 waste that he could neither go on nor turn back. A ploughman who contrived131 to gallop132 ten miles for him did not get home for a week. Between the town, which is nowadays an agricultural centre of some importance, and the outlying farms communication was cut off for a month; and I heard subsequently of one farmer who did not see a human being, unconnected with his own farm, for seven weeks. The school-house, which I managed to reach only two days behind time, was closed for a fortnight, and even in Thrums there was only a sprinkling of scholars.
On Sundays the feeling between the different denominations ran high, and the middling good folk who did not go to church counted those who did. In the Established Church there was a sparse133 gathering134, who waited in vain for the minister. After a time it got abroad that a flag of distress135 was flying from the manse, and then they saw that the minister was storm-stayed. An office-bearer offered to conduct service; but the others present thought they had done their duty and went home. The U.P. bell did not ring at all, and the kirk-gates were not opened. The Free Kirk did bravely, however. The attendance in the forenoon amounted to seven, including the minister; but in the afternoon there was a turn-out of upward of fifty. How much denominational competition had to do with this, none can say; but the general opinion was that this muster136 to afternoon service was a piece of vainglory. Next Sunday all the kirks were on their mettle137, and, though the snow was drifting the whole day, services were general. It was felt that after the action of the Free Kirk the Established and the U.P.'s must show what they too were capable of. So, when, the bells rang-at eleven o'clock and two, church-goers began to pour out of every close. If I remember aright, the victory lay with, the U.P.'s by two women and a boy. Of course the Auld Lichts mustered138 in as great force as ever. The other kirks never dreamed of competing with them. What was regarded as a judgment139 on the Free Kirk for its boastfulness of spirit on the preceding Sunday happened during the forenoon. While the service was taking place a huge clod of snow slipped from the roof and fell right against the church door. It was some time before the prisoners could make up their minds to leave by the windows. What the Auld Lichts would have done in a similar predicament I cannot even conjecture140.
That was the first warning of the thaw. It froze again; there was more snow; the thaw began in earnest; and then the streets were a sight to see. There was no traffic to turn the snow to slush, and, where it had not been piled up in walls a few feet from the houses, it remained in the narrow ways till it became a lake. It tried to escape through doorways141, when it sank, slowly into the floors. Gentle breezes created a ripple143 on its surface, and strong winds lifted it into the air and flung it against the houses. It undermined the heaps of clotted144 snow till they tottered145 like icebergs146 and fell to pieces. Men made their way through, it on stilts147. Had a frost followed, the result would have been appalling148; but there was no more frost that winter. A fortnight passed before the place looked itself again, and even then congealed149 snow stood doggedly150 in the streets, while the country roads were like newly ploughed fields after rain. The heat from large fires soon penetrated151 through roofs of slate152 and thatch153; and it was quite a common thing for a man to be flattened154 to the ground by a slithering of snow from above just as he opened his door. But it had seldom more than ten feet to fall. Most interesting of all was the novel sensation experienced as Thrums began to assume its familiar aspect, and objects so long buried that they had been half forgotten came back to view and use.
Storm-stead shows used to emphasize the severity of a Thrums winter. As the name indicates, these were gatherings155 of travelling booths in the winter-time. Half a century ago the country was overrun by itinerant156 showmen, who went their different ways in summer, but formed little colonies in the cold weather, when they pitched their tents in any empty field or disused quarry, and huddled157 together for the sake of warmth, not that they got much of it. Not more than five winters ago we had a storm-stead show on a small scale; but nowadays the farmers are less willing to give these wanderers a camping-place, and the people are less easily drawn to the entertainments provided, by fife and drum. The colony hung together until it was starved out, when it trailed itself elsewhere. I have often seen it forming. The first arrival would be what was popularly known as “Sam'l Mann's Tumbling-Booth,” with its tumblers, jugglers, sword-swallowers, and balancers. This travelling show visited us regularly twice a year: once in summer for the Muckle Friday, when the performers were gay and stout158, and even the horses had flesh on their bones; and again in the “back-end” of the year, when cold and hunger had taken the blood from their faces, and the scraggy dogs that whined at their side were lashed159 for licking the paint off the caravans160. While the storm-stead show was in the vicinity the villages suffered from an invasion of these dogs. Nothing told more truly the dreadful tale of the showman's life in winter. Sam'l Mann's was a big show, and half a dozen smaller ones, most of which were familiar to us, crawled in its wake. Others heard of its whereabouts and came in from distant parts. There was the well-known Gubbins with his “A' the World in a Box,” a halfpenny peep-show, in which all the world was represented by Joseph and his Brethren (with pit and coat), the bombardment of Copenhagen, the Battle of the Nile, Daniel in the Den15 of Lions, and Mount Etna in eruption161. “Aunty Maggy's Whirligig” could be enjoyed on payment of an old pair of boots, a collection of rags, or the like. Besides these and other shows, there were the wandering minstrels, most of whom were “Waterloo veterans” wanting arms or a leg. I remember one whose arms had been “smashed by a thunderbolt at Jamaica.” Queer, bent old dames162, who superintended “lucky bags” or told fortunes, supplied the uncanny element, but hesitated to call themselves witches, for there can still be seen near Thrums the pool where these unfortunates used to be drowned, and in the session book of the Glen Quharity kirk can be read an old minute announcing that on a certain Sabbath there was no preaching because “the minister was away at the burning of a witch.” To the storm-stead shows came the gypsies in great numbers. Claypots (which is a corruption163 of Claypits) was their headquarters near Thrums, and it is still sacred to their memory. It was a clachan of miserable164 little huts built entirely of clay from the dreary and sticky pit in which they had been flung together. A shapeless hole on one side was the doorway142, and a little hole, stuffed with straw in winter, the window. Some of the remnants of these hovels still stand. Their occupants, though they went by the name of gypsies among themselves, were known to the weavers as the Claypots beggars; and their King was Jimmy Pawse. His regal dignity gave Jimmy the right to seek alms first when he chose to do so; thus he got the cream of a place before his subjects set to work. He was rather foppish165 in his dress; generally affecting a suit of gray cloth with showy metal buttons on it, and a broad blue bonnet166. His wife was a little body like himself; and when they went a-begging, Jimmy with a meal-bag for alms on his back, she always took her husband's arm. Jimmy was the legal adviser167 of his subjects; his decision was considered final on all questions, and he guided them in their courtships as well as on their death-beds. He christened their children and officiated at their weddings, marrying them over the tongs168.
The storm-stead show attracted old and young—to looking on from the outside. In the day-time the wagons169 and tents presented a dreary appearance, sunk in snow, the dogs shivering between the wheels, and but little other sign of life visible. When dusk came the lights were lit, and the drummer and fifer from the booth of tumblers were sent into the town to entice170 an audience. They marched quickly through, the nipping, windy streets, and then returned with two or three score of men, women, and children, plunging171 through the snow or mud at their heavy heels. It was Orpheus fallen from his high estate. What a mockery the glare of the lamps and the capers172 of the mountebanks were, and how satisfied were we to enjoy it all without going inside. I hear the “Waterloo veterans” still, and remember their patriotic173 outbursts:
roar,
But British steel soon made them yield, though our numbers was but
few,
And death or victory was the word on the plains of Waterloo.
The storm-stead shows often found it easier to sink to rest in a field than to leave it. For weeks at a time they were snowed up, sufficiently to prevent any one from Thrums going near them, though not sufficiently to keep the pallid176 mummers indoors. That would in many cases have meant starvation. They managed to fight their way through storm and snowdrift to the high road and thence to the town, where they got meal and sometimes broth. The tumblers and jugglers used occasionally to hire an out-house in the town at these times—you may be sure they did not pay for it in advance—and give performances there. It is a curious thing, but true, that our herd36-boys and others were sometimes struck with the stage-fever. Thrums lost boys to the show-men even in winter.
On the whole, the farmers and the people generally were wonderfully long-suffering with these wanderers, who I believe were more honest than was to be expected. They stole, certainly; but seldom did they steal anything more valuable than turnips178. Sam'l Mann himself flushed proudly over the effect his show once had on an irate179 farmer. The farmer appeared in the encampment, whip in hand and furious. They must get off his land before nightfall. The crafty showman, however, prevailed upon him to take a look at the acrobats180, and he enjoyed the performance so much that he offered to let them stay until the end of the week. Before that time came there was such a fall of snow that departure was out of the question; and it is to the farmer's credit that he sent Sam'l a bag of meal to tide him and his actors over the storm.
There were times when the showmen made a tour of the bothies, where they slung181 their poles and ropes and gave their poor performances to audiences that were not critical. The bothy being strictly the “man's” castle, the farmer never interfered182; indeed, he was sometimes glad to see the show. Every other weaver in Thrums used to have a son a ploughman, and it was the men from the bothies who filled the square on the muckly. “Hands” are not huddled together nowadays in squalid barns more like cattle than men and women, but bothies in the neighborhood of Thrums are not yet things of the past. Many a ploughman delves183 his way to and from them still in all weathers, when the snow is on the ground; at the time of “hairst,” and when the turnip177 “shaws” have just forced themselves through the earth, looking like straight rows of green needles. Here is a picture of a bothy of to-day that I visited recently. Over the door there is a waterspout that has given way, and as I entered I got a rush of rain down my neck. The passage was so small that one could easily have stepped from the doorway on to the ladder standing against the wall, which was there in lieu of a staircase. “Upstairs” was a mere garret, where a man could not stand erect184 even in the centre. It was entered by a square hole in the ceiling, at present closed by a clap-door in no way dissimilar to the trap-doors on a theatre stage. I climbed into this garret, which is at present used as a store-room for agricultural odds185 and ends. At harvest-time, however, it is inhabited—full to overflowing186. A few decades ago as many as fifty laborers187 engaged for the harvest had to be housed in the farm out-houses on beds of straw. There was no help for it, and men and women had to congregate189 in these barns together. Up as early as five in the morning, they were generally dead tired by night; and, miserable though this system of herding190 them together was, they took it like stoics191, and their very number served as a moral safeguard. Nowadays the harvest is gathered in so quickly, and machinery192 does so much that used to be done by hand, that this crowding of laborers together, which was the bothy system at its worst, is nothing like what it was. As many as six or eight men, however, are put up in the garret referred to during “hairst”—time, and the female laborers have to make the best of it in the barn. There is no doubt that on many farms the two sexes have still at this busy time to herd together even at night.
The bothy was but scantily193 furnished, though it consisted of two rooms. In the one, which was used almost solely194 as a sleeping apartment, there was no furniture to speak of, beyond two closet beds, and its bumpy earthen floor gave it a cheerless look. The other, which had a single bed, was floored with wood. It was not badly lit by two very small windows that faced each other, and, besides several stools, there was a long form against one of the walls. A bright fire of peat and coal—nothing in the world makes such a cheerful red fire as this combination—burned beneath a big kettle (“boiler” they called it), and there was a “press” or cupboard containing a fair assortment195 of cooking utensils196. Of these some belonged to the bothy, while others were the private property of the tenants197. A tin “pan” and “pitcher” of water stood near the door, and the table in the middle of the room was covered with oilcloth.
Four men and a boy inhabited this bothy, and the rain had driven them all indoors. In better weather they spend the leisure of the evening at the game of quoits, which is the standard pastime among Scottish ploughmen. They fish the neighboring streams, too, and have burn-trout for supper several times a week. When I entered, two of them were sitting by the fire playing draughts198, or, as they called it, “the dam-brod.” The dam-brod is the Scottish laborer188's billiards199; and he often attains200 to a remarkable201 proficiency202 at the game. Wylie, the champion draught-player, was once a herd-boy; and wonderful stories are current in all bothies of the times when his master called him into the farm-parlor to show his skill. A third man, who seemed the elder by quite twenty years, was at the window reading a newspaper; and I got no shock when I saw that it was the Saturday Review, which he and a laborer on an adjoining farm took in weekly between them. There was a copy of a local newspaper—the People's Journal—also lying about, and some books, including one of Darwin's. These were all the property of this man, however, who did the reading for the bothy.
They did all the cooking for themselves, living largely on milk. In the old days, which the senior could remember, porridge was so universally the morning meal that they called it by that name instead of breakfast. They still breakfast on porridge, but often take tea “above it.” Generally milk is taken with the porridge; but “porter” or stout in a bowl is no uncommon203 substitute. Potatoes at twelve o'clock—seldom “brose” nowadays—are the staple204 dinner dish, and the tinned meats have become very popular. There are bothies where each man makes his own food; but of course the more satisfactory plan is for them to club together. Sometimes they get their food in the farm-kitchen; but this is only when there are few of them and the farmer and his family do not think it beneath them to dine with the men. Broth, too, may be made in the kitchen and sent down to the bothy. At harvest time the workers take their food in the fields, when great quantities of milk are provided. There is very little beer drunk, and whiskey is only consumed in privacy.
Life in the bothies is not, I should say, so lonely as life at the school-house, for the hands have at least each other's company. The hawker visits them frequently still, though the itinerant tailor, once a familiar figure, has almost vanished. Their great place of congregating205 is still some country smiddy, which is also their frequent meeting-place when bent on black-fishing. The flare206 of the black-fisher's torch still attracts salmon207 to their death in the rivers near Thrums; and you may hear in the glens on a dark night the rattle of the spears on the wet stones. Twenty or thirty years ago, however, the sport was much more common. After the farmer had gone to bed, some half-dozen ploughmen and a few other poachers from Thrums would set out for the meeting-place.
The smithy on these occasions must have been a weird208 sight; though one did not mark that at the time. The poacher crept from the darkness into the glaring smithy light; for in country parts the anvil209 might sometimes be heard clanging at all hours of the night. As a rule, every face was blackened; and it was this, I suppose, rather than the fact that dark nights were chosen, that gave the gangs the name of black-fishers. Other disguises were resorted to; one of the commonest being to change clothes or to turn your corduroys outside in. The country-folk of those days were more superstitious210 than they are now, and it did not take much to turn the black-fishers back. There was not a barn or byre in the district that had not its horseshoe over the door. Another popular device for frightening away witches and fairies was to hang bunches of garlic about the farms. I have known a black-fishing expedition stopped because a “yellow yite,” or yellow-hammer, hovered211 round the gang when they were setting out. Still more ominous212 was the “péat” when it appeared with one or three companions. An old rhyme about this bird runs—“One is joy, two is grief, three's a bridal, four is death.” Such snatches of superstition213 are still to be heard amidst the gossip of a north-country smithy.
Each black-fisher brought his own spear and torch, both more or less home-made. The spears were in many cases “gully-knives,” fastened to staves with twine214 and resin215, called “rozet.” The torches were very rough-and-ready things—rope and tar22, or even rotten roots dug from broken trees—in fact, anything that would flare. The black-fishers seldom journeyed far from home, confining themselves to the rivers within a radius216 of three or four miles. There were many reasons for this: one of them being that the hands had to be at their work on the farm by five o'clock in the morning: another, that so they poached and let poach. Except when in spate217, the river I specially refer to offered no attractions to the black-fishers. Heavy rains, however, swell218 it much more quickly than most rivers into a turbulent rush of water; the part of it affected219 by the black-fishers being banked in with rocks that prevent the water's spreading. Above these rocks, again, are heavy green banks, from which stunted trees grow aslant220 across the river. The effect is fearsome at some points where the trees run into each other, as it were, from opposite banks. However, the black-fishers thought nothing of these things. They took a turnip lantern with them—that is, a lantern hollowed out of a turnip, with a piece of candle inside—but no lights were shown on the road. Every one knew his way to the river blindfold221; so that the darker the night the better. On reaching the water there was a pause. One or two of the gang climbed the banks to discover if any bailiffs were on the watch; while the others sat down, and with the help of the turnip lantern “busked” their spears; in other words, fastened on the steel—or, it might be, merely pieces of rusty222 iron sharpened into a point at home—to the staves. Some had them busked before they set out, but that was not considered prudent223; for of course there was always a risk of meeting spoil-sports on the way, to whom the spears would tell a tale that could not be learned from ordinary staves. Nevertheless little time was lost. Five or six of the gang waded224 into the water, torch in one hand and spear in the other; and the object now was to catch some salmon with the least possible delay, and hurry away. Windy nights were good for the sport, and I can still see the river lit up with the lumps of light that a torch makes in a high wind. The torches, of course, were used to attract the fish, which came swimming to the sheen, and were then speared. As little noise as possible was made; but though the men bit their lips instead of crying out when they missed their fish, there was a continuous ring of their weapons on the stones, and every irrepressible imprecation was echoed up and down the black glen. Two or three of the gang were told off to land the salmon, and they had to work smartly and deftly225. They kept by the side of the spears-man, and the moment he struck a fish they grabbed at it with their hands. When the spear had a barb226 there was less chance of the fish's being lost; but often this was not the case, and probably not more than two-thirds of the salmon speared were got safely to the bank. The takes of course varied; sometimes, indeed, the black-fishers returned home empty-handed.
Encounters with the bailiffs were not infrequent, though they seldom took place at the water's edge. When the poachers were caught in the act, and had their blood up with the excitement of the sport, they were ugly customers. Spears were used and heads were broken. Struggles even took place in the water, when there was always a chance of somebody's being drowned. Where the bailiffs gave the black-fishers an opportunity of escaping without a fight it was nearly always taken; the booty being left behind. As a rule, when the “water watchers,” as the bailiffs were sometimes called, had an inkling of what was to take place, they reinforced themselves with a constable227 or two and waited on the road to catch the poachers on their way home. One black-fisher, a noted228 character, was nicknamed the “Deil o' Glen Quharity.” He was said to have gone to the houses of the bailiffs and offered to sell them the fish stolen from the streams over which they kept guard. The “Deil” was never imprisoned—partly, perhaps, because he was too eccentric to be taken seriously.
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1
jumbled
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| adj.混乱的；杂乱的 | |
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2
weavers
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| 织工，编织者( weaver的名词复数 ) | |
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weaver
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| n.织布工；编织者 | |
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4
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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5
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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6
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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7
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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8
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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9
scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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11
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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12
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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13
discourses
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| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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14
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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15
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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16
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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17
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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18
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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19
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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20
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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21
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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22
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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23
denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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38
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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39
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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40
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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41
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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42
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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43
singed
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| v.浅表烧焦( singe的过去式和过去分词 )；（毛发）燎，烧焦尖端[边儿] | |
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44
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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45
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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46
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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47
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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48
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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49
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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50
whined
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| v.哀号( whine的过去式和过去分词 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
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51
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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52
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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53
rumbles
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| 隆隆声，辘辘声( rumble的名词复数 ) | |
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54
bumpy
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| adj.颠簸不平的，崎岖的 | |
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55
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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56
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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57
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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58
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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59
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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60
yelps
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| n.（因痛苦、气愤、兴奋等的）短而尖的叫声( yelp的名词复数 )v.发出短而尖的叫声( yelp的第三人称单数 ) | |
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61
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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62
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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63
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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64
gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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65
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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66
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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67
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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68
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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69
bidder
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| n.(拍卖时的)出价人，报价人，投标人 | |
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70
opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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71
epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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72
forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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74
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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75
cowered
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| v.畏缩，抖缩( cower的过去式 ) | |
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76
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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77
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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78
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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79
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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80
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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81
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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82
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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83
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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84
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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85
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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86
extricated
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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87
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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88
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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89
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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90
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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91
concoction
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| n.调配(物)；谎言 | |
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92
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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93
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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94
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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95
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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96
upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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97
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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98
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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99
craftily
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| 狡猾地，狡诈地 | |
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100
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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101
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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102
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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103
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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104
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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105
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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106
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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107
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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108
divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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110
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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111
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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112
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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113
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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114
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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115
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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116
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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117
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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119
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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120
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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121
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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122
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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123
perjure
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| v.作伪证；使发假誓 | |
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124
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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125
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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126
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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127
looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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128
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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129
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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130
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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131
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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132
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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133
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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134
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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135
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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136
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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137
mettle
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| n.勇气，精神 | |
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138
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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139
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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140
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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141
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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142
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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143
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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144
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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146
icebergs
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| n.冰山，流冰( iceberg的名词复数 ) | |
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147
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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148
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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149
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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150
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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151
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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152
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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153
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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154
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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155
gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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156
itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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157
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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159
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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160
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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161
eruption
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| n.火山爆发；（战争等）爆发；（疾病等）发作 | |
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162
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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163
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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164
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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165
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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166
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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167
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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168
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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169
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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170
entice
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| v.诱骗，引诱，怂恿 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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172
capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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173
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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174
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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175
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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176
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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177
turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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178
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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179
irate
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| adj.发怒的，生气 | |
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acrobats
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| n.杂技演员( acrobat的名词复数 )；立场观点善变的人，主张、政见等变化无常的人 | |
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181
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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182
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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183
delves
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的第三人称单数 ) | |
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184
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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185
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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186
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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187
laborers
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| n.体力劳动者，工人( laborer的名词复数 )；（熟练工人的）辅助工 | |
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188
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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189
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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190
herding
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| 中畜群 | |
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191
stoics
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| 禁欲主义者，恬淡寡欲的人，不以苦乐为意的人( stoic的名词复数 ) | |
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192
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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193
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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195
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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196
utensils
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| 器具，用具，器皿( utensil的名词复数 )； 器物 | |
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197
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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198
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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199
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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200
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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201
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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202
proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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203
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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204
staple
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| n.主要产物，常用品，主要要素，原料，订书钉，钩环；adj.主要的，重要的；vt.分类 | |
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205
congregating
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的现在分词 ) | |
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206
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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207
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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208
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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209
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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210
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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211
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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212
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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213
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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214
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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215
resin
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| n.树脂，松香，树脂制品；vt.涂树脂 | |
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216
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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217
spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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218
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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219
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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220
aslant
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| adv.倾斜地；adj.斜的 | |
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221
blindfold
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| vt.蒙住…的眼睛；adj.盲目的；adv.盲目地；n.蒙眼的绷带[布等]； 障眼物，蒙蔽人的事物 | |
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222
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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223
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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224
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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226
barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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227
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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228
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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