章节正文
Mary used to say, when things would get worse, `Why don't you talk to me, Joe?
Why don't you tell me your thoughts, instead of shutting yourself
up in yourself and brooding -- eating your heart out?
It's hard for me: I get to think you're tired of me, and selfish.
I might be cross and speak sharp to you when you are in trouble.
How am I to know, if you don't tell me?'
But I didn't think she'd understand.
And so, getting acquainted, and chumming and dozing, with the gums closing
over our heads here and there, and the ragged patches of sunlight and shade
passing up, over the horses, over us, on the front of the load,
over the load, and down on to the white, dusty road again --
Jim and I got along the lonely Bush road and over the ridges,
some fifteen miles before sunset, and camped at Ryan's Crossing on Sandy Creek
for the night. I got the horses out and took the harness off.
Jim wanted badly to help me, but I made him stay on the load;
for one of the horses -- a vicious, red-eyed chestnut -- was a kicker:
he'd broken a man's leg. I got the feed-bags stretched across the shafts,
and the chaff-and-corn into them; and there stood the horses all round
with their rumps north, south, and west, and their heads between the shafts,
munching and switching their tails. We use double shafts, you know,
for horse-teams -- two pairs side by side, -- and prop them up,
and stretch bags between them, letting the bags sag to serve as feed-boxes.
I threw the spare tarpaulin over the wheels on one side,
letting about half of it lie on the ground in case of damp, and so making
a floor and a break-wind. I threw down bags and the blankets and 'possum rug
against the wheel to make a camp for Jim and the cattle-pup,
and got a gin-case we used for a tucker-box, the frying-pan and billy down,
and made a good fire at a log close handy, and soon everything
was comfortable. Ryan's Crossing was a grand camp. I stood with my pipe
in my mouth, my hands behind my back, and my back to the fire,
and took the country in.
Reedy Creek came down along a western spur of the range: the banks here
were deep and green, and the water ran clear over the granite bars,
boulders, and gravel. Behind us was a dreary flat covered with those gnarled,
grey-barked, dry-rotted `native apple-trees' (about as much like apple-trees
as the native bear is like any other), and a nasty bit of sand-dusty road
that I was always glad to get over in wet weather. To the left
on our side of the creek were reedy marshes, with frogs croaking,
and across the creek the dark box-scrub-covered ridges ended
in steep `sidings' coming down to the creek-bank, and to the main road
that skirted them, running on west up over a `saddle' in the ridges
and on towards Dubbo. The road by Lahey's Creek to a place called Cobborah
branched off, through dreary apple-tree and stringy-bark flats, to the left,
just beyond the crossing: all these fanlike branch tracks from the Cudgeegong
were inside a big horse-shoe in the Great Western Line,
and so they gave small carriers a chance, now that Cob & Co.'s coaches
and the big teams and vans had shifted out of the main western terminus.
There were tall she-oaks all along the creek, and a clump of big ones
over a deep water-hole just above the crossing. The creek oaks
have rough barked trunks, like English elms, but are much taller,
and higher to the branches -- and the leaves are reedy;
Kendel, the Australian poet, calls them the `she-oak harps Aeolian'.
Those trees are always sigh-sigh-sighing -- more of a sigh
than a sough or the `whoosh' of gum-trees in the wind.
You always hear them sighing, even when you can't feel any wind.
It's the same with telegraph wires: put your head against a telegraph-post
on a dead, still day, and you'll hear and feel the far-away roar of the wires.
But then the oaks are not connected with the distance,
where there might be wind; and they don't ROAR in a gale,
only sigh louder and softer according to the wind, and never seem to go
above or below a certain pitch, -- like a big harp with all the strings
the same. I used to have a theory that those creek oaks got the wind's voice
telephoned to them, so to speak, through the ground.
I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I thought he was on the tarpaulin,
playing with the pup): he was standing close beside me with his legs
wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back to the fire.
He held his head a little on one side, and there was such an old, old,
wise expression in his big brown eyes -- just as if he'd been a child
for a hundred years or so, or as though he were listening to those oaks
and understanding them in a fatherly sort of way.
`Dad!' he said presently -- `Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?'
`Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped.
`Because I don't want to.'
I couldn't think of anything against this. It made me uneasy.
But I remembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man.
`Jim,' I said, to break the silence, `do you hear what the she-oaks say?'
`No, I don't. Is they talking?'
`Yes,' I said, without thinking.
`What is they saying?' he asked.
I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea.
I thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't:
when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug,
comforting the pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me.
Jim sang out from the waggon --
`Don't cook too much, dad -- I mightn't be hungry.'
I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new flour-bag,
in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on the rug
looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he was tired out,
and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put his plate on it.
But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said --
`I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.'
It made me uneasy -- I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his food.
They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid
that that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck.
`Sick, Jim?' I asked.
`No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.'
`Have some tea, sonny?'
`Yes, dad.'
I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottle
from his aunt's for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot
on the gin-case.
`Jim's tired, dad,' he said.
I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night.
It had turned a bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round --
it was made to cover a high load, the flour in the waggon
didn't come above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground.
I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon:
when I went to lift him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars
in a half-dreamy, half-fascinated way that I didn't like.
Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger.
`How do you feel now, sonny?'
It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars.
`Jim's better, dad.' Then he said something like, `The stars are looking
at me.' I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots,
and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night.
`Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said.
I'd rather he hadn't asked me -- it was a bad sign. As I was going
to the fire he called me back.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.'
I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he'd brought
from Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, he took
all his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And `'night-night' and `daddy'
were two-year-old language to Jim. I'd thought he'd forgotten those words --
he seemed to be going back.
`Are you quite warm enough, Jim?'
`Yes, dad.'
I started to walk up and down -- I always did this when I was extra worried.
I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from myself.
Presently he called me again.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Take the blankets off me, fahver -- Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching him
to say father.)
I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die
(she swallowed a pin), and when she was going she said --
`Take the blankets off me, muvver -- I'm dying.'
And I couldn't get that out of my head.
I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head --
he seemed cool enough.
`Where do you feel bad, sonny?'
No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice
as if he were talking in his sleep --
`Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!'
I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept --
in a restless, feverish sort of way.
I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over the fire;
I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it
full of cold water and stood it handy. I got the spade
(we always carried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather)
and turned a corner of the tarpaulin back, dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin
down into the hole, to serve for a bath, in case of the worst.
I had a tin of mustard, and meant to fight a good round for Jim,
if death came along.
I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim.
His head was burning hot, and his skin parched and dry as a bone.
Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward
between the waggon and the fire, and repeating what I'd heard Mary say
the last time we fought for Jim: `God! don't take my child!
God! don't take my boy!' I'd never had much faith in doctors,
but, my God! I wanted one then. The nearest was fifteen miles away.
I threw back my head and stared up at the branches, in desperation;
and -- Well, I don't ask you to take much stock in this,
though most old Bushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night;
and -- Now, it might have been that I was all unstrung,
or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in the gently moving branches,
or the blue smoke rising up. But I saw the figure of a woman, all white,
come down, down, nearly to the limbs of the trees, point on up the main road,
and then float up and up and vanish, still pointing. I thought Mary was dead!
Then it flashed on me ----
Four or five miles up the road, over the `saddle', was an old shanty
that had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line
got round as far as Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads.
A man named Brighten lived there. He was a selector; did a little farming,
and as much sly-grog selling as he could. He was married --
but it wasn't that: I'd thought of them, but she was a childish, worn-out,
spiritless woman, and both were pretty `ratty' from hardship and loneliness --
they weren't likely to be of any use to me. But it was this:
I'd heard talk, among some women in Gulgong, of a sister of Brighten's wife
who'd gone out to live with them lately: she'd been a hospital matron
in the city, they said; and there were yarns about her. Some said
she got the sack for exposing the doctors -- or carrying on with them --
I didn't remember which. The fact of a city woman going out to live
in such a place, with such people, was enough to make talk among women
in a town twenty miles away, but then there must have been something extra
about her, else Bushmen wouldn't have talked and carried her name so far;
and I wanted a woman out of the ordinary now. I even reasoned this way,
thinking like lightning, as I knelt over Jim between the big back wheels
of the waggon.
I had an old racing mare that I used as a riding hack,
following the team. In a minute I had her saddled and bridled;
I tied the end of a half-full chaff-bag, shook the chaff into each end
and dumped it on to the pommel as a cushion or buffer for Jim;
I wrapped him in a blanket, and scrambled into the saddle with him.
The next minute we were stumbling down the steep bank,
clattering and splashing over the crossing, and struggling up
the opposite bank to the level. The mare, as I told you, was an old racer,
but broken-winded -- she must have run without wind after the first half mile.
She had the old racing instinct in her strong, and whenever I rode in company
I'd have to pull her hard else she'd race the other horse or burst.
She ran low fore and aft, and was the easiest horse I ever rode.
She ran like wheels on rails, with a bit of a tremble now and then
Why don't you tell me your thoughts, instead of shutting yourself
up in yourself and brooding -- eating your heart out?
It's hard for me: I get to think you're tired of me, and selfish.
I might be cross and speak sharp to you when you are in trouble.
How am I to know, if you don't tell me?'
But I didn't think she'd understand.
And so, getting acquainted, and chumming and dozing, with the gums closing
over our heads here and there, and the ragged patches of sunlight and shade
passing up, over the horses, over us, on the front of the load,
over the load, and down on to the white, dusty road again --
Jim and I got along the lonely Bush road and over the ridges,
some fifteen miles before sunset, and camped at Ryan's Crossing on Sandy Creek
for the night. I got the horses out and took the harness off.
Jim wanted badly to help me, but I made him stay on the load;
for one of the horses -- a vicious, red-eyed chestnut -- was a kicker:
he'd broken a man's leg. I got the feed-bags stretched across the shafts,
and the chaff-and-corn into them; and there stood the horses all round
with their rumps north, south, and west, and their heads between the shafts,
munching and switching their tails. We use double shafts, you know,
for horse-teams -- two pairs side by side, -- and prop them up,
and stretch bags between them, letting the bags sag to serve as feed-boxes.
I threw the spare tarpaulin over the wheels on one side,
letting about half of it lie on the ground in case of damp, and so making
a floor and a break-wind. I threw down bags and the blankets and 'possum rug
against the wheel to make a camp for Jim and the cattle-pup,
and got a gin-case we used for a tucker-box, the frying-pan and billy down,
and made a good fire at a log close handy, and soon everything
was comfortable. Ryan's Crossing was a grand camp. I stood with my pipe
in my mouth, my hands behind my back, and my back to the fire,
and took the country in.
Reedy Creek came down along a western spur of the range: the banks here
were deep and green, and the water ran clear over the granite bars,
boulders, and gravel. Behind us was a dreary flat covered with those gnarled,
grey-barked, dry-rotted `native apple-trees' (about as much like apple-trees
as the native bear is like any other), and a nasty bit of sand-dusty road
that I was always glad to get over in wet weather. To the left
on our side of the creek were reedy marshes, with frogs croaking,
and across the creek the dark box-scrub-covered ridges ended
in steep `sidings' coming down to the creek-bank, and to the main road
that skirted them, running on west up over a `saddle' in the ridges
and on towards Dubbo. The road by Lahey's Creek to a place called Cobborah
branched off, through dreary apple-tree and stringy-bark flats, to the left,
just beyond the crossing: all these fanlike branch tracks from the Cudgeegong
were inside a big horse-shoe in the Great Western Line,
and so they gave small carriers a chance, now that Cob & Co.'s coaches
and the big teams and vans had shifted out of the main western terminus.
There were tall she-oaks all along the creek, and a clump of big ones
over a deep water-hole just above the crossing. The creek oaks
have rough barked trunks, like English elms, but are much taller,
and higher to the branches -- and the leaves are reedy;
Kendel, the Australian poet, calls them the `she-oak harps Aeolian'.
Those trees are always sigh-sigh-sighing -- more of a sigh
than a sough or the `whoosh' of gum-trees in the wind.
You always hear them sighing, even when you can't feel any wind.
It's the same with telegraph wires: put your head against a telegraph-post
on a dead, still day, and you'll hear and feel the far-away roar of the wires.
But then the oaks are not connected with the distance,
where there might be wind; and they don't ROAR in a gale,
only sigh louder and softer according to the wind, and never seem to go
above or below a certain pitch, -- like a big harp with all the strings
the same. I used to have a theory that those creek oaks got the wind's voice
telephoned to them, so to speak, through the ground.
I happened to look down, and there was Jim (I thought he was on the tarpaulin,
playing with the pup): he was standing close beside me with his legs
wide apart, his hands behind his back, and his back to the fire.
He held his head a little on one side, and there was such an old, old,
wise expression in his big brown eyes -- just as if he'd been a child
for a hundred years or so, or as though he were listening to those oaks
and understanding them in a fatherly sort of way.
`Dad!' he said presently -- `Dad! do you think I'll ever grow up to be a man?'
`Wh--why, Jim?' I gasped.
`Because I don't want to.'
I couldn't think of anything against this. It made me uneasy.
But I remembered *I* used to have a childish dread of growing up to be a man.
`Jim,' I said, to break the silence, `do you hear what the she-oaks say?'
`No, I don't. Is they talking?'
`Yes,' I said, without thinking.
`What is they saying?' he asked.
I took the bucket and went down to the creek for some water for tea.
I thought Jim would follow with a little tin billy he had, but he didn't:
when I got back to the fire he was again on the 'possum rug,
comforting the pup. I fried some bacon and eggs that I'd brought out with me.
Jim sang out from the waggon --
`Don't cook too much, dad -- I mightn't be hungry.'
I got the tin plates and pint-pots and things out on a clean new flour-bag,
in honour of Jim, and dished up. He was leaning back on the rug
looking at the pup in a listless sort of way. I reckoned he was tired out,
and pulled the gin-case up close to him for a table and put his plate on it.
But he only tried a mouthful or two, and then he said --
`I ain't hungry, dad! You'll have to eat it all.'
It made me uneasy -- I never liked to see a child of mine turn from his food.
They had given him some tinned salmon in Gulgong, and I was afraid
that that was upsetting him. I was always against tinned muck.
`Sick, Jim?' I asked.
`No, dad, I ain't sick; I don't know what's the matter with me.'
`Have some tea, sonny?'
`Yes, dad.'
I gave him some tea, with some milk in it that I'd brought in a bottle
from his aunt's for him. He took a sip or two and then put the pint-pot
on the gin-case.
`Jim's tired, dad,' he said.
I made him lie down while I fixed up a camp for the night.
It had turned a bit chilly, so I let the big tarpaulin down all round --
it was made to cover a high load, the flour in the waggon
didn't come above the rail, so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground.
I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon:
when I went to lift him in he was lying back, looking up at the stars
in a half-dreamy, half-fascinated way that I didn't like.
Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned, or affectionate, there was danger.
`How do you feel now, sonny?'
It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars.
`Jim's better, dad.' Then he said something like, `The stars are looking
at me.' I thought he was half asleep. I took off his jacket and boots,
and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night.
`Kiss me 'night-night, daddy,' he said.
I'd rather he hadn't asked me -- it was a bad sign. As I was going
to the fire he called me back.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Get me my things and the cattle-pup, please, daddy.'
I was scared now. His things were some toys and rubbish he'd brought
from Gulgong, and I remembered, the last time he had convulsions, he took
all his toys and a kitten to bed with him. And `'night-night' and `daddy'
were two-year-old language to Jim. I'd thought he'd forgotten those words --
he seemed to be going back.
`Are you quite warm enough, Jim?'
`Yes, dad.'
I started to walk up and down -- I always did this when I was extra worried.
I was frightened now about Jim, though I tried to hide the fact from myself.
Presently he called me again.
`What is it, Jim?'
`Take the blankets off me, fahver -- Jim's sick!' (They'd been teaching him
to say father.)
I was scared now. I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die
(she swallowed a pin), and when she was going she said --
`Take the blankets off me, muvver -- I'm dying.'
And I couldn't get that out of my head.
I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug, and felt Jim's head --
he seemed cool enough.
`Where do you feel bad, sonny?'
No answer for a while; then he said suddenly, but in a voice
as if he were talking in his sleep --
`Put my boots on, please, daddy. I want to go home to muvver!'
I held his hand, and comforted him for a while; then he slept --
in a restless, feverish sort of way.
I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over the fire;
I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it
full of cold water and stood it handy. I got the spade
(we always carried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather)
and turned a corner of the tarpaulin back, dug a hole, and trod the tarpaulin
down into the hole, to serve for a bath, in case of the worst.
I had a tin of mustard, and meant to fight a good round for Jim,
if death came along.
I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim.
His head was burning hot, and his skin parched and dry as a bone.
Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward
between the waggon and the fire, and repeating what I'd heard Mary say
the last time we fought for Jim: `God! don't take my child!
God! don't take my boy!' I'd never had much faith in doctors,
but, my God! I wanted one then. The nearest was fifteen miles away.
I threw back my head and stared up at the branches, in desperation;
and -- Well, I don't ask you to take much stock in this,
though most old Bushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night;
and -- Now, it might have been that I was all unstrung,
or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in the gently moving branches,
or the blue smoke rising up. But I saw the figure of a woman, all white,
come down, down, nearly to the limbs of the trees, point on up the main road,
and then float up and up and vanish, still pointing. I thought Mary was dead!
Then it flashed on me ----
Four or five miles up the road, over the `saddle', was an old shanty
that had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line
got round as far as Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads.
A man named Brighten lived there. He was a selector; did a little farming,
and as much sly-grog selling as he could. He was married --
but it wasn't that: I'd thought of them, but she was a childish, worn-out,
spiritless woman, and both were pretty `ratty' from hardship and loneliness --
they weren't likely to be of any use to me. But it was this:
I'd heard talk, among some women in Gulgong, of a sister of Brighten's wife
who'd gone out to live with them lately: she'd been a hospital matron
in the city, they said; and there were yarns about her. Some said
she got the sack for exposing the doctors -- or carrying on with them --
I didn't remember which. The fact of a city woman going out to live
in such a place, with such people, was enough to make talk among women
in a town twenty miles away, but then there must have been something extra
about her, else Bushmen wouldn't have talked and carried her name so far;
and I wanted a woman out of the ordinary now. I even reasoned this way,
thinking like lightning, as I knelt over Jim between the big back wheels
of the waggon.
I had an old racing mare that I used as a riding hack,
following the team. In a minute I had her saddled and bridled;
I tied the end of a half-full chaff-bag, shook the chaff into each end
and dumped it on to the pommel as a cushion or buffer for Jim;
I wrapped him in a blanket, and scrambled into the saddle with him.
The next minute we were stumbling down the steep bank,
clattering and splashing over the crossing, and struggling up
the opposite bank to the level. The mare, as I told you, was an old racer,
but broken-winded -- she must have run without wind after the first half mile.
She had the old racing instinct in her strong, and whenever I rode in company
I'd have to pull her hard else she'd race the other horse or burst.
She ran low fore and aft, and was the easiest horse I ever rode.
She ran like wheels on rails, with a bit of a tremble now and then
- sunlight [´sʌnlait]
n.日光 (初中英语单词) - lonely [´ləunli] a.孤独的；无人烟的 (初中英语单词)
- sunset [´sʌnset] n.日落；晚霞 (初中英语单词)
- harness [´hɑ:nis] vt.上马具 n.马具 (初中英语单词)
- western [´westən] a.西的；西方的 (初中英语单词)
- running [´rʌniŋ] a.奔跑的；流动的 (初中英语单词)
- telegraph [´teligrɑ:f] n.&v.(打)电报；电告 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- childish [´tʃaildiʃ] a.孩子的；幼稚的 (初中英语单词)
- waggon [´wægən] n.运货马车；货车 (初中英语单词)
- chilly [´tʃili] a.凉飕飕的 (初中英语单词)
- old-fashioned [´əuld´feʃənd] a.老式的；过时的 (初中英语单词)
- jacket [´dʒækit] n.茄克衫；外套 (初中英语单词)
- kitten [´kitn] n.小猫 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- backward [´bækwəd] ad.向后 a.向后的 (初中英语单词)
- gently [´dʒentli] ad.温和地；静静地 (初中英语单词)
- vanish [´væniʃ] vi.消失；消散；消灭 (初中英语单词)
- traffic [´træfik] n.交通，运输 (初中英语单词)
- lately [´leitli] ad.近来，不久前 (初中英语单词)
- lightning [´laitniŋ] n.闪电 a.突然的 (初中英语单词)
- cushion [´kuʃən] n.垫子，坐褥 (初中英语单词)
- saddle [´sædl] n.鞍子 v.装鞍(于) (初中英语单词)
- instinct [´instiŋkt] n.本能；直觉；天资 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- ragged [´rægid] a.衣服破烂的 (高中英语单词)
- chestnut [´tʃesnʌt] n.栗子；栗树；栗色(马) (高中英语单词)
- granite [´grænit] n.花岗岩 (高中英语单词)
- gravel [´grævəl] n.砾石 vt.铺砾石 (高中英语单词)
- dreary [´driəri] a.阴郁的；枯燥无味的 (高中英语单词)
- bucket [´bʌkit] n.水桶 (高中英语单词)
- uneasy [ʌn´i:zi] a.不安的；不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- salmon [´sæmən] n.鲑，大马哈鱼 (高中英语单词)
- affectionate [ə´fekʃənit] a.亲爱的 (高中英语单词)
- half-way [´hɑ:fwei] ad.半途；几乎 (高中英语单词)
- brighten [´braitn] v.(使)明亮；(使)愉快 (高中英语单词)
- hardship [´hɑ:dʃip] n.受苦，吃苦；苦难 (高中英语单词)
- loneliness [´ləunliniz] n.孤独，寂寞 (高中英语单词)
- vicious [´viʃəs] a.不道德的；刻毒的 (英语四级单词)
- mouthful [´mauθful] n.一口；少量 (英语四级单词)
- rubbish [´rʌbiʃ] n.垃圾；碎屑；废话 (英语四级单词)
- feverish [´fi:vəriʃ] a.发烧的；狂热的 (英语四级单词)
- mustard [´mʌstəd] n.芥菜；芥末(色) (英语四级单词)
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