. . . So much for the earlier days, and the New England branch of the Clemenses.1 The other brother settled in the South and is remotely responsible for me. He has collected his reward generations ago, whatever it was. He went South with his particular friend Fairfax, and settled in Maryland with him, but afterward1 went further and made his home in Virginia. This is the Fairfax whose descendants were to enjoy a curious distinction--that of being American-born English earls. The founder2 of the house was the Lord General Fairfax of the Parliamentary arm, in Cromwell's time. The earldom, which is of recent date, came to the American Fairfaxes through the failure of male heirs in England. Old residents of San Francisco will remember "Charley," the American earl of the mid-'sixties--tenth Lord Fairfax according to Burke's Peerage, and holder3 of a modest public office of some sort or other in the new mining town of Virginia City, Nevada. He was never out of America. I knew him, but not intimately. He had a golden character, and that was all his fortune. He laid his title aside, and gave it a holiday until his circumstances should improve to a degree consonant4 with its dignity; but that time never came, I think. He was a manly5 man and had fine generosities6 in his make-up. A prominent and pestilent creature named Ferguson, who was always picking quarrels with better men than himself, picked one with him one day, and Fairfax knocked him down. Ferguson gathered himself up and went off, mumbling7 threats. Fairfax carried no arms, and refused to carry any now, though his friends warned him that Ferguson was of a treacherous8 disposition9 and would be sure to take revenge by base means, sooner or later. Nothing happened for several days; then Ferguson took the earl by surprise and snapped a revolver at his breast. Fairfax wrenched10 the pistol from him and was going to shoot him, but the man fell on his knees and begged, and said: "Don't kill me. I have a wife and children." Fairfax was in a towering passion, but the appeal reached his heart, and he said, "They have done me no harm," and he let the rascal11 go( Mr. Clemens evidently intended to precede this paragraph with some data concerning his New England ancestry12, but he never did so.--A. B. P.).
Back of the Virginian Clemenses is a dim procession of ancestors stretching back to Noah's time. According to tradition, some of them were pirates and slavers in Elizabeth's time. But this is no discredit13 to them, for so were Drake and Hawkins and the others. It was a respectable trade then, and monarchs15 were partners in it. In my time I have had desires to be a pirate myself. The reader, if he will look deep down in his secret heart, will find--but never mind what he will find there. I am not writing his autobiography16, but mine. Later, according to tradition, one of the procession was ambassador to Spain in the time of James I, or of Charles I, and married there and sent down a strain of Spanish blood to warm us up. Also, according to tradition, this one or another--Geoffrey Clement17, by name--helped to sentence Charles to death. I have not examined into these traditions myself, partly because I was indolent and partly because I was so busy polishing up this end of the line and trying to make it showy; but the other Clemenses claim that they have made the examination and that it stood the test. Therefore I have always taken for granted that I did help Charles out of his troubles, by ancestral proxy18. My instincts have persuaded me, too. Whenever we have a strong and persistent19 and ineradicable instinct, we may be sure that it is not original with us, but inherited--inherited from away back, and hardened and perfected by the petrifying20 influence of time. Now I have been always and unchangingly bitter against Charles, and I am quite certain that this feeling trickled21 down to me through the veins22 of my forebears from the heart of that judge; for it is not my disposition to be bitter against people on my own personal account. I am not bitter against Jeffreys. I ought to be, but I am not. It indicates that my ancestors of James II's time were indifferent to him; I do not know why; I never could make it out; but that is what it indicates. And I have always felt friendly toward Satan. Of course that is ancestral; it must be in the blood, for I could not have originated it.
. . . And so, by the testimony23 of instinct, backed by the assertions of Clemenses, who said they had examined the records, I have always been obliged to believe that Geoffrey Clement, the martyr24 maker25, was an ancestor of mine, and to regard him with favor, and in fact, pride. This has not had a good effect upon me, for it has made me vain, and that is a fault. It has made me set myself above people who were less fortunate in their ancestry than I, and has moved me to take them down a peg26, upon occasion, and say things to them which hurt them before company.
A case of the kind happened in Berlin several years ago. William Walter Phelps was our minister at the Emperor's court then, and one evening he had me to dinner to meet Count S----, a Cabinet Minister. This nobleman was of long and illustrious descent. Of course I wanted to let out the fact that I had some ancestors, too; but I did not want to pull them out of their graves by the ears, and I never could seem to get the chance to work them in in a way that would look sufficiently27 casual. I suppose Phelps was in the same difficulty. In fact, he looked distraught now and then--just as a person looks who wants to uncover an ancestor purely28 by accident and cannot think of a way that will seem accidental enough. But at last, after dinner, he made a try. He took us about his drawing-room, showing us the pictures, and finally stopped before a rude and ancient engraving29. It was a picture of the court that tried Charles I. There was a pyramid of judges in Puritan slouch hats, and below them three bareheaded secretaries seated at a table. Mr. Phelps put his finger upon one of the three and said, with exulting30 indifference:
"An ancestor of mine."
I put my finger on a judge, and retorted with scathing31 languidness:
"Ancestor of mine. But it is a small matter. I have others."
It was not noble in me to do it. I have always regretted it since. But it landed him. I wonder how he felt! However, it made no difference in our friendship; which shows that he was fine and high, notwithstanding the humbleness33 of his origin. And it was also creditable in me, too, that I could overlook it. I made no change in my bearing toward him, but always treated him as an equal.
But it was a hard night for me in one way. Mr. Phelps thought I was the guest of honor, and so did Count S----, but I didn't, for there was nothing in my invitation to indicate it. It was just a friendly offhand35 note, on a card. By the time dinner was announced Phelps was himself in a state of doubt. Something had to be done, and it was not a handy time for explanations. He tried to get me to go out with him, but I held back; then he tried S----, and he also declined. There was another guest, but there was no trouble about him. We finally went out in a pile. There was a decorous plunge36 for seats and I got the one at Mr. Phelps's left, the count captured the one facing Phelps, and the other guest had to take the place of honor, since he could not help himself. We returned to the drawing-room in the original disorder37. I had new shoes on and they were tight. At eleven I was privately38 crying; I couldn't help it, the pain was so cruel. Conversation had been dead for an hour. S---- had been due at the bedside of a dying official ever since half past nine. At last we all rose by one blessed impulse and went down to the street door without explanations--in a pile, and no precedence; and so parted.
The evening had its defects; still, I got my ancestor in, and was satisfied.
Among the Virginian Clemenses were Jere and Sherrard. Jere Clemens had a wide reputation as a good pistol-shot, and once it enabled him to get on the friendly side of some drummers when they wouldn't have paid any attention to mere39 smooth words and arguments. He was out stumping40 the state at the time. The drummers were grouped in front of the stand and had been hired by the opposition41 to drum while he made his speech. When he was ready to begin he got out his revolver and laid it before him and said, in his soft, silky way:
"I do not wish to hurt anybody and shall try not to, but I have got just a bullet apiece for those six drums, and if you should want to play on them don't stand behind them."
Sherrard Clemens was a republican Congressman42 from West Virginia in the war days, and then went out to St. Louis, where the James Clemens branch lived and still lives, and there he became a warm rebel. This was after the war. At the time that he was a Republican I was a rebel; but by the time he had become a rebel I was become (temporarily) a Republican. The Clemenses have always done the best they could to keep the political balances level, no matter how much it might inconvenience them. I did not know what had become of Sherrard Clemens; but once I introduced Senator Hawley to a Republican mass meeting in New England, and then I got a bitter letter from Sherrard from St. Louis. He said that the Republicans of the North--no, the "mudsills of the North"--had swept away the old aristocracy of the South with fire and sword, and it ill became me, an aristocrat43 by blood, to train with that kind of swine. Did I forget that I was a Lambton?
That was a reference to my mother's side of the house. My mother was a Lambton--Lambton with a p, for some of the American Lamptons could not spell very well in early times, and so the name suffered at their hands. She was a native of Kentucky, and married my father in Lexington in 1823, when she was twenty years old and he twenty-four. Neither of them had an overplus of property. She brought him two or three negroes, but nothing else, I think. They removed to the remote and secluded44 village of Jamestown, in the mountain solitudes45 of east Tennessee. There their first crop of children was born, but as I was of a later vintage, I do not remember anything about it. I was postponed--postponed to Missouri. Missouri was an unknown new state and needed attractions.
I think that my eldest47 brother, Orion, my sisters Pamela and Margaret, and my brother Benjamin were born in Jamestown. There may have been others, but as to that I am not sure. It was a great lift for that little village to have my parents come there. It was hoped that they would stay, so that it would become a city. It was supposed that they would stay. And so there was a boom; but by and by they went away, and prices went down, and it was many years before Jamestown got another start. I have written about Jamestown in the Gilded48 Age, a book of mine, but it was from hearsay49, not from personal knowledge. My father left a fine estate behind him in the region roundabout Jamestown--75,000 acres.1 When he died in 1847 he had owned it about twenty years. The taxes were almost nothing (five dollars a year for the whole), and he had always paid them regularly and kept his title perfect. He had always said that the land would not become valuable in his time, but that it would be a commodious51 provision for his children some day. It contained coal, copper52, iron, and timber, and he said that in the course of time railways would pierce to that region and then the property would be property in fact as well as in name. It also produced a wild grape of a promising53 sort. He had sent some samples to Nicholas Longworth of Cincinnati to get his judgment54 upon them, and Mr. Longworth had said that they would make as good wine as his Catawbas. The land contained all these riches; and also oil, but my father did not know that, and of course in those early days he would have cared nothing about it if he had known it. The oil was not discovered until about 1895. I wish I owned a couple of acres of the land now, in which case I would not be writing autobiographies55 for a living. My father's dying charge was, "Cling to the land and wait; let nothing beguile56 it away from you." My mother's favorite cousin, James Lampton, who figures in the Gilded Age as Colonel Sellers, always said of that land--and said it with blazing enthusiasm, too--"There's millions in it--millions!" It is true that he always said that about everything--and was always mistaken, too, but this time he was right; which shows that a man who goes around with a prophecy-gun ought never to get discouraged. If he will keep up his heart and fire at everything he sees, he is bound to hit something by and by.
Many persons regarded Colonel Sellers as a fiction, an invention, an extravagant58 impossibility, and did me the honor to call him a "creation"; but they were mistaken. I merely put him on paper as he was; he was not a person who could be exaggerated. The incidents which looked most extravagant, both in the book and on the stage, were not inventions of mine, but were facts of his life; and I was present when they were developed. John T. Raymond's audiences used to come near to dying with laughter over the turnip-eating scene; but, extravagant as the scene was, it was faithful to the facts, in all its absurd details. The thing happened in Lampton's own house, and I was present. In fact, I was myself the guest who ate the turnips59. In the hands of a great actor that piteous scene would have dimmed any manly spectator's eyes with tears, and racked his ribs60 apart with laughter at the same time. But Raymond was great in humorous portrayal61 only. In that he was superb, he was wonderful--in a word, great; in all things else he was a pygmy of pygmies. The real Colonel Sellers, as I knew him in James Lampton, was a pathetic and beautiful spirit, a manly man, a straight and honorable man, a man with a big, foolish, unselfish heart in his bosom62, a man born to be loved; and he was loved by all his friends, and by his family worshiped. It is the right word. To them he was but little less than a god. The real Colonel Sellers was never on the stage. Only half of him was there. Raymond could not play the other half of him; it was above his level. There was only one man who could have played the whole of Colonel Sellers, and that was Frank Mayo( Raymond was playing Colonel Sellers in 1876 and along there. About twenty years later Mayo dramatized Pudd'nhead Wilson and played the title role delightfully).
It is a world of surprises. They fall, too, where one is least expecting them. When I introduced Sellers into the book, Charles Dudley Warner, who was writing the story with me, proposed a change of Sellers's Christian63 name. Ten years before, in a remote corner of the West, he had come across a man named Eschol Sellers, and he thought that Eschol was just the right and fitting name for our Sellers, since it was odd and quaint64 and all that. I liked the idea, but I said that that man might turn up and object. But Warner said it couldn't happen; that he was doubtless dead by this time and, be he dead or alive, we must have the name; it was exactly the right one and we couldn't do without it. So the change was made. Warner's man was a farmer in a cheap and humble34 way. When the book had been out a week, a college-bred gentleman of courtly manners and ducal upholstery arrived in Hartford in a sultry state of mind and with a libel suit in his eye, and his name was Eschol Sellers! He had never heard of the other one and had never been within a thousand miles of him. This damaged aristocrat's program was quite definite and business-like: the American Publishing Company must suppress the edition as far as printed and change the name in the plates, or stand a suit for $10,000. He carried away the company's promise and many apologies, and we changed the name back to Colonel Mulberry Sellers in the plates. Apparently65 there is nothing that cannot happen. Even the existence of two unrelated men wearing the impossible name of Eschol Sellers is a possible thing.
James Lampton floated, all his days, in a tinted66 mist of magnificent dreams, and died at last without seeing one of them realized. I saw him last in 1884, when it had been twenty-six years since I ate the basin of raw turnips and washed them down with a bucket of water in his house. He was become old and white-headed, but he entered to me in the same old breezy way of his earlier life, and he was all there yet--not a detail wanting; the happy light in his eye, the abounding67 hope in his heart, the persuasive68 tongue, the miracle-breeding imagination--they were all there; and before I could turn around he was polishing up his Aladdin's lamp and flashing the secret riches of the world before me. I said to myself: "I did not overdraw69 him by a shade, I set him down as he was; and he is the same man to-day. Cable will recognize him." I asked him to excuse me a moment and ran into the next room, which was Cable's. Cable and I were stumping the Union on a reading tour. I said:
"I am going to leave your door open so that you can listen. There is a man in there who is interesting."
I went back and asked Lampton what he was doing now. He began to tell me of a "small venture" he had begun in New Mexico through his son; "only a little thing--a mere trifle--partly to amuse my leisure, partly to keep my capital from lying idle, but mainly to develop the boy--develop the boy. Fortune's wheel is ever revolving70; he may have to work for his living some day--as strange things have happened in this world. But it's only a little thing--a mere trifle, as I said."
And so it was--as he began it. But under his deft71 hands it grew and blossomed and spread--oh, beyond imagination. At the end of half an hour he finished; finished with the remark, uttered in an adorably languid manner:
"Yes, it is but a trifle, as things go nowadays--a bagatelle--but amusing. It passes the time. The boy thinks great things of it, but he is young, you know, and imaginative; lacks the experience which comes of handling large affairs, and which tempers the fancy and perfects the judgment. I suppose there's a couple of millions in it, possibly three, but not more, I think; still, for a boy, you know, just starting in life, it is not bad. I should not want him to make a fortune--let that come later. It could turn his head, at his time of life, and in many ways be a damage to him."
Then he said something about his having left his pocketbook lying on the table in the main drawing-room at home, and about its being after banking72 hours, now, and--
I stopped him there and begged him to honor Cable and me by being our guest at the lecture--with as many friends as might be willing to do us the like honor. He accepted. And he thanked me as a prince might who had granted us a grace. The reason I stopped his speech about the tickets was because I saw that he was going to ask me to furnish them to him and let him pay next day; and I knew that if he made the debt he would pay it if he had to pawn73 his clothes. After a little further chat he shook hands heartily74 and affectionately and took his leave. Cable put his head in at the door and said:
"That was Colonel Sellers."
* * * * * *
As I have said, that vast plot of Tennessee land was held by my father twenty years--intact. When he died in 1847 we began to manage it ourselves. Forty years afterward we had managed it all away except 10,000 acres, and gotten nothing to remember the sales by. About 1887--possibly it was earlier--the 10,000 went. My brother found a chance to trade it for a house and lot in the town of Corry, in the oil regions of Pennsylvania. About 1894 he sold this property for $250. That ended the Tennessee land.
If any penny of cash ever came out of my father's wise investment but that, I have no recollection of it. No, I am overlooking a detail. It furnished me a field for Sellers and a book. Out of my half of the book I got $20,000, perhaps something more; out of the play I got $75,000--just about a dollar an acre. It is curious; I was not alive when my father made the investment, therefore he was not intending any partiality; yet I was the only member of the family that ever profited by it. I shall have occasion to mention this land again now and then, as I go along, for it influenced our life in one way or another during more than a generation. Whenever things grew dark it rose and put out its hopeful Sellers hand and cheered us up, and said, "Do not be afraid--trust in me--wait." It kept us hoping and hoping during forty years, and forsook75 us at last. It put our energies to sleep and made visionaries of us--dreamers and indolent. We were always going to be rich next year--no occasion to work. It is good to begin life poor; it is good to begin life rich--these are wholesome76; but to begin it poor and prospectively77 rich! The man who has not experienced it cannot imagine the curse of it.
My parents removed to Missouri in the early 'thirties; I do not remember just when, for I was not born then and cared nothing for such things. It was a long journey in those days, and must have been a rough and tiresome78 one. The home was made in the wee village of Florida, in Monroe County, and I was born there in 1835. The village contained a hundred people and I increased the population by 1 per cent. It is more than many of the best men in history could have done for a town. It may not be modest in me to refer to this, but it is true. There is no record of a person doing as much--not even Shakespeare. But I did it for Florida, and it shows that I could have done it for any place--even London, I suppose.
Recently some one in Missouri has sent me a picture of the house I was born in. Heretofore I have always stated that it was a palace, but I shall be more guarded now.
I used to remember my brother Henry walking into a fire outdoors when he was a week old. It was remarkable79 in me to remember a thing like that, and it was still more remarkable that I should cling to the delusion80, for thirty years, that I did remember it--for of course it never happened; he would not have been able to walk at that age. If I had stopped to reflect, I should not have burdened my memory with that impossible rubbish so long. It is believed by many people that an impression deposited in a child's memory within the first two years of its life cannot remain there five years, but that is an error. The incident of Benvenuto Cellini and the salamander must be accepted as authentic81 and trustworthy; and then that remarkable and indisputable instance in the experience of Helen Keller--However, I will speak of that at another time. For many years I believed that I remembered helping82 my grandfather drink his whisky toddy when I was six weeks old, but I do not tell about that any more, now; I am grown old and my memory is not as active as it used to be. When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties83 are decaying now, and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this, but we all have to do it.
My uncle, John A. Quarles, was a farmer, and his place was in the country four miles from Florida. He had eight children and fifteen or twenty negroes, and was also fortunate in other ways, particularly in his character. I have not come across a better man than he was. I was his guest for two or three months every year, from the fourth year after we removed to Hannibal till I was eleven or twelve years old. I have never consciously used him or his wife in a book, but his farm has come very handy to me in literature once or twice. In Huck Finn and in Tom Sawyer, Detective I moved it down to Arkansas. It was all of six hundred miles, but it was no trouble; it was not a very large farm--five hundred acres, perhaps--but I could have done it if it had been twice as large. And as for the morality of it, I cared nothing for that; I would move a state if the exigencies84 of literature required it.
It was a heavenly place for a boy, that farm of my uncle John's. The house was a double log one, with a spacious85 floor (roofed in) connecting it with the kitchen. In the summer the table was set in the middle of that shady and breezy floor, and the sumptuous86 meals--well, it makes me cry to think of them. Fried chicken, roast pig; wild and tame turkeys, ducks, and geese; venison just killed; squirrels, rabbits, pheasants, partridges, prairie-chickens; biscuits, hot batter88 cakes, hot buckwheat cakes, hot "wheat bread," hot rolls, hot corn pone46; fresh corn boiled on the ear, succotash, butter-beans, string-beans, tomatoes, peas, Irish potatoes, sweet potatoes; buttermilk, sweet milk, "clabber"; watermelons, muskmelons, cantaloupes--all fresh from the garden; apple pie, peach pie, pumpkin89 pie, apple dumplings, peach cobbler--I can't remember the rest. The way that the things were cooked was perhaps the main splendor90--particularly a certain few of the dishes. For instance, the corn bread, the hot biscuits and wheat bread, and the fried chicken. These things have never been properly cooked in the North--in fact, no one there is able to learn the art, so far as my experience goes. The North thinks it knows how to make corn bread, but this is mere superstition91. Perhaps no bread in the world is quite so good as Southern corn bread, and perhaps no bread in the world is quite so bad as the Northern imitation of it. The North seldom tries to fry chicken, and this is well; the art cannot be learned north of the line of Mason and Dixon, nor anywhere in Europe. This is not hearsay; it is experience that is speaking. In Europe it is imagined that the custom of serving various kinds of bread blazing hot is "American," but that is too broad a spread; it is custom in the South, but is much less than that in the North. In the North and in Europe hot bread is considered unhealthy. This is probably another fussy92 superstition, like the European superstition that ice-water is unhealthy. Europe does not need ice-water and does not drink it; and yet, notwithstanding this, its word for it is better than ours, because it describes it, whereas ours doesn't. Europe calls it "iced" water. Our word describes water made from melted ice--a drink which has a characterless taste and which we have but little acquaintance with.
It seems a pity that the world should throw away so many good things merely because they are unwholesome. I doubt if God has given us any refreshment93 which, taken in moderation, is unwholesome, except microbes. Yet there are people who strictly94 deprive themselves of each and every eatable, drinkable, and smokable which has in any way acquired a shady reputation. They pay this price for health. And health is all they get for it. How strange it is! It is like paying out your whole fortune for a cow that has gone dry.
The farmhouse95 stood in the middle of a very large yard, and the yard was fenced on three sides with rails and on the rear side with high palings; against these stood the smoke-house; beyond the palings was the orchard96; beyond the orchard were the negro quarters and the tobacco fields. The front yard was entered over a stile made of sawed-off logs of graduated heights; I do not remember any gate. In a corner of the front yard were a dozen lofty hickory trees and a dozen black walnuts99, and in the nutting season riches were to be gathered there.
Down a piece, abreast100 the house, stood a little log cabin against the rail fence; and there the woody hill fell sharply away, past the barns, the corn-crib, the stables, and the tobacco-curing house, to a limpid101 brook102 which sang along over its gravelly bed and curved and frisked in and out and here and there and yonder in the deep shade of overhanging foliage103 and vines--a divine place for wading104, and it had swimming pools, too, which were forbidden to us and therefore much frequented by us. For we were little Christian children and had early been taught the value of forbidden fruit.
In the little log cabin lived a bedridden white-headed slave woman whom we visited daily and looked upon with awe97, for we believed she was upward of a thousand years old and had talked with Moses. The younger negroes credited these statistics and had furnished them to us in good faith. We accommodated all the details which came to us about her; and so we believed that she had lost her health in the long desert trip coming out of Egypt, and had never been able to get it back again. She had a round bald place on the crown of her head, and we used to creep around and gaze at it in reverent105 silence, and reflect that it was caused by fright through seeing Pharaoh drowned. We called her "Aunt" Hannah, Southern fashion. She was superstitious106, like the other negroes; also, like them, she was deeply religious. Like them, she had great faith in prayer and employed it in all ordinary exigencies, but not in cases where a dead certainty of result was urgent. Whenever witches were around she tied up the remnant of her wool in little tufts, with white thread, and this promptly107 made the witches impotent.
All the negroes were friends of ours, and with those of our own age we were in effect comrades. I say in effect, using the phrase as a modification108. We were comrades, and yet not comrades; color and condition interposed a subtle line which both parties were conscious of and which rendered complete fusion109 impossible. We had a faithful and affectionate good friend, ally, and adviser110 in "Uncle Dan'l," a middle-aged111 slave whose head was the best one in the negro quarter, whose sympathies were wide and warm, and whose heart was honest and simple and knew no guile57. He has served me well these many, many years. I have not seen him for more than half a century, and yet spiritually I have had his welcome company a good part of that time, and have staged him in books under his own name and as "Jim," and carted him all around--to Hannibal, down the Mississippi on a raft, and even across the Desert of Sahara in a balloon--and he has endured it all with the patience and friendliness112 and loyalty113 which were his birthright. It was on the farm that I got my strong liking114 for his race and my appreciation115 of certain of its fine qualities. This feeling and this estimate have stood the test of sixty years and more, and have suffered no impairment. The black face is as welcome to me now as it was then.
In my schoolboy days I had no aversion to slavery. I was not aware that there was anything wrong about it. No one arraigned116 it in my hearing; the local papers said nothing against it; the local pulpit taught us that God approved it, that it was a holy thing, and that the doubter need only look in the Bible if he wished to settle his mind--and then the texts were read aloud to us to make the matter sure; if the slaves themselves had an aversion to slavery, they were wise and said nothing. In Hannibal we seldom saw a slave misused117; on the farm, never.
There was, however, one small incident of my boyhood days which touched this matter, and it must have meant a good deal to me or it would not have stayed in my memory, clear and sharp, vivid and shadowless, all these slow-drifting years. We had a little slave boy whom we had hired from some one, there in Hannibal. He was from the eastern shore of Maryland, and had been brought away from his family and his friends, halfway118 across the American continent, and sold. He was a cheery spirit, innocent and gentle, and the noisiest creature that ever was, perhaps. All day long he was singing, whistling, yelling, whooping119, laughing--it was maddening, devastating121, unendurable. At last, one day, I lost all my temper, and went raging to my mother and said Sandy had been singing for an hour without a single break, and I couldn't stand it, and wouldn't she please shut him up. The tears came into her eyes and her lip trembled, and she said something like this:
"Poor thing, when he sings it shows that he is not remembering, and that comforts me; but when he is still I am afraid he is thinking, and I cannot bear it. He will never see his mother again; if he can sing, I must not hinder it, but be thankful for it. If you were older, you would understand me; then that friendless child's noise would make you glad."
It was a simple speech and made up of small words, but it went home, and Sandy's noise was not a trouble to me any more. She never used large words, but she had a natural gift for making small ones do effective work. She lived to reach the neighborhood of ninety years and was capable with her tongue to the last--especially when a meanness or an injustice122 roused her spirit. She has come handy to me several times in my books, where she figures as Tom Sawyer's Aunt Polly. I fitted her out with a dialect and tried to think up other improvements for her, but did not find any. I used Sandy once, also; it was in Tom Sawyer. I tried to get him to whitewash123 the fence, but it did not work. I do not remember what name I called him by in the book.
I can see the farm yet, with perfect clearness. I can see all its belongings124, all its details; the family room of the house, with a "trundle" bed in one corner and a spinning-wheel in another--a wheel whose rising and falling wail125, heard from a distance, was the mournfulest of all sounds to me, and made me homesick and low spirited, and filled my atmosphere with the wandering spirits of the dead; the vast fireplace, piled high, on winter nights, with flaming hickory logs from whose ends a sugary sap bubbled out, but did not go to waste, for we scraped it off and ate it; the lazy cat spread out on the rough hearthstones; the drowsy127 dogs braced128 against the jambs and blinking; my aunt in one chimney corner, knitting; my uncle in the other, smoking his corn-cob pipe; the slick and carpetless oak floor faintly mirroring the dancing flame tongues and freckled129 with black indentations where fire coals had popped out and died a leisurely130 death; half a dozen children romping131 in the background twilight132; "split"-bottomed chairs here and there, some with rockers; a cradle--out of service, but waiting, with confidence; in the early cold mornings a snuggle of children, in shirts and chemises, occupying the hearthstone and procrastinating--they could not bear to leave that comfortable place and go out on the wind-swept floor space between the house and kitchen where the general tin basin stood, and wash.
Along outside of the front fence ran the country road, dusty in the summertime, and a good place for snakes--they liked to lie in it and sun themselves; when they were rattlesnakes or puff134 adders135, we killed them; when they were black snakes, or racers, or belonged to the fabled136 "hoop120" breed, we fled, without shame; when they were "house snakes," or "garters," we carried them home and put them in Aunt Patsy's work basket for a surprise; for she was prejudiced against snakes, and always when she took the basket in her lap and they began to climb out of it it disordered her mind. She never could seem to get used to them; her opportunities went for nothing. And she was always cold toward bats, too, and could not bear them; and yet I think a bat is as friendly a bird as there is. My mother was Aunt Patsy's sister and had the same wild superstitions137. A bat is beautifully soft and silky; I do not know any creature that is pleasanter to the touch or is more grateful for caressings, if offered in the right spirit. I know all about these coleoptera, because our great cave, three miles below Hannibal, was multitudinously stocked with them, and often I brought them home to amuse my mother with. It was easy to manage if it was a school day, because then I had ostensibly been to school and hadn't any bats. She was not a suspicious person, but full of trust and confidence; and when I said, "There's something in my coat pocket for you," she would put her hand in. But she always took it out again, herself; I didn't have to tell her. It was remarkable, the way she couldn't learn to like private bats. The more experience she had, the more she could not change her views.
I think she was never in the cave in her life; but everybody else went there. Many excursion parties came from considerable distances up and down the river to visit the cave. It was miles in extent and was a tangled138 wilderness139 of narrow and lofty clefts140 and passages. It was an easy place to get lost in; anybody could do it--including the bats. I got lost in it myself, along with a lady, and our last candle burned down to almost nothing before we glimpsed the search party's lights winding141 about in the distance.
"Injun Joe," the half-breed, got lost in there once, and would have starved to death if the bats had run short. But there was no chance of that; there were myriads142 of them. He told me all his story. In the book called Tom Sawyer I starved him entirely143 to death in the cave, but that was in the interest of art; it never happened. "General" Gaines, who was our first town drunkard before Jimmy Finn got the place, was lost in there for the space of a week, and finally pushed his handkerchief out of a hole in a hilltop near Saverton, several miles down the river from the cave's mouth, and somebody saw it and dug him out. There is nothing the matter with his statistics except the handkerchief. I knew him for years and he hadn't any. But it could have been his nose. That would attract attention.
The cave was an uncanny place, for it contained a corpse144--the corpse of a young girl of fourteen. It was in a glass cylinder145 inclosed in a copper one which was suspended from a rail which bridged a narrow passage. The body was preserved in alcohol, and it was said that loafers and rowdies used to drag it up by the hair and look at the dead face. The girl was the daughter of a St. Louis surgeon of extraordinary ability and wide celebrity146. He was an eccentric man and did many strange things. He put the poor thing in that forlorn place himself.
* * * * * *
Beyond the road where the snakes sunned themselves was a dense147 young thicket148, and through it a dim-lighted path led a quarter of a mile; then out of the dimness one emerged abruptly149 upon a level great prairie which was covered with wild strawberry plants, vividly150 starred with prairie pinks, and walled in on all sides by forests. The strawberries were fragrant151 and fine, and in the season we were generally there in the crisp freshness of the early morning, while the dew beads152 still sparkled upon the grass and the woods were ringing with the first songs of the birds.
Down the forest slopes to the left were the swings. They were made of bark stripped from hickory saplings. When they became dry they were dangerous. They usually broke when a child was forty feet in the air, and this was why so many bones had to be mended every year. I had no ill luck myself, but none of my cousins escaped. There were eight of them, and at one time and another they broke fourteen arms among them. But it cost next to nothing, for the doctor worked by the year--twenty-five dollars for the whole family. I remember two of the Florida doctors, Chowning and Meredith. They not only tended an entire family for twenty-five dollars a year, but furnished the medicines themselves. Good measure, too. Only the largest persons could hold a whole dose. Castor oil was the principal beverage153. The dose was half a dipperful, with half a dipperful of New Orleans molasses added to help it down and make it taste good, which it never did. The next standby was calomel; the next, rhubarb; and the next, jalap. Then they bled the patient, and put mustard plasters on him. It was a dreadful system, and yet the death rate was not heavy. The calomel was nearly sure to salivate the patient and cost him some of his teeth. There were no dentists. When teeth became touched with decay or were otherwise ailing154, the doctor knew of but one thing to do--he fetched his tongs155 and dragged them out. If the jaw156 remained, it was not his fault. Doctors were not called in cases of ordinary illness; the family grandmother attended to those. Every old woman was a doctor, and gathered her own medicines in the woods, and knew how to compound doses that would stir the vitals of a cast-iron dog. And then there was the "Indian doctor"; a grave savage157, remnant of his tribe, deeply read in the mysteries of nature and the secret properties of herbs; and most backwoodsmen had high faith in his powers and could tell of wonderful cures achieved by him. In Mauritius, away off yonder in the solitudes of the Indian Ocean, there is a person who answers to our Indian doctor of the old times. He is a negro, and has had no teaching as a doctor, yet there is one disease which he is master of and can cure and the doctors can't. They send for him when they have a case. It is a child's disease of a strange and deadly sort, and the negro cures it with a herb medicine which he makes, himself, from a prescription158 which has come down to him from his father and grandfather. He will not let anyone see it. He keeps the secret of its components159 to himself, and it is feared that he will die without divulging160 it; then there will be consternation161 in Mauritius. I was told these things by the people there, in 1896.
We had the "faith doctor," too, in those early days--a woman. Her specialty162 was toothache. She was a farmer's old wife and lived five miles from Hannibal. She would lay her hand on the patient's jaw and say, "Believe!" and the cure was prompt. Mrs. Utterback. I remember her very well. Twice I rode out there behind my mother, horseback, and saw the cure performed. My mother was the patient.
Doctor Meredith removed to Hannibal, by and by, and was our family physician there, and saved my life several times. Still, he was a good man and meant well. Let it go.
I was always told that I was a sickly and precarious163 and tiresome and uncertain child, and lived mainly on allopathic medicines during the first seven years of my life. I asked my mother about this, in her old age--she was in her eighty-eighth year--and said:
"I suppose that during all that time you were uneasy about me?"
"Yes, the whole time."
"Afraid I wouldn't live?"
After a reflective pause--ostensibly to think out the facts--"No--afraid you would."
The country schoolhouse was three miles from my uncle's farm. It stood in a clearing in the woods and would hold about twenty-five boys and girls. We attended the school with more or less regularity164 once or twice a week, in summer, walking to it in the cool of the morning by the forest paths, and back in the gloaming at the end of the day. All the pupils brought their dinners in baskets--corn dodger165, buttermilk, and other good things--and sat in the shade of the trees at noon and ate them. It is the part of my education which I look back upon with the most satisfaction. My first visit to the school was when I was seven. A strapping166 girl of fifteen, in the customary sunbonnet and calico dress, asked me if I "used tobacco"--meaning did I chew it. I said no. It roused her scorn. She reported me to all the crowd, and said:
"Here is a boy seven years old who can't chew tobacco."
By the looks and comments which this produced I realized that I was a degraded object, and was cruelly ashamed of myself. I determined167 to reform. But I only made myself sick; I was not able to learn to chew tobacco. I learned to smoke fairly well, but that did not conciliate anybody and I remained a poor thing, and characterless. I longed to be respected, but I never was able to rise. Children have but little charity for one another's defects.
As I have said, I spent some part of every year at the farm until I was twelve or thirteen years old. The life which I led there with my cousins was full of charm, and so is the memory of it yet. I can call back the solemn twilight and mystery of the deep woods, the earthy smells, the faint odors of the wild flowers, the sheen of rain-washed foliage, the rattling168 clatter169 of drops when the wind shook the trees, the far-off hammering of woodpeckers and the muffled170 drumming of wood pheasants in the remoteness of the forest, the snapshot glimpses of disturbed wild creatures scurrying171 through the grass--I can call it all back and make it as real as it ever was, and as blessed. I can call back the prairie, and its loneliness and peace, and a vast hawk14 hanging motionless in the sky, with his wings spread wide and the blue of the vault172 showing through the fringe of their end feathers. I can see the woods in their autumn dress, the oaks purple, the hickories washed with gold, the maples173 and the sumachs luminous175 with crimson176 fires, and I can hear the rustle177 made by the fallen leaves as we plowed178 through them. I can see the blue clusters of wild grapes hanging among the foliage of the saplings, and I remember the taste of them and the smell. I know how the wild blackberries looked, and how they tasted, and the same with the pawpaws, the hazelnuts, and the persimmons; and I can feel the thumping179 rain, upon my head, of hickory nuts and walnuts when we were out in the frosty dawn to scramble180 for them with the pigs, and the gusts181 of wind loosed them and sent them down. I know the stain of blackberries, and how pretty it is, and I know the stain of walnut98 hulls182, and how little it minds soap and water, also what grudged183 experience it had of either of them. I know the taste of maple174 sap, and when to gather it, and how to arrange the troughs and the delivery tubes, and how to boil down the juice, and how to hook the sugar after it is made, also how much better hooked sugar tastes than any that is honestly come by, let bigots say what they will. I know how a prize watermelon looks when it is sunning its fat rotundity among pumpkin vines and "simblins"; I know how to tell when it is ripe without "plugging" it; I know how inviting184 it looks when it is cooling itself in a tub of water under the bed, waiting; I know how it looks when it lies on the table in the sheltered great floor space between house and kitchen, and the children gathered for the sacrifice and their mouths watering; I know the crackling sound it makes when the carving185 knife enters its end, and I can see the split fly along in front of the blade as the knife cleaves186 its way to the other end; I can see its halves fall apart and display the rich red meat and the black seeds, and the heart standing32 up, a luxury fit for the elect; I know how a boy looks behind a yard-long slice of that melon, and I know how he feels; for I have been there. I know the taste of the watermelon which has been honestly come by, and I know the taste of the watermelon which has been acquired by art. Both taste good, but the experienced know which tastes best. I know the look of green apples and peaches and pears on the trees, and I know how entertaining they are when they are inside of a person. I know how ripe ones look when they are piled in pyramids under the trees, and how pretty they are and how vivid their colors. I know how a frozen apple looks, in a barrel down cellar in the wintertime, and how hard it is to bite, and how the frost makes the teeth ache, and yet how good it is, notwithstanding. I know the disposition of elderly people to select the specked apples for the children, and I once knew ways to beat the game. I know the look of an apple that is roasting and sizzling on a hearth126 on a winter's evening, and I know the comfort that comes of eating it hot, along with some sugar and a drench187 of cream. I know the delicate art and mystery of so cracking hickory nuts and walnuts on a flatiron with a hammer that the kernels188 will be delivered whole, and I know how the nuts, taken in conjunction with winter apples, cider, and doughnuts, make old people's old tales and old jokes sound fresh and crisp and enchanting189, and juggle190 an evening away before you know what went with the time. I know the look of Uncle Dan'l's kitchen as it was on the privileged nights, when I was a child, and I can see the white and black children grouped on the hearth, with the firelight playing on their faces and the shadows flickering191 upon the walls, clear back toward the cavernous gloom of the rear, and I can hear Uncle Dan'l telling the immortal192 tales which Uncle Remus Harris was to gather into his book and charm the world with, by and by; and I can feel again the creepy joy which quivered through me when the time for the ghost story was reached--and the sense of regret, too, which came over me, for it was always the last story of the evening and there was nothing between it and the unwelcome bed.
I can remember the bare wooden stairway in my uncle's house, and the turn to the left above the landing, and the rafters and the slanting193 roof over my bed, and the squares of moonlight on the floor, and the white cold world of snow outside, seen through the curtainless window. I can remember the howling of the wind and the quaking of the house on stormy nights, and how snug133 and cozy194 one felt, under the blankets, listening; and how the powdery snow used to sift195 in, around the sashes, and lie in little ridges87 on the floor and make the place look chilly196 in the morning and curb197 the wild desire to get up--in case there was any. I can remember how very dark that room was, in the dark of the moon, and how packed it was with ghostly stillness when one woke up by accident away in the night, and forgotten sins came flocking out of the secret chambers198 of the memory and wanted a hearing; and how ill chosen the time seemed for this kind of business; and how dismal199 was the hoo-hooing of the owl50 and the wailing200 of the wolf, sent mourning by on the night wind.
I remember the raging of the rain on that roof, summer nights, and how pleasant it was to lie and listen to it, and enjoy the white splendor of the lightning and the majestic201 booming and crashing of the thunder. It was a very satisfactory room, and there was a lightning rod which was reachable from the window, an adorable and skittish202 thing to climb up and down, summer nights, when there were duties on hand of a sort to make privacy desirable.
I remember the 'coon and 'possum hunts, nights, with the negroes, and the long marches through the black gloom of the woods, and the excitement which fired everybody when the distant bay of an experienced dog announced that the game was treed; then the wild scramblings and stumblings through briers and bushes and over roots to get to the spot; then the lighting203 of a fire and the felling of the tree, the joyful204 frenzy205 of the dogs and the negroes, and the weird206 picture it all made in the red glare--I remember it all well, and the delight that everyone got out of it, except the 'coon.
I remember the pigeon seasons, when the birds would come in millions and cover the trees and by their weight break down the branches. They were clubbed to death with sticks; guns were not necessary and were not used. I remember the squirrel hunts, and prairie-chicken hunts, and wild-turkey hunts, and all that; and how we turned out, mornings, while it was still dark, to go on these expeditions, and how chilly and dismal it was, and how often I regretted that I was well enough to go. A toot on a tin horn brought twice as many dogs as were needed, and in their happiness they raced and scampered207 about, and knocked small people down, and made no end of unnecessary noise. At the word, they vanished away toward the woods, and we drifted silently after them in the melancholy208 gloom. But presently the gray dawn stole over the world, the birds piped up, then the sun rose and poured light and comfort all around, everything was fresh and dewy and fragrant, and life was a boon209 again. After three hours of tramping we arrived back wholesomely210 tired, overladen with game, very hungry, and just in time for breakfast.
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1
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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holder
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| n.持有者，占有者；(台，架等)支持物 | |
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consonant
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| n.辅音；adj.[音]符合的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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generosities
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| n.慷慨( generosity的名词复数 )；大方；宽容；慷慨或宽容的行为 | |
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7
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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10
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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11
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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ancestry
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| n.祖先，家世 | |
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discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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14
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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monarchs
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| 君主，帝王( monarch的名词复数 ) | |
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autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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petrifying
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| v.吓呆，使麻木( petrify的现在分词 )；使吓呆，使惊呆；僵化 | |
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trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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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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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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offhand
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| adj.临时，无准备的；随便，马虎的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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stumping
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的现在分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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Congressman
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| n.（美）国会议员 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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45
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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46
pone
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| n.玉米饼 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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53
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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54
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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55
autobiographies
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| n.自传( autobiography的名词复数 )；自传文学 | |
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56
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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57
guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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58
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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59
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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60
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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61
portrayal
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| n.饰演；描画 | |
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62
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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63
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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64
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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65
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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66
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
abounding
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| adj.丰富的，大量的v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的现在分词 ) | |
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68
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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69
overdraw
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| n.透支，超支 | |
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70
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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71
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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72
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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73
pawn
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| n.典当，抵押，小人物，走卒；v.典当，抵押 | |
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74
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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75
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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76
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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77
prospectively
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|
| adv.预期； 前瞻性； 潜在； 可能 | |
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78
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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79
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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80
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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81
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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82
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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83
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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84
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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85
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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86
sumptuous
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|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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87
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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88
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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89
pumpkin
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| n.南瓜 | |
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90
splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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91
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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92
fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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93
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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94
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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95
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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96
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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97
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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98
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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99
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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100
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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101
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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102
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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103
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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104
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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105
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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106
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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107
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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108
modification
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| n.修改，改进，缓和，减轻 | |
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109
fusion
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| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
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110
adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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111
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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112
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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113
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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114
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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115
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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116
arraigned
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| v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 )；控告；传讯；指责 | |
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117
misused
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|
| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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118
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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119
whooping
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| 发嗬嗬声的，发咳声的 | |
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120
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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121
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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122
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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123
whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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124
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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125
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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126
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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127
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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128
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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129
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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131
romping
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| adj.嬉戏喧闹的，乱蹦乱闹的v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的现在分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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132
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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133
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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134
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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135
adders
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| n.加法器，（欧洲产）蝰蛇（小毒蛇），（北美产无毒的）猪鼻蛇( adder的名词复数 ) | |
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136
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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137
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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138
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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139
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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140
clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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141
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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142
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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143
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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144
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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145
cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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146
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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147
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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148
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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149
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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150
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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151
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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152
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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153
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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154
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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155
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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156
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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157
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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158
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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159
components
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| （机器、设备等的）构成要素，零件，成分； 成分( component的名词复数 )； [物理化学]组分； [数学]分量； （混合物的）组成部分 | |
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160
divulging
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的现在分词 ) | |
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161
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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162
specialty
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| n.(speciality)特性，特质；专业，专长 | |
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163
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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164
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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165
dodger
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| n.躲避者；躲闪者；广告单 | |
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166
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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167
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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168
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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169
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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170
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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171
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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172
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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173
maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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174
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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175
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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176
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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177
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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178
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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179
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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180
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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181
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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182
hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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183
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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184
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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185
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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186
cleaves
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的第三人称单数 ) | |
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187
drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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188
kernels
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| 谷粒( kernel的名词复数 )； 仁； 核； 要点 | |
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189
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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190
juggle
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| v.变戏法，纂改，欺骗，同时做；n.玩杂耍，纂改，花招 | |
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191
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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192
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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193
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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194
cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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195
sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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196
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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197
curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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198
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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199
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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200
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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201
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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202
skittish
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| adj.易激动的，轻佻的 | |
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203
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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204
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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205
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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206
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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207
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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208
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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209
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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210
wholesomely
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| 卫生地，有益健康地 | |
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