章节正文
-- in order to kill them, so that the little strength in the `poor' soil
should not be drawn out by the living roots, and the natural grass
(on which Australian stock depends) should have a better show. The hard,
dead trees raised their barkless and whitened trunks and leafless branches
for three or four miles, and the grey and brown grass stood tall between,
dying in the first breaths of the coming drought. All was becoming
grey and ashen here, the heat blazing and dancing across objects,
and the pale brassy dome of the sky cloudless over all,
the sun a glaring white disc with its edges almost melting into the sky.
Job held his gun carelessly" target="_blank" title="ad.粗心地；疏忽地">carelessly ready (it was a double-barrelled muzzle-loader,
one barrel choke-bore for shot, and the other rifled),
and he kept an eye out for dingoes. He was saving his horse for a long ride,
jogging along in the careless Bush fashion, hitched a little to one side --
and I'm not sure that he didn't have a leg thrown up and across
in front of the pommel of the saddle -- he was riding along
in the careless Bush fashion, and thinking fatherly thoughts in advance,
perhaps, when suddenly a great black, greasy-looking iguana
scuttled off from the side of the track amongst the dry tufts of grass
and shreds of dead bark, and started up a sapling. `It was a whopper,'
Job said afterwards; `must have been over six feet, and a foot
across the body. It scared me nearly as much as the filly.'
The filly shied off like a rocket. Job kept his seat instinctively,
as was natural to him; but before he could more than grab at the rein --
lying loosely on the pommel -- the filly `fetched up' against a dead box-tree,
hard as cast-iron, and Job's left leg was jammed from stirrup to pocket.
`I felt the blood flare up,' he said, `and I knowed that that'
-- (Job swore now and then in an easy-going way) -- `I knowed
that that blanky leg was broken alright. I threw the gun from me
and freed my left foot from the stirrup with my hand, and managed to fall
to the right, as the filly started off again.'
What follows comes from the statements of Doc. Wild and Mac. Falconer,
and Job's own `wanderings in his mind', as he called them.
`They took a blanky mean advantage of me,' he said, `when they had me down
and I couldn't talk sense.'
The filly circled off a bit, and then stood staring -- as a mob of brumbies,
when fired at, will sometimes stand watching the smoke.
Job's leg was smashed badly, and the pain must have been terrible.
But he thought then with a flash, as men do in a fix.
No doubt the scene at the lonely Bush home of his boyhood
started up before him: his father's horse appeared riderless,
and he saw the look in his mother's eyes.
Now a Bushman's first, best, and quickest chance in a fix like this
is that his horse go home riderless, the home be alarmed,
and the horse's tracks followed back to him; otherwise he might lie there
for days, for weeks -- till the growing grass buries his mouldering bones.
Job was on an old sheep-track across a flat where few might have occasion
to come for months, but he did not consider this. He crawled to his gun,
then to a log, dragging gun and smashed leg after him. How he did it
he doesn't know. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel on the log,
took aim at the filly, pulled both triggers, and then fell over
and lay with his head against the log; and the gun-barrel, sliding down,
rested on his neck. He had fainted. The crows were interested,
and the ants would come by-and-by.
Now Doc. Wild had inspirations; anyway, he did things which seemed,
after they were done, to have been suggested by inspiration and in no other
possible way. He often turned up where and when he was wanted above all men,
and at no other time. He had gipsy blood, they said;
but, anyway, being the mystery he was, and having the face he had,
and living the life he lived -- and doing the things he did --
it was quite probable that he was more nearly in touch than we
with that awful invisible world all round and between us,
of which we only see distorted faces and hear disjointed utterances
when we are `suffering a recovery' -- or going mad.
On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence,
Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer --
`Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.'
Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses.
And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer -- Job's mother-in-law --
on her way from the town to the station. She stayed to have a cup of tea
and give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and considered
a rather hard and practical woman, but she had plenty of solid flesh,
good sympathetic common-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes.
She lived in the town comfortably on the interest of some money
which her husband left in the bank. She drove an American waggonette
with a good width and length of `tray' behind, and on this occasion she had
a pole and two horses. In the trap were a new flock mattress and pillows,
a generous pair of new white blankets, and boxes containing necessaries,
delicacies, and luxuries. All round she was an excellent mother-in-law
for a man to have on hand at a critical time.
And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to put in a word for her
right here. She is universally considered a nuisance
in times of peace and comfort; but when illness or serious trouble comes home!
Then it's `Write to Mother! Wire for Mother! Send some one to fetch Mother!
I'll go and bring Mother!' and if she is not near: `Oh, I wish Mother
were here! If Mother were only near!' And when she is on the spot,
the anxious son-in-law: `Don't YOU go, Mother! You'll stay,
won't you, Mother? -- till we're all right? I'll get some one
to look after your house, Mother, while you're here.' But Job Falconer
was fond of his mother-in-law, all times.
Mac. had some trouble in finding and catching one of the horses.
Mrs Spencer drove on, and Mac. and the doctor caught up to her
about a mile before she reached the homestead track, which turned in
through the scrubs at the corner of the big ring-barked flat.
Doc. Wild and Mac. followed the cart-road, and as they jogged along
in the edge of the scrub the doctor glanced once or twice across the flat
through the dead, naked branches. Mac. looked that way.
The crows were hopping about the branches of a tree way out
in the middle of the flat, flopping down from branch to branch to the grass,
then rising hurriedly and circling.
`Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft.
`No -- dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more intellect.
`There's some steers of Job's out there somewhere,' muttered Mac.
Then suddenly, `It ain't drought -- it's the ploorer at last! or I'm blanked!'
Mac. feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia,
which was raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto
kept clear of Job's run.
`We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild.
They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way
amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches.
`Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor;
`more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.'
`Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. `I wish we had a gun --
might get a shot at them.'
Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore,
free of a hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. `In case I feel obliged
to shoot a first person singular one of these hot days,' he explained once,
whereat Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly,
without result.
`We'd never git near enough for a shot,' said the doctor; then he commenced
to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lost Bushman
in the last stages of death by thirst, --
`"The crows kept flyin' up, boys!
The crows kept flyin' up!
The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys,
Though he was but a pup."'
`It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. `Look at them blanky crows!'
`"The lost was found, we brought him round,
And took him from the place,
While the ants was swarmin' on the ground,
And the crows was sayin' grace!"'
`My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance
and rode a tall horse.
It was Job's filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a rifle-bullet
(as they found on subsequent examination) through shoulders and chest,
and her head full of kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head
against the ground, and marking the dust with her hoof,
as if trying to write the reason of it there.
The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket,
and put the filly out of her misery in a very scientific manner;
then something -- professionalinstinct or the something supernatural
about the doctor -- led him straight to the log, hidden in the grass,
where Job lay as we left him, and about fifty yards from the dead filly,
which must have staggered off some little way after being shot.
Mac. followed the doctor, shaking violently.
`Oh, my God!' he cried, with the woman in his voice -- and his face so pale
that his freckles stood out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said -- `oh, my God!
he's shot himself!'
`No, he hasn't,' said the doctor, deftly turning Job into a healthier position
with his head from under the log and his mouth to the air:
then he ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned.
`He's got a broken leg,' said the doctor. Even then he couldn't resist
making a characteristic remark, half to himself: `A man doesn't shoot himself
when he's going to be made a lawful father for the first time,
unless he can see a long way into the future.' Then he took out
his whisky-flask and said briskly to Mac., `Leave me your water-bag'
(Mac. carried a canvas water-bag slung under his horse's neck),
`ride back to the track, stop Mrs Spencer, and bring the waggonette here.
Tell her it's only a broken leg.'
Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace.
As he worked the doctor muttered: `He shot his horse. That's what gits me.
The fool might have lain there for a week. I'd never have suspected spite
in that carcass, and I ought to know men.'
But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened.
`Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans.
`She's all right,' said the doctor.
`Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise -- `stop her! -- oh God! my leg.'
`Keep quiet, you fool!'
`Stop her!' yelled Job.
`Why stop her?' asked the doctor. `She won't go fur,' he added.
`She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. `For God's sake stop her!'
`O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. `I might have guessed that.
And I ought to know men.'
`Don't take me home!' demanded Job in a semi-sensible interval.
`Take me to Poisonous Jimmy's and tell Gerty I'm on the spree.'
When Mac. and Mrs Spencer arrived with the waggonette Doc. Wild was
in his shirt-sleeves, his Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages.
The lower half of Job's trouser-leg and his 'lastic-side boot
lay on the ground, neatly cut off, and his bandaged leg was sandwiched
between two strips of bark, with grass stuffed in the hollows,
and bound by saddle-straps.
`That's all I kin do for him for the present.'
Mrs Spencer was a strong woman mentally, but she arrived
rather pale and a little shaky: nevertheless she called out,
as soon as she got within earshot of the doctor --
`What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable
for doing anything.)
`He's got his leg broke and shot his horse,' replied the doctor.
`But,' he added, `whether he's been a hero or a fool I dunno.
Anyway, it's a mess all round.'
They unrolled the bed, blankets, and pillows in the bottom of the trap,
backed it against the log, to have a step, and got Job in. It was
a ticklish job, but they had to manage it: Job, maddened by pain and heat,
only kept from fainting by whisky, groaning and raving and yelling to them
to stop his horse.
`Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered the doctor.
Then he had an inspiration --
`You bring him on to the shepherd's hut this side the station.
We must leave him there. Drive carefully, and pour brandy into him
now and then; when the brandy's done pour whisky, then gin -- keep the rum
till the last' (the doctor had put a supply of spirits in the waggonette
at Poisonous Jimmy's). `I'll take Mac.'s horse and ride on and send Peter'
should not be drawn out by the living roots, and the natural grass
(on which Australian stock depends) should have a better show. The hard,
dead trees raised their barkless and whitened trunks and leafless branches
for three or four miles, and the grey and brown grass stood tall between,
dying in the first breaths of the coming drought. All was becoming
grey and ashen here, the heat blazing and dancing across objects,
and the pale brassy dome of the sky cloudless over all,
the sun a glaring white disc with its edges almost melting into the sky.
Job held his gun carelessly" target="_blank" title="ad.粗心地；疏忽地">carelessly ready (it was a double-barrelled muzzle-loader,
one barrel choke-bore for shot, and the other rifled),
and he kept an eye out for dingoes. He was saving his horse for a long ride,
jogging along in the careless Bush fashion, hitched a little to one side --
and I'm not sure that he didn't have a leg thrown up and across
in front of the pommel of the saddle -- he was riding along
in the careless Bush fashion, and thinking fatherly thoughts in advance,
perhaps, when suddenly a great black, greasy-looking iguana
scuttled off from the side of the track amongst the dry tufts of grass
and shreds of dead bark, and started up a sapling. `It was a whopper,'
Job said afterwards; `must have been over six feet, and a foot
across the body. It scared me nearly as much as the filly.'
The filly shied off like a rocket. Job kept his seat instinctively,
as was natural to him; but before he could more than grab at the rein --
lying loosely on the pommel -- the filly `fetched up' against a dead box-tree,
hard as cast-iron, and Job's left leg was jammed from stirrup to pocket.
`I felt the blood flare up,' he said, `and I knowed that that'
-- (Job swore now and then in an easy-going way) -- `I knowed
that that blanky leg was broken alright. I threw the gun from me
and freed my left foot from the stirrup with my hand, and managed to fall
to the right, as the filly started off again.'
What follows comes from the statements of Doc. Wild and Mac. Falconer,
and Job's own `wanderings in his mind', as he called them.
`They took a blanky mean advantage of me,' he said, `when they had me down
and I couldn't talk sense.'
The filly circled off a bit, and then stood staring -- as a mob of brumbies,
when fired at, will sometimes stand watching the smoke.
Job's leg was smashed badly, and the pain must have been terrible.
But he thought then with a flash, as men do in a fix.
No doubt the scene at the lonely Bush home of his boyhood
started up before him: his father's horse appeared riderless,
and he saw the look in his mother's eyes.
Now a Bushman's first, best, and quickest chance in a fix like this
is that his horse go home riderless, the home be alarmed,
and the horse's tracks followed back to him; otherwise he might lie there
for days, for weeks -- till the growing grass buries his mouldering bones.
Job was on an old sheep-track across a flat where few might have occasion
to come for months, but he did not consider this. He crawled to his gun,
then to a log, dragging gun and smashed leg after him. How he did it
he doesn't know. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel on the log,
took aim at the filly, pulled both triggers, and then fell over
and lay with his head against the log; and the gun-barrel, sliding down,
rested on his neck. He had fainted. The crows were interested,
and the ants would come by-and-by.
Now Doc. Wild had inspirations; anyway, he did things which seemed,
after they were done, to have been suggested by inspiration and in no other
possible way. He often turned up where and when he was wanted above all men,
and at no other time. He had gipsy blood, they said;
but, anyway, being the mystery he was, and having the face he had,
and living the life he lived -- and doing the things he did --
it was quite probable that he was more nearly in touch than we
with that awful invisible world all round and between us,
of which we only see distorted faces and hear disjointed utterances
when we are `suffering a recovery' -- or going mad.
On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence,
Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer --
`Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.'
Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses.
And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer -- Job's mother-in-law --
on her way from the town to the station. She stayed to have a cup of tea
and give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and considered
a rather hard and practical woman, but she had plenty of solid flesh,
good sympathetic common-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes.
She lived in the town comfortably on the interest of some money
which her husband left in the bank. She drove an American waggonette
with a good width and length of `tray' behind, and on this occasion she had
a pole and two horses. In the trap were a new flock mattress and pillows,
a generous pair of new white blankets, and boxes containing necessaries,
delicacies, and luxuries. All round she was an excellent mother-in-law
for a man to have on hand at a critical time.
And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to put in a word for her
right here. She is universally considered a nuisance
in times of peace and comfort; but when illness or serious trouble comes home!
Then it's `Write to Mother! Wire for Mother! Send some one to fetch Mother!
I'll go and bring Mother!' and if she is not near: `Oh, I wish Mother
were here! If Mother were only near!' And when she is on the spot,
the anxious son-in-law: `Don't YOU go, Mother! You'll stay,
won't you, Mother? -- till we're all right? I'll get some one
to look after your house, Mother, while you're here.' But Job Falconer
was fond of his mother-in-law, all times.
Mac. had some trouble in finding and catching one of the horses.
Mrs Spencer drove on, and Mac. and the doctor caught up to her
about a mile before she reached the homestead track, which turned in
through the scrubs at the corner of the big ring-barked flat.
Doc. Wild and Mac. followed the cart-road, and as they jogged along
in the edge of the scrub the doctor glanced once or twice across the flat
through the dead, naked branches. Mac. looked that way.
The crows were hopping about the branches of a tree way out
in the middle of the flat, flopping down from branch to branch to the grass,
then rising hurriedly and circling.
`Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft.
`No -- dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more intellect.
`There's some steers of Job's out there somewhere,' muttered Mac.
Then suddenly, `It ain't drought -- it's the ploorer at last! or I'm blanked!'
Mac. feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia,
which was raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto
kept clear of Job's run.
`We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild.
They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way
amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches.
`Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor;
`more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.'
`Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. `I wish we had a gun --
might get a shot at them.'
Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore,
free of a hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. `In case I feel obliged
to shoot a first person singular one of these hot days,' he explained once,
whereat Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly,
without result.
`We'd never git near enough for a shot,' said the doctor; then he commenced
to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lost Bushman
in the last stages of death by thirst, --
`"The crows kept flyin' up, boys!
The crows kept flyin' up!
The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys,
Though he was but a pup."'
`It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. `Look at them blanky crows!'
`"The lost was found, we brought him round,
And took him from the place,
While the ants was swarmin' on the ground,
And the crows was sayin' grace!"'
`My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance
and rode a tall horse.
It was Job's filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a rifle-bullet
(as they found on subsequent examination) through shoulders and chest,
and her head full of kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head
against the ground, and marking the dust with her hoof,
as if trying to write the reason of it there.
The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket,
and put the filly out of her misery in a very scientific manner;
then something -- professionalinstinct or the something supernatural
about the doctor -- led him straight to the log, hidden in the grass,
where Job lay as we left him, and about fifty yards from the dead filly,
which must have staggered off some little way after being shot.
Mac. followed the doctor, shaking violently.
`Oh, my God!' he cried, with the woman in his voice -- and his face so pale
that his freckles stood out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said -- `oh, my God!
he's shot himself!'
`No, he hasn't,' said the doctor, deftly turning Job into a healthier position
with his head from under the log and his mouth to the air:
then he ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned.
`He's got a broken leg,' said the doctor. Even then he couldn't resist
making a characteristic remark, half to himself: `A man doesn't shoot himself
when he's going to be made a lawful father for the first time,
unless he can see a long way into the future.' Then he took out
his whisky-flask and said briskly to Mac., `Leave me your water-bag'
(Mac. carried a canvas water-bag slung under his horse's neck),
`ride back to the track, stop Mrs Spencer, and bring the waggonette here.
Tell her it's only a broken leg.'
Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace.
As he worked the doctor muttered: `He shot his horse. That's what gits me.
The fool might have lain there for a week. I'd never have suspected spite
in that carcass, and I ought to know men.'
But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened.
`Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans.
`She's all right,' said the doctor.
`Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise -- `stop her! -- oh God! my leg.'
`Keep quiet, you fool!'
`Stop her!' yelled Job.
`Why stop her?' asked the doctor. `She won't go fur,' he added.
`She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. `For God's sake stop her!'
`O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. `I might have guessed that.
And I ought to know men.'
`Don't take me home!' demanded Job in a semi-sensible interval.
`Take me to Poisonous Jimmy's and tell Gerty I'm on the spree.'
When Mac. and Mrs Spencer arrived with the waggonette Doc. Wild was
in his shirt-sleeves, his Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages.
The lower half of Job's trouser-leg and his 'lastic-side boot
lay on the ground, neatly cut off, and his bandaged leg was sandwiched
between two strips of bark, with grass stuffed in the hollows,
and bound by saddle-straps.
`That's all I kin do for him for the present.'
Mrs Spencer was a strong woman mentally, but she arrived
rather pale and a little shaky: nevertheless she called out,
as soon as she got within earshot of the doctor --
`What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable
for doing anything.)
`He's got his leg broke and shot his horse,' replied the doctor.
`But,' he added, `whether he's been a hero or a fool I dunno.
Anyway, it's a mess all round.'
They unrolled the bed, blankets, and pillows in the bottom of the trap,
backed it against the log, to have a step, and got Job in. It was
a ticklish job, but they had to manage it: Job, maddened by pain and heat,
only kept from fainting by whisky, groaning and raving and yelling to them
to stop his horse.
`Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered the doctor.
Then he had an inspiration --
`You bring him on to the shepherd's hut this side the station.
We must leave him there. Drive carefully, and pour brandy into him
now and then; when the brandy's done pour whisky, then gin -- keep the rum
till the last' (the doctor had put a supply of spirits in the waggonette
at Poisonous Jimmy's). `I'll take Mac.'s horse and ride on and send Peter'
- barrel [´bærəl]
n.(琵琶)桶；圆筒 (初中英语单词) - careless [´keəlis] a.粗心的；草率的 (初中英语单词)
- saddle [´sædl] n.鞍子 v.装鞍(于) (初中英语单词)
- advantage [əd´vɑ:ntidʒ] n.优势；利益 (初中英语单词)
- lonely [´ləunli] a.孤独的；无人烟的 (初中英语单词)
- otherwise [´ʌðəwaiz] ad.另外 conj.否则 (初中英语单词)
- mystery [´mistəri] n.神秘；秘密；故弄玄虚 (初中英语单词)
- probable [´prɔbəbəl] a.大概的n.很可能的事 (初中英语单词)
- invisible [in´vizəbəl] a.看不见的；无形的 (初中英语单词)
- sympathetic [,simpə´θetik] a.同情的，有同情心的 (初中英语单词)
- generous [´dʒenərəs] a.慷慨的；丰盛的 (初中英语单词)
- illness [´ilnis] n.生病，不健康，疾病 (初中英语单词)
- anxious [´æŋkʃəs] a.担忧的；渴望的 (初中英语单词)
- thirst [θə:st] n.渴，口渴；渴望 (初中英语单词)
- misery [´mizəri] n.痛苦；悲惨；穷困 (初中英语单词)
- scientific [,saiən´tifik] a.科学(上)的 (初中英语单词)
- professional [prə´feʃənəl] a.职业的 n.自由职业 (初中英语单词)
- instinct [´instiŋkt] n.本能；直觉；天资 (初中英语单词)
- hidden [´hid(ə)n] hide 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- canvas [´kænvəs] n.帆布；油画(布) (初中英语单词)
- nevertheless [,nevəðə´les] conj.&ad.然而；不过 (初中英语单词)
- carelessly [´kɛəlisli] ad.粗心地；疏忽地 (高中英语单词)
- amongst [ə´mʌŋst] prep.其中之一 =among (高中英语单词)
- inspiration [,inspi´reiʃən] n.鼓舞；灵感；启发 (高中英语单词)
- comfortably [´kʌmfətəbli] ad.舒适地 (高中英语单词)
- mattress [´mætris] n.床垫 (高中英语单词)
- critical [´kritikəl] a.批评的；关键性的 (高中英语单词)
- finding [´faindiŋ] n.发现物；判断；结果 (高中英语单词)
- singular [´siŋgjulə] a.单一的；非凡的 (高中英语单词)
- subsequent [´sʌbsikwənt] a.其次的；其后的 (高中英语单词)
- characteristic [,kæriktə´ristik] a.特有的 n.特性 (高中英语单词)
- drought [draut] n.旱灾；干旱 (英语四级单词)
- loosely [´lu:sli] ad.松散地 (英语四级单词)
- stirrup [´stirəp] n.马蹬；镫形具 (英语四级单词)
- humorous [´hju:mərəs] a.富于幽默的，诙谐的 (英语四级单词)
- universally [,ju:ni´və:səli] ad.普遍地 (英语四级单词)
- homestead [´həumsted] n.家宅，宅基 (英语四级单词)
- hurriedly [´hʌridli] ad.仓促地，忙乱地 (英语四级单词)
- advent [´ædvent] n.来临；降临 (英语四级单词)
- revolver [ri´vɔlvə] n.左轮手枪；旋转者 (英语四级单词)
- feebly [´fi:bli] ad.虚弱地；贫乏地 (英语四级单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- lawful [´lɔ:fəl] a.合法的，守法的 (英语四级单词)
- briskly [´briskli] ad.轻快地；活泼地 (英语四级单词)
- carcass [´kɑ:kəs] n.(动物的)尸体 (英语四级单词)
- poisonous [´pɔizənəs] a.有毒的；讨厌的 (英语四级单词)
- brandy [´brændi] n.白兰地酒 (英语四级单词)
- sapling [´sæpliŋ] n.树苗，幼树 (英语六级单词)
- rocket [´rɔkit] n.火箭；火箭发动机 (英语六级单词)
- spencer [´spensə] n.(羊毛)短上衣 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- cartridge [´kɑ:tridʒ] n.弹药筒；子弹 (英语六级单词)
- waistcoat [´weskət, ´weiskəut] n.背心，马甲 (英语六级单词)
- deftly [´deftli] ad.灵巧地，敏捷地 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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