章节正文
with newspapers pasted over them for wall-paper. There was no ceiling,
calico or otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters and battens,
and the under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hot
and harbour insects and reptiles -- snakes sometimes.
There was one small glass window in the `dining-room'
with three panes and a sheet of greased paper, and the rest
were rough wooden shutters. There was a pretty good cow-yard and calf-pen,
and -- that was about all. There was no dam or tank (I made one later on);
there was a water-cask, with the hoops falling off and the staves gaping,
at the corner of the house, and spouting, made of lengths of bent tin,
ran round under the eaves. Water from a new shingle roof is wine-red
for a year or two, and water from a stringy-bark roof is like tan-water
for years. In dry weather the selector had got his house water from a cask
sunk in the gravel at the bottom of the deepest water-hole in the creek.
And the longer the drought lasted, the farther he had to go down the creek
for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take his cows to drink,
if he had any. Four, five, six, or seven miles -- even ten miles to water
is nothing in some places.
James hadn't found himself called upon to do more than milk old `Spot'
(the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night,
make a fire in the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough.
He helped me unharness and water and feed the horses,
and then started to get the furniture off the waggon and into the house.
James wasn't lazy -- so long as one thing didn't last too long;
but he was too uncomfortably practical and matter-of-fact for me.
Mary and I had some tea in the kitchen. The kitchen was permanently furnished
with a table of split slabs, adzed smooth on top, and supported by four stakes
driven into the ground, a three-legged stool and a block of wood,
and two long stools made of half-round slabs (sapling trunks split in halves)
with auger-holes bored in the round side and sticks stuck into them for legs.
The floor was of clay; the chimney of slabs and tin; the fireplace
was about eight feet wide, lined with clay, and with a blackened pole across,
with sooty chains and wire hooks on it for the pots.
Mary didn't seem able to eat. She sat on the three-legged stool
near the fire, though it was warm weather, and kept her face turned from me.
Mary was still pretty, but not the little dumpling she had been:
she was thinner now. She had big dark hazel eyes that shone a little too much
when she was pleased or excited. I thought at times that there was something
very German about her expression; also something aristocratic
about the turn of her nose, which nipped in at the nostrils when she spoke.
There was nothing aristocratic about me. Mary was German in figure and walk.
I used sometimes to call her `Little Duchy' and `Pigeon Toes'.
She had a will of her own, as shown sometimes by the obstinate knit
in her forehead between the eyes.
Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble.
`What is it, Mary?'
She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed,
and irritated -- suffering from a reaction.
`Now, what is it, Mary?' I asked; `I'm sick of this sort of thing.
Haven't you got everything you wanted? You've had your own way.
What's the matter with you now?'
`You know very well, Joe.'
`But I DON'T know,' I said. I knew too well.
She said nothing.
`Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder,
`don't go on like that; tell me what's the matter?'
`It's only this,' she said suddenly, `I can't stand this life here;
it will kill me!'
I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table.
`This is more than a man can stand!' I shouted. `You know very well
that it was you that dragged me out here. You run me on to this!
Why weren't you content to stay in Gulgong?'
`And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly.
(I thought even then in a flash what sort of a place Gulgong was.
A wretchedremnant of a town on an abandoned goldfield.
One street, each side of the dusty main road; three or four
one-storey square brick cottages with hip roofs of galvanised iron
that glared in the heat -- four rooms and a passage -- the police-station,
bank-manager and schoolmaster's cottages, &c. Half-a-dozen tumble-down
weather-board shanties -- the three pubs., the two stores,
and the post-office. The town tailing off into weather-board boxes
with tin tops, and old bark huts -- relics of the digging days --
propped up by many rotting poles. The men, when at home,
mostly asleep or droning over their pipes or hanging about
the verandah posts of the pubs., saying, `'Ullo, Bill!' or `'Ullo, Jim!' --
or sometimes drunk. The women, mostly hags, who blackened
each other's and girls' characters with their tongues,
and criticised the aristocracy's washing hung out on the line:
`And the colour of the clothes! Does that woman wash her clothes at all?
or only soak 'em and hang 'em out?' -- that was Gulgong.)
`Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary.
`You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly.
(I knew very well, but the knowledge only maddened me.
I had had an idea of getting a billet in one of the big wool-stores
-- I was a fair wool expert -- but Mary was afraid of the drink.
I could keep well away from it so long as I worked hard in the Bush.
I had gone to Sydney twice since I met Mary, once before we were married,
and she forgave me when I came back; and once afterwards.
I got a billet there then, and was going to send for her in a month.
After eight weeks she raised the money somehow and came to Sydney
and brought me home. I got pretty low down that time.)
`But, Mary,' I said, `it would have been different this time.
You would have been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.'
`As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said.
`Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for,
if you can't stand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked.
`Well,' she said, `why weren't you more decided?'
I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.
`Good God!' I shouted, `this is more than any man can stand.
I'll chuck it all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.'
`So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.
We quarrelled badly then -- that first hour in our new home.
I know now whose fault it was.
I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek.
I didn't feel bitter against Mary -- I had spoken too cruelly to her
to feel that way. Looking back, I could see plainly
that if I had taken her advice all through, instead of now and again,
things would have been all right with me. I had come away and left her
crying in the hut, and James telling her, in a brotherly way,
that it was all her fault. The trouble was that I never liked
to `give in' or go half-way to make it up -- not half-way --
it was all the way or nothing with our natures.
`If I don't make a stand now,' I'd say, `I'll never be master.
I gave up the reins when I got married, and I'll have to get them back again.'
What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after,
when I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still;
and, amongst other things, I kept saying, `I'll give in, Mary --
I'll give in,' and then I'd laugh. They thought that I was raving mad,
and took me from the room. But that time was to come.
As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang
in my ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the house
that evening --
`Why did I bring her here?'
I was not fit to `go on the land'. The place was only fit
for some stolid German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife,
who had no ambition but to bullock and make a farm of the place.
I had only drifted here through carelessness, brooding, and discontent.
I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the only neighbours --
a wretched selector's family, about four miles down the creek, --
and I thought I'd go on to the house and see if they had any fresh meat.
A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in,
on a patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice
of the selector's wife -- I had seen her several times:
she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman, and, I supposed,
the reason why she hadn't gone mad through hardship and loneliness
was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory to go
farther than she could see through the trunks of the `apple-trees'.
`You, An-nay!' (Annie.)
`Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom).
`Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!'
`Well, didn't I?'
`Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!'
`I did, I tell yer -- the water won't soak inter the ashes.'
Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there.
I remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves
behind some sticks against the bark wall near the door;
and in spite of the sticks the fowls used to get in and scratch beds
under the geraniums, and scratch dust over them, and ashes were thrown there
-- with an idea of helping the flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water,
when fresh water was scarce -- till you might as well try to water
a dish of fat.
Then the woman's voice again --
`You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.)
Silence, save for an echo on the ridge.
`Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!'
`Ye-e-s!' shrillshriek from across the creek.
`Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they want
any meat or any think?' in one long screech.
`Well -- I karnt find the horse.'
`Well-find-it-first-think-in-the-morning and. And-don't-forgit-
to-tell-Mrs-Wi'son-that-mother'll-be-up-as-soon-as-she-can.'
I didn't feel like going to the woman's house that night.
I felt -- and the thought came like a whip-stroke on my heart --
that this was what Mary would come to if I left her here.
I turned and started to walk home, fast. I'd made up my mind.
I'd take Mary straight back to Gulgong in the morning --
I forgot about the load I had to take to the sheep station.
I'd say, `Look here, Girlie' (that's what I used to call her),
`we'll leave this wretched life; we'll leave the Bush for ever!
We'll go to Sydney, and I'll be a man! and work my way up.'
And I'd sell waggon, horses, and all, and go.
When I got to the hut it was lighted up. Mary had the only kerosene lamp,
a slush lamp, and two tallow candles going. She had got
both rooms washed out -- to James's disgust, for he had to move
the furniture and boxes about. She had a lot of things unpacked
on the table; she had laid clean newspapers on the mantel-shelf --
a slab on two pegs over the fireplace -- and put the little wooden clock
in the centre and some of the ornaments on each side, and was tacking
a strip of vandyked American oil-cloth round the rough edge of the slab.
`How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape.'
I kissed her, but she had her mouth full of tacks. I went out in the kitchen,
drank a pint of cold tea, and sat down.
Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone.
II. `Past Carin''.
Next morning things looked a lot brighter. Things always look brighter
in the morning -- more so in the Australian Bush, I should think,
than in most other places. It is when the sun goes down
on the dark bed of the lonely Bush, and the sunset flashes like a sea of fire
and then fades, and then glows out again, like a bank of coals,
and then burns away to ashes -- it is then that old things come home to one.
And strange, new-old things too, that haunt and depress you terribly,
and that you can't understand. I often think how, at sunset,
the past must come home to new-chum blacksheep, sent out to Australia
and drifted into the Bush. I used to think that they couldn't have
much brains, or the loneliness would drive them mad.
I'd decided to let James take the team for a trip or two.
He could drive alright; he was a better business man, and no doubt
would manage better than me -- as long as the novelty lasted;
and I'd stay at home for a week or so, till Mary got used to the place,
or I could get a girl from somewhere to come and stay with her.
The first weeks or few months of loneliness are the worst, as a rule,
calico or otherwise, and we could see the round pine rafters and battens,
and the under ends of the shingles. But ceilings make a hut hot
and harbour insects and reptiles -- snakes sometimes.
There was one small glass window in the `dining-room'
with three panes and a sheet of greased paper, and the rest
were rough wooden shutters. There was a pretty good cow-yard and calf-pen,
and -- that was about all. There was no dam or tank (I made one later on);
there was a water-cask, with the hoops falling off and the staves gaping,
at the corner of the house, and spouting, made of lengths of bent tin,
ran round under the eaves. Water from a new shingle roof is wine-red
for a year or two, and water from a stringy-bark roof is like tan-water
for years. In dry weather the selector had got his house water from a cask
sunk in the gravel at the bottom of the deepest water-hole in the creek.
And the longer the drought lasted, the farther he had to go down the creek
for his water, with a cask on a cart, and take his cows to drink,
if he had any. Four, five, six, or seven miles -- even ten miles to water
is nothing in some places.
James hadn't found himself called upon to do more than milk old `Spot'
(the grandmother cow of our mob), pen the calf at night,
make a fire in the kitchen, and sweep out the house with a bough.
He helped me unharness and water and feed the horses,
and then started to get the furniture off the waggon and into the house.
James wasn't lazy -- so long as one thing didn't last too long;
but he was too uncomfortably practical and matter-of-fact for me.
Mary and I had some tea in the kitchen. The kitchen was permanently furnished
with a table of split slabs, adzed smooth on top, and supported by four stakes
driven into the ground, a three-legged stool and a block of wood,
and two long stools made of half-round slabs (sapling trunks split in halves)
with auger-holes bored in the round side and sticks stuck into them for legs.
The floor was of clay; the chimney of slabs and tin; the fireplace
was about eight feet wide, lined with clay, and with a blackened pole across,
with sooty chains and wire hooks on it for the pots.
Mary didn't seem able to eat. She sat on the three-legged stool
near the fire, though it was warm weather, and kept her face turned from me.
Mary was still pretty, but not the little dumpling she had been:
she was thinner now. She had big dark hazel eyes that shone a little too much
when she was pleased or excited. I thought at times that there was something
very German about her expression; also something aristocratic
about the turn of her nose, which nipped in at the nostrils when she spoke.
There was nothing aristocratic about me. Mary was German in figure and walk.
I used sometimes to call her `Little Duchy' and `Pigeon Toes'.
She had a will of her own, as shown sometimes by the obstinate knit
in her forehead between the eyes.
Mary sat still by the fire, and presently I saw her chin tremble.
`What is it, Mary?'
She turned her face farther from me. I felt tired, disappointed,
and irritated -- suffering from a reaction.
`Now, what is it, Mary?' I asked; `I'm sick of this sort of thing.
Haven't you got everything you wanted? You've had your own way.
What's the matter with you now?'
`You know very well, Joe.'
`But I DON'T know,' I said. I knew too well.
She said nothing.
`Look here, Mary,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder,
`don't go on like that; tell me what's the matter?'
`It's only this,' she said suddenly, `I can't stand this life here;
it will kill me!'
I had a pannikin of tea in my hand, and I banged it down on the table.
`This is more than a man can stand!' I shouted. `You know very well
that it was you that dragged me out here. You run me on to this!
Why weren't you content to stay in Gulgong?'
`And what sort of a place was Gulgong, Joe?' asked Mary quietly.
(I thought even then in a flash what sort of a place Gulgong was.
A wretchedremnant of a town on an abandoned goldfield.
One street, each side of the dusty main road; three or four
one-storey square brick cottages with hip roofs of galvanised iron
that glared in the heat -- four rooms and a passage -- the police-station,
bank-manager and schoolmaster's cottages, &c. Half-a-dozen tumble-down
weather-board shanties -- the three pubs., the two stores,
and the post-office. The town tailing off into weather-board boxes
with tin tops, and old bark huts -- relics of the digging days --
propped up by many rotting poles. The men, when at home,
mostly asleep or droning over their pipes or hanging about
the verandah posts of the pubs., saying, `'Ullo, Bill!' or `'Ullo, Jim!' --
or sometimes drunk. The women, mostly hags, who blackened
each other's and girls' characters with their tongues,
and criticised the aristocracy's washing hung out on the line:
`And the colour of the clothes! Does that woman wash her clothes at all?
or only soak 'em and hang 'em out?' -- that was Gulgong.)
`Well, why didn't you come to Sydney, as I wanted you to?' I asked Mary.
`You know very well, Joe,' said Mary quietly.
(I knew very well, but the knowledge only maddened me.
I had had an idea of getting a billet in one of the big wool-stores
-- I was a fair wool expert -- but Mary was afraid of the drink.
I could keep well away from it so long as I worked hard in the Bush.
I had gone to Sydney twice since I met Mary, once before we were married,
and she forgave me when I came back; and once afterwards.
I got a billet there then, and was going to send for her in a month.
After eight weeks she raised the money somehow and came to Sydney
and brought me home. I got pretty low down that time.)
`But, Mary,' I said, `it would have been different this time.
You would have been with me. I can take a glass now or leave it alone.'
`As long as you take a glass there is danger,' she said.
`Well, what did you want to advise me to come out here for,
if you can't stand it? Why didn't you stay where you were?' I asked.
`Well,' she said, `why weren't you more decided?'
I'd sat down, but I jumped to my feet then.
`Good God!' I shouted, `this is more than any man can stand.
I'll chuck it all up! I'm damned well sick and tired of the whole thing.'
`So am I, Joe,' said Mary wearily.
We quarrelled badly then -- that first hour in our new home.
I know now whose fault it was.
I got my hat and went out and started to walk down the creek.
I didn't feel bitter against Mary -- I had spoken too cruelly to her
to feel that way. Looking back, I could see plainly
that if I had taken her advice all through, instead of now and again,
things would have been all right with me. I had come away and left her
crying in the hut, and James telling her, in a brotherly way,
that it was all her fault. The trouble was that I never liked
to `give in' or go half-way to make it up -- not half-way --
it was all the way or nothing with our natures.
`If I don't make a stand now,' I'd say, `I'll never be master.
I gave up the reins when I got married, and I'll have to get them back again.'
What women some men are! But the time came, and not many years after,
when I stood by the bed where Mary lay, white and still;
and, amongst other things, I kept saying, `I'll give in, Mary --
I'll give in,' and then I'd laugh. They thought that I was raving mad,
and took me from the room. But that time was to come.
As I walked down the creek track in the moonlight the question rang
in my ears again, as it had done when I first caught sight of the house
that evening --
`Why did I bring her here?'
I was not fit to `go on the land'. The place was only fit
for some stolid German, or Scotsman, or even Englishman and his wife,
who had no ambition but to bullock and make a farm of the place.
I had only drifted here through carelessness, brooding, and discontent.
I walked on and on till I was more than half-way to the only neighbours --
a wretched selector's family, about four miles down the creek, --
and I thought I'd go on to the house and see if they had any fresh meat.
A mile or two farther I saw the loom of the bark hut they lived in,
on a patchy clearing in the scrub, and heard the voice
of the selector's wife -- I had seen her several times:
she was a gaunt, haggard Bushwoman, and, I supposed,
the reason why she hadn't gone mad through hardship and loneliness
was that she hadn't either the brains or the memory to go
farther than she could see through the trunks of the `apple-trees'.
`You, An-nay!' (Annie.)
`Ye-es' (from somewhere in the gloom).
`Didn't I tell yer to water them geraniums!'
`Well, didn't I?'
`Don't tell lies or I'll break yer young back!'
`I did, I tell yer -- the water won't soak inter the ashes.'
Geraniums were the only flowers I saw grow in the drought out there.
I remembered this woman had a few dirty grey-green leaves
behind some sticks against the bark wall near the door;
and in spite of the sticks the fowls used to get in and scratch beds
under the geraniums, and scratch dust over them, and ashes were thrown there
-- with an idea of helping the flower, I suppose; and greasy dish-water,
when fresh water was scarce -- till you might as well try to water
a dish of fat.
Then the woman's voice again --
`You, Tom-may!' (Tommy.)
Silence, save for an echo on the ridge.
`Y-o-u, T-o-m-MAY!'
`Ye-e-s!' shrillshriek from across the creek.
`Didn't I tell you to ride up to them new people and see if they want
any meat or any think?' in one long screech.
`Well -- I karnt find the horse.'
`Well-find-it-first-think-in-the-morning and. And-don't-forgit-
to-tell-Mrs-Wi'son-that-mother'll-be-up-as-soon-as-she-can.'
I didn't feel like going to the woman's house that night.
I felt -- and the thought came like a whip-stroke on my heart --
that this was what Mary would come to if I left her here.
I turned and started to walk home, fast. I'd made up my mind.
I'd take Mary straight back to Gulgong in the morning --
I forgot about the load I had to take to the sheep station.
I'd say, `Look here, Girlie' (that's what I used to call her),
`we'll leave this wretched life; we'll leave the Bush for ever!
We'll go to Sydney, and I'll be a man! and work my way up.'
And I'd sell waggon, horses, and all, and go.
When I got to the hut it was lighted up. Mary had the only kerosene lamp,
a slush lamp, and two tallow candles going. She had got
both rooms washed out -- to James's disgust, for he had to move
the furniture and boxes about. She had a lot of things unpacked
on the table; she had laid clean newspapers on the mantel-shelf --
a slab on two pegs over the fireplace -- and put the little wooden clock
in the centre and some of the ornaments on each side, and was tacking
a strip of vandyked American oil-cloth round the rough edge of the slab.
`How does that look, Joe? We'll soon get things ship-shape.'
I kissed her, but she had her mouth full of tacks. I went out in the kitchen,
drank a pint of cold tea, and sat down.
Somehow I didn't feel satisfied with the way things had gone.
II. `Past Carin''.
Next morning things looked a lot brighter. Things always look brighter
in the morning -- more so in the Australian Bush, I should think,
than in most other places. It is when the sun goes down
on the dark bed of the lonely Bush, and the sunset flashes like a sea of fire
and then fades, and then glows out again, like a bank of coals,
and then burns away to ashes -- it is then that old things come home to one.
And strange, new-old things too, that haunt and depress you terribly,
and that you can't understand. I often think how, at sunset,
the past must come home to new-chum blacksheep, sent out to Australia
and drifted into the Bush. I used to think that they couldn't have
much brains, or the loneliness would drive them mad.
I'd decided to let James take the team for a trip or two.
He could drive alright; he was a better business man, and no doubt
would manage better than me -- as long as the novelty lasted;
and I'd stay at home for a week or so, till Mary got used to the place,
or I could get a girl from somewhere to come and stay with her.
The first weeks or few months of loneliness are the worst, as a rule,
- otherwise [´ʌðəwaiz]
ad.另外 conj.否则 (初中英语单词) - wooden [´wudn] a.木制的；呆板的 (初中英语单词)
- grandmother [´græn,mʌðə] n.(外)祖母 (初中英语单词)
- waggon [´wægən] n.运货马车；货车 (初中英语单词)
- forehead [´fɔrid] n.额，前部 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- suffering [´sʌfəriŋ] n.痛苦；灾害 (初中英语单词)
- wretched [´retʃid] a.可怜的；倒霉的 (初中英语单词)
- mostly [´məustli] ad.主要地；多半；通常 (初中英语单词)
- expert [´ekspə:t] n.&a.专家；内行 (初中英语单词)
- advise [əd´vaiz] vt.忠告；建议；通知 (初中英语单词)
- spoken [´spəukən] speak的过去分词 (初中英语单词)
- moonlight [´mu:nlait] n.&a.月光(的) (初中英语单词)
- ambition [æm´biʃən] n.雄心，野心；企图 (初中英语单词)
- scratch [skrætʃ] v.&n.抓，搔；抓伤 (初中英语单词)
- scarce [skeəs, skers] a.缺乏的；稀有的 (初中英语单词)
- shriek [ʃri:k] v.&n.尖叫(声) (初中英语单词)
- disgust [dis´gʌst] n.厌恶 vt.令(人)作呕 (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)
- gravel [´grævəl] n.砾石 vt.铺砾石 (高中英语单词)
- remnant [´remnənt] n.残(剩)余 a.剩余的 (高中英语单词)
- post-office [´pəust-´ɔfis] a.邮政的 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- damned [dæmd] a.该死的 ad.非常，极 (高中英语单词)
- half-way [´hɑ:fwei] ad.半途；几乎 (高中英语单词)
- amongst [ə´mʌŋst] prep.其中之一 =among (高中英语单词)
- hardship [´hɑ:dʃip] n.受苦，吃苦；苦难 (高中英语单词)
- shrill [ʃril] a.(声音)尖锐的 (高中英语单词)
- fireplace [´faiəpleis] n.壁炉，炉灶 (高中英语单词)
- loneliness [´ləunliniz] n.孤独，寂寞 (高中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- novelty [´nɔvəlti] n.新奇(的事物) (高中英语单词)
- shingle [´ʃiŋgəl] n.盖屋板；木瓦 (英语四级单词)
- drought [draut] n.旱灾；干旱 (英语四级单词)
- permanently [´pə:mənəntli] ad.永久地；持久地 (英语四级单词)
- aristocratic [,æristə´krætik] a.贵族政治的；贵族的 (英语四级单词)
- obstinate [´ɔbstinit] a.顽固的；(病)难治的 (英语四级单词)
- cruelly [´kruəli] ad.残酷地；极，非常 (英语四级单词)
- carelessness [kɛəlisnis] n.粗心；漫不经心 (英语四级单词)
- clearing [´kliəriŋ] n.(森林中的)空旷地 (英语四级单词)
- haggard [´hægəd] a.憔悴的 (英语四级单词)
- kerosene [´kerəsi:n] n.煤油，火油 (英语四级单词)
- depress [di´pres] vt.压低；降低；使沮丧 (英语四级单词)
- matter-of-fact [mætərɔv´fækt] a.实事求是的 (英语六级单词)
- abandoned [ə´bændənd] a.被抛弃的；无约束的 (英语六级单词)
- sydney [´sidni] n.悉尼 (英语六级单词)
- brotherly [´brʌðəli] a.兄弟般的 (英语六级单词)
- greasy [´gri:si] a.油腻的；润滑的 (英语六级单词)
- tallow [´tæləu] n.脂，兽脂 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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