章节正文
and I didn't know human nature. I didn't say anything to Jack --
in fact about this time I left off telling him about things.
He didn't seem hurt; he worked hard and seemed happy.
I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure good nature.
I'd be a happier man now, I think, and richer man perhaps,
if I'd never grown any more selfish than I was that night
on the wood-heap with Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her --
but I got to love her. I went through all the ups and downs of it.
One day I was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and another girl,
named Sarah, reached me a clean plate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate
because she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty about it,
and that gave me great hopes. But all next evening she played draughts
with a drover that she'd chummed up with. I pretended to be interested
in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seem to work.
A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station.
He had a good pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary
to shoot at a target. They seemed to get very chummy.
I had a nice time for three or four days, I can tell you.
I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro.
The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called `Mr Wilson'
to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking.
If it hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much.
Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls
went out 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't.
I mooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge,
and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer,
and damned the world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening
was the only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper.
I got so miserable that I enjoyed it.
I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured.
I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something.
`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked.
`Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked,
`How did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?'
I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make anything out of it.
Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something.
But about this time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room
and turned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table.
I used to keep an eye out, but could never catch anybody near my room.
I straightened up, and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief
got too dirty, and I was ashamed of letting it go to the wash,
I'd slip down to the river after dark and wash it out, and dry it next day,
and rub it up to look as if it hadn't been washed, and leave it on my table.
I felt so full of hope and joy that I worked twice as hard as Jack,
till one morning he remarked casually --
`I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook
tidying up your room this morning and taking your collars and things
to the wash-house.'
I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day,
and I had such a bad night of it that I made up my mind next morning
to look the hopelessness square in the face and live the thing down.
It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in
a good day's work to get the job finished, and Jack was having
a smoke and a yarn with the chaps before he started home.
We sat on an old log along by the fence at the back of the house.
There was Jimmy Nowlett the bullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover,
and big Jim Bullock the fencer, and one or two others.
Mary and the station girls and one or two visitors were sitting under
the old verandah. The Jackaroo was there too, so I felt happy.
It was the girls who used to bring the chaps hanging round.
They were getting up a dance party for Anniversary night.
Along in the evening another chap came riding up to the station:
he was a big shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy:
it was reckoned that there was foreign blood in him.
He went by the name of Romany. He was supposed to be shook after Mary too.
He had the nastiest temper and the best violin in the district,
and the chaps put up with him a lot because they wanted him to play
at Bush dances. The moon had risen over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky
where we were. We saw Romany loom up, riding in from the gate;
he rode round the end of the coach-house and across towards where we were --
I suppose he was going to tie up his horse at the fence;
but about half-way across the grass he disappeared. It struck me
that there was something peculiar about the way he got down,
and I heard a sound like a horse stumbling.
`What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett.
`He couldn't have fell off his horse -- or else he's drunk.'
A couple of chaps got up and went to see. Then there was that waiting,
mysterious silence that comes when something happens in the dark
and nobody knows what it is. I went over, and the thing dawned on me.
I'd stretched a wire clothes-line across there during the day, and had
forgotten all about it for the moment. Romany had no idea of the line,
and, as he rode up, it caught him on a level with his elbows
and scraped him off his horse. He was sitting on the grass,
swearing in a surprised voice, and the horse looked surprised too.
Romany wasn't hurt, but the sudden shock had spoilt his temper.
He wanted to know who'd put up that bloody line. He came over and sat
on the log. The chaps smoked a while.
`What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullock presently.
`Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?'
`Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan.
`I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany.
`Well,' said Jimmy Nowlett, `if we'd put up a sign to beware of the line
you couldn't have seen it in the dark.'
`Unless it was a transparency with a candle behind it,' said Dave Regan.
`But why didn't you get down on one end, Romany, instead of all along?
It wouldn't have jolted yer so much.'
All this with the Bush drawl, and between the puffs of their pipes.
But I didn't take any interest in it. I was brooding over
Mary and the Jackaroo.
`I've heard of men getting down over their horse's head,' said Dave presently,
in a reflective sort of way -- `in fact I've done it myself --
but I never saw a man get off backwards over his horse's rump.'
But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him
to play the fiddle next night, so they dropped it.
Mary was singing an old song. I always thought she had a sweet voice,
and I'd have enjoyed it if that damned Jackaroo hadn't been listening too.
We listened in silence until she'd finished.
`That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy Nowlett.
`Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to be nasty.
`Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better.'
I moved, and Jack, he was sitting next me, nudged me to keep quiet.
The chaps didn't like Romany's talk about 'Possum at all.
They were all fond of her: she wasn't a pet or a tomboy,
for she wasn't built that way, but they were fond of her in such a way
that they didn't like to hear anything said about her. They said nothing
for a while, but it meant a lot. Perhaps the single men didn't care to speak
for fear that it would be said that they were gone on Mary.
But presently Jimmy Nowlett gave a big puff at his pipe and spoke --
`I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?'
`Oh, she tried it on, but it didn't go,' said Romany.
`I've met her sort before. She's setting her cap at that Jackaroo now.
Some girls will run after anything with trousers on,' and he stood up.
Jack Barnes must have felt what was coming, for he grabbed my arm,
and whispered, `Sit still, Joe, damn you! He's too good for you!'
but I was on my feet and facing Romany as if a giant hand had reached down
and wrenched me off the log and set me there.
`You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said.
Little Jimmy Nowlett was between us and the other fellows round us
before a blow got home. `Hold on, you damned fools!' they said.
`Keep quiet till we get away from the house!' There was a little clear flat
down by the river and plenty of light there, so we decided
to go down there and have it out.
Now I never was a fighting man; I'd never learnt to use my hands.
I scarcely knew how to put them up. Jack often wanted to teach me,
but I wouldn't bother about it. He'd say, `You'll get into a fight some day,
Joe, or out of one, and shame me;' but I hadn't the patience to learn.
He'd wanted me to take lessons at the station after work,
but he used to get excited, and I didn't want Mary to see him
knocking me about. Before he was married Jack was always getting
into fights -- he generally tackled a better man and got a hiding;
but he didn't seem to care so long as he made a good show --
though he used to explain the thing away from a scientific point of view
for weeks after. To tell the truth, I had a horror of fighting;
I had a horror of being marked about the face; I think I'd sooner
stand off and fight a man with revolvers than fight him with fists;
and then I think I would say, last thing, `Don't shoot me in the face!'
Then again I hated the idea of hitting a man. It seemed brutal to me.
I was too sensitive and sentimental" target="_blank" title="a.感伤的；多愁善感的">sentimental, and that was what the matter was.
Jack seemed very serious on it as we walked down to the river,
and he couldn't help hanging out blue lights.
`Why didn't you let me teach you to use your hands?' he said.
`The only chance now is that Romany can't fight after all.
If you'd waited a minute I'd have been at him.' We were a bit
behind the rest, and Jack started giving me points about lefts and rights,
and `half-arms', and that sort of thing. `He's left-handed,
and that's the worst of it,' said Jack. `You must only make as good a show
as you can, and one of us will take him on afterwards.'
But I just heard him and that was all. It was to be my first fight
since I was a boy, but, somehow, I felt cool about it -- sort of dulled.
If the chaps had known all they would have set me down as a cur.
I thought of that, but it didn't make any difference with me then;
I knew it was a thing they couldn't understand. I knew I was reckoned
pretty soft. But I knew one thing that they didn't know.
I knew that it was going to be a fight to a finish, one way or the other.
I had more brains and imagination than the rest put together,
and I suppose that that was the real cause of most of my trouble.
I kept saying to myself, `You'll have to go through with it now, Joe, old man!
It's the turning-point of your life.' If I won the fight,
I'd set to work and win Mary; if I lost, I'd leave the district for ever.
A man thinks a lot in a flash sometimes; I used to get excited
over little things, because of the very paltriness of them,
but I was mostly cool in a crisis -- Jack was the reverse. I looked ahead:
I wouldn't be able to marry a girl who could look back and remember
when her husband was beaten by another man -- no matter what sort of brute
the other man was.
I never in my life felt so cool about a thing. Jack kept
whispering instructions, and showing with his hands, up to the last moment,
but it was all lost on me.
Looking back, I think there was a bit of romance about it:
Mary singing under the vines to amuse a Jackaroo dude, and a coward
going down to the river in the moonlight to fight for her.
It was very quiet in the little moonlit flat by the river.
We took off our coats and were ready. There was no swearing or barracking.
It seemed an understood thing with the men that if I went out first round
Jack would fight Romany; and if Jack knocked him out somebody else
would fight Jack to square matters. Jim Bullock wouldn't mind
obliging for one; he was a mate of Jack's, but he didn't mind who he fought
so long as it was for the sake of fair play -- or `peace and quietness',
as he said. Jim was very good-natured. He backed Romany,
and of course Jack backed me.
As far as I could see, all Romany knew about fighting was to jerk one arm
up in front of his face and duck his head by way of a feint, and then
rush and lunge out. But he had the weight and strength and length of reach,
and my first lesson was a very short one. I went down early in the round.
But it did me good; the blow and the look I'd seen in Romany's eyes
knocked all the sentiment out of me. Jack said nothing, --
he seemed to regard it as a hopeless job from the first.
Next round I tried to remember some things Jack had told me,
and made a better show, but I went down in the end.
I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up.
`How are you, Joe?' he whispered.
in fact about this time I left off telling him about things.
He didn't seem hurt; he worked hard and seemed happy.
I really meant what I said to Mary about the money. It was pure good nature.
I'd be a happier man now, I think, and richer man perhaps,
if I'd never grown any more selfish than I was that night
on the wood-heap with Mary. I felt a great sympathy for her --
but I got to love her. I went through all the ups and downs of it.
One day I was having tea in the kitchen, and Mary and another girl,
named Sarah, reached me a clean plate at the same time: I took Sarah's plate
because she was first, and Mary seemed very nasty about it,
and that gave me great hopes. But all next evening she played draughts
with a drover that she'd chummed up with. I pretended to be interested
in Sarah's talk, but it didn't seem to work.
A few days later a Sydney Jackaroo visited the station.
He had a good pea-rifle, and one afternoon he started to teach Mary
to shoot at a target. They seemed to get very chummy.
I had a nice time for three or four days, I can tell you.
I was worse than a wall-eyed bullock with the pleuro.
The other chaps had a shot out of the rifle. Mary called `Mr Wilson'
to have a shot, and I made a worse fool of myself by sulking.
If it hadn't been a blooming Jackaroo I wouldn't have minded so much.
Next evening the Jackaroo and one or two other chaps and the girls
went out 'possum-shooting. Mary went. I could have gone, but I didn't.
I mooched round all the evening like an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge,
and then I went up to the pub and filled myself with beer,
and damned the world, and came home and went to bed. I think that evening
was the only time I ever wrote poetry down on a piece of paper.
I got so miserable that I enjoyed it.
I felt better next morning, and reckoned I was cured.
I ran against Mary accidentally and had to say something.
`How did you enjoy yourself yesterday evening, Miss Brand?' I asked.
`Oh, very well, thank you, Mr Wilson,' she said. Then she asked,
`How did you enjoy yourself, Mr Wilson?'
I puzzled over that afterwards, but couldn't make anything out of it.
Perhaps she only said it for the sake of saying something.
But about this time my handkerchiefs and collars disappeared from the room
and turned up washed and ironed and laid tidily on my table.
I used to keep an eye out, but could never catch anybody near my room.
I straightened up, and kept my room a bit tidy, and when my handkerchief
got too dirty, and I was ashamed of letting it go to the wash,
I'd slip down to the river after dark and wash it out, and dry it next day,
and rub it up to look as if it hadn't been washed, and leave it on my table.
I felt so full of hope and joy that I worked twice as hard as Jack,
till one morning he remarked casually --
`I see you've made a new mash, Joe. I saw the half-caste cook
tidying up your room this morning and taking your collars and things
to the wash-house.'
I felt very much off colour all the rest of the day,
and I had such a bad night of it that I made up my mind next morning
to look the hopelessness square in the face and live the thing down.
It was the evening before Anniversary Day. Jack and I had put in
a good day's work to get the job finished, and Jack was having
a smoke and a yarn with the chaps before he started home.
We sat on an old log along by the fence at the back of the house.
There was Jimmy Nowlett the bullock-driver, and long Dave Regan the drover,
and big Jim Bullock the fencer, and one or two others.
Mary and the station girls and one or two visitors were sitting under
the old verandah. The Jackaroo was there too, so I felt happy.
It was the girls who used to bring the chaps hanging round.
They were getting up a dance party for Anniversary night.
Along in the evening another chap came riding up to the station:
he was a big shearer, a dark, handsome fellow, who looked like a gipsy:
it was reckoned that there was foreign blood in him.
He went by the name of Romany. He was supposed to be shook after Mary too.
He had the nastiest temper and the best violin in the district,
and the chaps put up with him a lot because they wanted him to play
at Bush dances. The moon had risen over Pine Ridge, but it was dusky
where we were. We saw Romany loom up, riding in from the gate;
he rode round the end of the coach-house and across towards where we were --
I suppose he was going to tie up his horse at the fence;
but about half-way across the grass he disappeared. It struck me
that there was something peculiar about the way he got down,
and I heard a sound like a horse stumbling.
`What the hell's Romany trying to do?' said Jimmy Nowlett.
`He couldn't have fell off his horse -- or else he's drunk.'
A couple of chaps got up and went to see. Then there was that waiting,
mysterious silence that comes when something happens in the dark
and nobody knows what it is. I went over, and the thing dawned on me.
I'd stretched a wire clothes-line across there during the day, and had
forgotten all about it for the moment. Romany had no idea of the line,
and, as he rode up, it caught him on a level with his elbows
and scraped him off his horse. He was sitting on the grass,
swearing in a surprised voice, and the horse looked surprised too.
Romany wasn't hurt, but the sudden shock had spoilt his temper.
He wanted to know who'd put up that bloody line. He came over and sat
on the log. The chaps smoked a while.
`What did you git down so sudden for, Romany?' asked Jim Bullock presently.
`Did you hurt yerself on the pommel?'
`Why didn't you ask the horse to go round?' asked Dave Regan.
`I'd only like to know who put up that bleeding wire!' growled Romany.
`Well,' said Jimmy Nowlett, `if we'd put up a sign to beware of the line
you couldn't have seen it in the dark.'
`Unless it was a transparency with a candle behind it,' said Dave Regan.
`But why didn't you get down on one end, Romany, instead of all along?
It wouldn't have jolted yer so much.'
All this with the Bush drawl, and between the puffs of their pipes.
But I didn't take any interest in it. I was brooding over
Mary and the Jackaroo.
`I've heard of men getting down over their horse's head,' said Dave presently,
in a reflective sort of way -- `in fact I've done it myself --
but I never saw a man get off backwards over his horse's rump.'
But they saw that Romany was getting nasty, and they wanted him
to play the fiddle next night, so they dropped it.
Mary was singing an old song. I always thought she had a sweet voice,
and I'd have enjoyed it if that damned Jackaroo hadn't been listening too.
We listened in silence until she'd finished.
`That gal's got a nice voice,' said Jimmy Nowlett.
`Nice voice!' snarled Romany, who'd been waiting for a chance to be nasty.
`Why, I've heard a tom-cat sing better.'
I moved, and Jack, he was sitting next me, nudged me to keep quiet.
The chaps didn't like Romany's talk about 'Possum at all.
They were all fond of her: she wasn't a pet or a tomboy,
for she wasn't built that way, but they were fond of her in such a way
that they didn't like to hear anything said about her. They said nothing
for a while, but it meant a lot. Perhaps the single men didn't care to speak
for fear that it would be said that they were gone on Mary.
But presently Jimmy Nowlett gave a big puff at his pipe and spoke --
`I suppose you got bit too in that quarter, Romany?'
`Oh, she tried it on, but it didn't go,' said Romany.
`I've met her sort before. She's setting her cap at that Jackaroo now.
Some girls will run after anything with trousers on,' and he stood up.
Jack Barnes must have felt what was coming, for he grabbed my arm,
and whispered, `Sit still, Joe, damn you! He's too good for you!'
but I was on my feet and facing Romany as if a giant hand had reached down
and wrenched me off the log and set me there.
`You're a damned crawler, Romany!' I said.
Little Jimmy Nowlett was between us and the other fellows round us
before a blow got home. `Hold on, you damned fools!' they said.
`Keep quiet till we get away from the house!' There was a little clear flat
down by the river and plenty of light there, so we decided
to go down there and have it out.
Now I never was a fighting man; I'd never learnt to use my hands.
I scarcely knew how to put them up. Jack often wanted to teach me,
but I wouldn't bother about it. He'd say, `You'll get into a fight some day,
Joe, or out of one, and shame me;' but I hadn't the patience to learn.
He'd wanted me to take lessons at the station after work,
but he used to get excited, and I didn't want Mary to see him
knocking me about. Before he was married Jack was always getting
into fights -- he generally tackled a better man and got a hiding;
but he didn't seem to care so long as he made a good show --
though he used to explain the thing away from a scientific point of view
for weeks after. To tell the truth, I had a horror of fighting;
I had a horror of being marked about the face; I think I'd sooner
stand off and fight a man with revolvers than fight him with fists;
and then I think I would say, last thing, `Don't shoot me in the face!'
Then again I hated the idea of hitting a man. It seemed brutal to me.
I was too sensitive and sentimental" target="_blank" title="a.感伤的；多愁善感的">sentimental, and that was what the matter was.
Jack seemed very serious on it as we walked down to the river,
and he couldn't help hanging out blue lights.
`Why didn't you let me teach you to use your hands?' he said.
`The only chance now is that Romany can't fight after all.
If you'd waited a minute I'd have been at him.' We were a bit
behind the rest, and Jack started giving me points about lefts and rights,
and `half-arms', and that sort of thing. `He's left-handed,
and that's the worst of it,' said Jack. `You must only make as good a show
as you can, and one of us will take him on afterwards.'
But I just heard him and that was all. It was to be my first fight
since I was a boy, but, somehow, I felt cool about it -- sort of dulled.
If the chaps had known all they would have set me down as a cur.
I thought of that, but it didn't make any difference with me then;
I knew it was a thing they couldn't understand. I knew I was reckoned
pretty soft. But I knew one thing that they didn't know.
I knew that it was going to be a fight to a finish, one way or the other.
I had more brains and imagination than the rest put together,
and I suppose that that was the real cause of most of my trouble.
I kept saying to myself, `You'll have to go through with it now, Joe, old man!
It's the turning-point of your life.' If I won the fight,
I'd set to work and win Mary; if I lost, I'd leave the district for ever.
A man thinks a lot in a flash sometimes; I used to get excited
over little things, because of the very paltriness of them,
but I was mostly cool in a crisis -- Jack was the reverse. I looked ahead:
I wouldn't be able to marry a girl who could look back and remember
when her husband was beaten by another man -- no matter what sort of brute
the other man was.
I never in my life felt so cool about a thing. Jack kept
whispering instructions, and showing with his hands, up to the last moment,
but it was all lost on me.
Looking back, I think there was a bit of romance about it:
Mary singing under the vines to amuse a Jackaroo dude, and a coward
going down to the river in the moonlight to fight for her.
It was very quiet in the little moonlit flat by the river.
We took off our coats and were ready. There was no swearing or barracking.
It seemed an understood thing with the men that if I went out first round
Jack would fight Romany; and if Jack knocked him out somebody else
would fight Jack to square matters. Jim Bullock wouldn't mind
obliging for one; he was a mate of Jack's, but he didn't mind who he fought
so long as it was for the sake of fair play -- or `peace and quietness',
as he said. Jim was very good-natured. He backed Romany,
and of course Jack backed me.
As far as I could see, all Romany knew about fighting was to jerk one arm
up in front of his face and duck his head by way of a feint, and then
rush and lunge out. But he had the weight and strength and length of reach,
and my first lesson was a very short one. I went down early in the round.
But it did me good; the blow and the look I'd seen in Romany's eyes
knocked all the sentiment out of me. Jack said nothing, --
he seemed to regard it as a hopeless job from the first.
Next round I tried to remember some things Jack had told me,
and made a better show, but I went down in the end.
I felt Jack breathing quick and trembling as he lifted me up.
`How are you, Joe?' he whispered.
- selfish [´selfiʃ]
a.自私的，利己的 (初中英语单词) - sympathy [´simpəθi] n.同情，怜悯 (初中英语单词)
- poetry [´pəuitri] n.诗；诗意 (初中英语单词)
- miserable [´mizərəbəl] a.悲惨的；可怜的 (初中英语单词)
- yesterday [´jestədi] n.&ad.昨天；前不久 (初中英语单词)
- ashamed [ə´ʃeimd] a.惭愧；不好意思 (初中英语单词)
- supposed [sə´pəuzd] a.想象的；假定的 (初中英语单词)
- temper [´tempə] n.韧度 v.锻炼；调和 (初中英语单词)
- peculiar [pi´kju:liə] a.特有的；奇异的 (初中英语单词)
- bloody [´blʌdi] a.(流)血的；血腥的 (初中英语单词)
- waiting [´weitiŋ] n.等候；伺候 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- trousers [´trauzəz] n.裤子，长裤 (初中英语单词)
- learnt [lə:nt] learn 的过去式(分词) (初中英语单词)
- bother [´bɔðə] v.打扰 n.麻烦(事) (初中英语单词)
- patience [´peiʃəns] n.忍耐(力)；耐心；坚韧 (初中英语单词)
- scientific [,saiən´tifik] a.科学(上)的 (初中英语单词)
- horror [´hɔrə] n.恐怖；战栗 (初中英语单词)
- imagination [i,mædʒi´neiʃən] n.想象(力) (初中英语单词)
- mostly [´məustli] ad.主要地；多半；通常 (初中英语单词)
- reverse [ri´və:s] v.颠倒；(使)反向 (初中英语单词)
- beaten [´bi:tn] beat 的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- romance [rəu´mæns] n.中世纪骑士小说 (初中英语单词)
- moonlight [´mu:nlait] n.&a.月光(的) (初中英语单词)
- sentiment [´sentimənt] n.情绪；多愁善感 (初中英语单词)
- orphan [´ɔ:fən] n.&a.孤儿 vt.使成孤儿 (高中英语单词)
- damned [dæmd] a.该死的 ad.非常，极 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- half-way [´hɑ:fwei] ad.半途；几乎 (高中英语单词)
- beware [bi´weə] v.(用于祈使句)谨防 (高中英语单词)
- sensitive [´sensitiv] a.敏感的；感光的 (高中英语单词)
- crisis [´kraisis] n.转折点；危机 (高中英语单词)
- hopeless [´həupləs] a.无望的，无可救药的 (高中英语单词)
- blooming [´blu:miŋ] a.正开花的；妙龄的 (英语四级单词)
- anniversary [,æni´və:səri] n.周年纪念(日) (英语四级单词)
- violin [,vaiə´lin] n.(小)提琴 (英语四级单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- fiddle [´fidl] n.小提琴 v.拉提琴 (英语四级单词)
- setting [´setiŋ] n.安装；排字；布景 (英语四级单词)
- brutal [´bru:tl] a.兽性的；残暴的 (英语四级单词)
- sentimental [,senti´mentl] a.感伤的；多愁善感的 (英语四级单词)
- good-natured [´gud-´neitʃəd] a.脾气好的，温厚的 (英语四级单词)
- sydney [´sidni] n.悉尼 (英语六级单词)
- minded [´maindid] a.有...心的 (英语六级单词)
- accidentally [,æksi´dentəli] ad.偶然地 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- backwards [´bækwədz] ad.向后 a.向后的 (英语六级单词)
- moonlit [´mu:n,lit] a.月光普照的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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