章节正文
but very rarely, he'd invite the swagman back to the hut for a pint of tea,
or a bit of meat, flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track.
And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back,
refreshed, to his lonelyselection, and work on into the night
as long as he could see his solitary old plough horse,
or the scoop of his long-handled shovel.
And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance -- or, rather,
that he made mine. I was cantering easily along the track
-- I was making for the north-west with a pack horse -- when about a mile
beyond the track to the selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud
following me. I had heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually,
and so was prepared for him.
A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven,
except for a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair
was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me
of one full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen.
He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows,
and with something of the blackfellow in them -- the sort of eyes
that will peer at something on the horizon that no one else can see.
He had a way of talking to the horizon, too -- more than to his companion;
and he had a deep verticalwrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen.
I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile
on bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily,
it seemed to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone,
if I was married. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially
in my case, as I was little more than a boy then.
He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been,
and asked after men he knew, or had known -- drovers and others --
and whether they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back
before my time; but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders
with whom he had been mates in his time, had grown old into mine,
and I knew them. I notice now, though I didn't then -- and if I had
it would not have seemed strange from a bush point of view --
that he didn't ask for news, nor seem interested in it.
Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in the dust
with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without
looking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about doctoring --
if I'd ever studied it.
I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said "No."
Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question,
and he was so long about answering that I began to think
he was hard of hearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face
reminding him of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney
to "study for a doctor". That might have been, and looked natural enough;
but why didn't he ask me straight out if I was the chap he "knowed of"?
Travellers do not like beating about the bush in conversation.
He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded,
and looking absently" target="_blank" title="ad.心不在焉地">absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs
that spread from the foot of the ridge we were on to where
a blue peak or two of a distant range showed above the bush on the horizon.
I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake up.
"Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner," he said.
"The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of hay
for the horses."
The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a wife,
for I thought he was a hatter -- I had always heard so;
but perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately;
or had got a housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing
in the scrub, with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence
along the frontage, and logs and "dog-leg" the rest. It was about
as lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some out-of-the-way,
God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut was in the top corner,
a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, which must have been
uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built.
I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been put up
by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and for someone else
beside himself. But there were two unfinished skilling rooms
built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, and wall-plates
had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls were up,
but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrs and nettles
inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a couple of yokes
were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of a straw-stack,
some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an old stiff
coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about the place.
But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of
a clean white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes
driven into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth
-- not a spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors --
and perfectly clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins
that served as sugar bowls and salt cellars were polished brightly.
The walls and fireplace were whitewashed, the clay floor swept,
and clean sheets of newspaper laid on the slab mantleshelf
under the row of biscuit tins that held the groceries.
I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was,
was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the sofa
-- a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends --
lay a woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers.
He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead,
then took it up absently" target="_blank" title="ad.心不在焉地">absently and folded it. I saw then that it was
a riding skirt and jacket. He bundled them into the newspapers
and took them into the bedroom.
"The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon,"
he said rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if
to have another look through the door at those distant peaks.
"I suppose she got tired o' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her.
But, never mind, the grub is ready." There was a camp-oven
with a leg of mutton and potatoes sizzling in it on the hearth,
and billies hanging over the fire. I noticed the billies had been scraped,
and the lids polished.
There seemed to be something queer about the whole business,
but then he and his wife might have had a "breeze" during the morning.
I thought so during the meal, when the subject of women came up,
and he said one never knew how to take a woman, etc.;
but there was nothing in what he said that need necessarily
have referred to his wife or to any woman in particular.
For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging,
and old bushranging -- but never about live things and living men,
unless any of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident.
He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off.
There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the door,
but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a lifetime.
There seemed something queer about the whole place -- something wanting;
but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that something wanting,
or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that should have been there,
but never had been.
As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett
hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel.
I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port,
and put his hand once or twice to the small of his back,
and I set it down to lumbago, or something of that sort.
Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett
that his wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman,
if she was his wife, was, of course, his second wife.
The drover seemed surprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett
going in for matrimony again.
. . . . .
I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never.
It was early in the morning -- I had ridden since midnight.
I didn't think the old man would be up and about; and, besides,
I wanted to get on home, and have a look at the old folk, and the mates
I'd left behind -- and the girl. But I hadn't got far past the point
where Howlett's track joined the road, when I happened to look back,
and saw him on horseback, stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up.
He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked
very much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step,
and fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind.
And the old man was not much better off. I saw at once
that he was a very sick man. His face was drawn, and he bent forward
as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly and awkwardly, like a hurt man,
and as soon as his feet touched the ground he grabbed my arm,
or he would have gone down like a man who steps off a train in motion.
He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, as it were,
for the ground, with his free hand, as I eased him down.
I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make him comfortable.
"Help me with my back agen the tree," he said. "I must sit up --
it's no use lyin' me down."
He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully.
"Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?" I asked.
"No." He spoke painfully. "No!" Then, as if the words
were jerked out of him by a spasm: "She ain't there."
I took it that she had left him.
"How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?"
He took no notice of the question. I thought it was
a touch of rheumatic fever, or something of that sort.
"It's gone into my back and sides now -- the pain's worse in me back,"
he said presently.
I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease,
while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek
near a claim we were working; he let the dish slip into the water,
fell back, crying, "O, my back!" and was gone. And now I felt by instinct
that it was poor old Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart
is in his back as well as in his arms and hands.
The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint
in a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly
with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too,
and the sick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs.
Bushmen stand in awe of sickness and death.
But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water bag
the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit;
he drew up his arms and folded them across his chest.
He let his head rest back against the tree -- his slouch hat had fallen off
revealing a broad, white brow, much higher than I expected.
He seemed to gaze on the azure fin of the range, showing above
the dark blue-green bush on the horizon.
Then he commenced to speak -- taking no notice of me when I asked him
if he felt better now -- to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone
that awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously --
in set words, as I believe now, as he had often told it before;
if not to others, then to the loneliness of the bush.
And he used the names of people and places that I had never heard of --
just as if I knew them as well as he did.
"I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a woman.
I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the place
a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the creek.
I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some company --
a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop.
It was no place for a woman.
"But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country.
She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me."
He repeated himself a great deal -- said the same thing
over and over again sometimes. He was only mad on one track.
He'd tail off and sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me
in a hurried, half-scared way, and apologise for putting me
to all that trouble, and thank me. "I'll be all right d'reckly.
Best take the horses up to the hut and have some breakfast;
you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller you, d'reckly.
The wife'll be waitin' an' ----" He would drop off,
and be going again presently on the old track: --
"Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year,
but the old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming,
but one of the youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home.
or a bit of meat, flour, tea, or sugar, to carry him along the track.
And, after the yarn by the road, they said, the old man would ride back,
refreshed, to his lonelyselection, and work on into the night
as long as he could see his solitary old plough horse,
or the scoop of his long-handled shovel.
And so it was that I came to make his acquaintance -- or, rather,
that he made mine. I was cantering easily along the track
-- I was making for the north-west with a pack horse -- when about a mile
beyond the track to the selection I heard, "Hi, Mister!" and saw a dust cloud
following me. I had heard of "Old Ratty Howlett" casually,
and so was prepared for him.
A tall gaunt man on a little horse. He was clean-shaven,
except for a frill beard round under his chin, and his long wavy, dark hair
was turning grey; a square, strong-faced man, and reminded me
of one full-faced portrait of Gladstone more than any other face I had seen.
He had large reddish-brown eyes, deep set under heavy eyebrows,
and with something of the blackfellow in them -- the sort of eyes
that will peer at something on the horizon that no one else can see.
He had a way of talking to the horizon, too -- more than to his companion;
and he had a deep verticalwrinkle in his forehead that no smile could lessen.
I got down and got out my pipe, and we sat on a log and yarned awhile
on bush subjects; and then, after a pause, he shifted uneasily,
it seemed to me, and asked rather abruptly, and in an altered tone,
if I was married. A queer question to ask a traveller; more especially
in my case, as I was little more than a boy then.
He talked on again of old things and places where we had both been,
and asked after men he knew, or had known -- drovers and others --
and whether they were living yet. Most of his inquiries went back
before my time; but some of the drovers, one or two overlanders
with whom he had been mates in his time, had grown old into mine,
and I knew them. I notice now, though I didn't then -- and if I had
it would not have seemed strange from a bush point of view --
that he didn't ask for news, nor seem interested in it.
Then after another uneasy pause, during which he scratched crosses in the dust
with a stick, he asked me, in the same queer tone and without
looking at me or looking up, if I happened to know anything about doctoring --
if I'd ever studied it.
I asked him if anyone was sick at his place. He hesitated, and said "No."
Then I wanted to know why he had asked me that question,
and he was so long about answering that I began to think
he was hard of hearing, when, at last, he muttered something about my face
reminding him of a young fellow he knew of who'd gone to Sydney
to "study for a doctor". That might have been, and looked natural enough;
but why didn't he ask me straight out if I was the chap he "knowed of"?
Travellers do not like beating about the bush in conversation.
He sat in silence for a good while, with his arms folded,
and looking absently" target="_blank" title="ad.心不在焉地">absently away over the dead level of the great scrubs
that spread from the foot of the ridge we were on to where
a blue peak or two of a distant range showed above the bush on the horizon.
I stood up and put my pipe away and stretched. Then he seemed to wake up.
"Better come back to the hut and have a bit of dinner," he said.
"The missus will about have it ready, and I'll spare you a handful of hay
for the horses."
The hay decided it. It was a dry season. I was surprised to hear of a wife,
for I thought he was a hatter -- I had always heard so;
but perhaps I had been mistaken, and he had married lately;
or had got a housekeeper. The farm was an irregularly-shaped clearing
in the scrub, with a good many stumps in it, with a broken-down two-rail fence
along the frontage, and logs and "dog-leg" the rest. It was about
as lonely-looking a place as I had seen, and I had seen some out-of-the-way,
God-forgotten holes where men lived alone. The hut was in the top corner,
a two-roomed slab hut, with a shingle roof, which must have been
uncommon round there in the days when that hut was built.
I was used to bush carpentering, and saw that the place had been put up
by a man who had plenty of life and hope in front of him, and for someone else
beside himself. But there were two unfinished skilling rooms
built on to the back of the hut; the posts, sleepers, and wall-plates
had been well put up and fitted, and the slab walls were up,
but the roof had never been put on. There was nothing but burrs and nettles
inside those walls, and an old wooden bullock plough and a couple of yokes
were dry-rotting across the back doorway. The remains of a straw-stack,
some hay under a bark humpy, a small iron plough, and an old stiff
coffin-headed grey draught horse, were all that I saw about the place.
But there was a bit of a surprise for me inside, in the shape of
a clean white tablecloth on the rough slab table which stood on stakes
driven into the ground. The cloth was coarse, but it was a tablecloth
-- not a spare sheet put on in honour of unexpected visitors --
and perfectly clean. The tin plates, pannikins, and jam tins
that served as sugar bowls and salt cellars were polished brightly.
The walls and fireplace were whitewashed, the clay floor swept,
and clean sheets of newspaper laid on the slab mantleshelf
under the row of biscuit tins that held the groceries.
I thought that his wife, or housekeeper, or whatever she was,
was a clean and tidy woman about a house. I saw no woman; but on the sofa
-- a light, wooden, batten one, with runged arms at the ends --
lay a woman's dress on a lot of sheets of old stained and faded newspapers.
He looked at it in a puzzled way, knitting his forehead,
then took it up absently" target="_blank" title="ad.心不在焉地">absently and folded it. I saw then that it was
a riding skirt and jacket. He bundled them into the newspapers
and took them into the bedroom.
"The wife was going on a visit down the creek this afternoon,"
he said rapidly and without looking at me, but stooping as if
to have another look through the door at those distant peaks.
"I suppose she got tired o' waitin', and went and took the daughter with her.
But, never mind, the grub is ready." There was a camp-oven
with a leg of mutton and potatoes sizzling in it on the hearth,
and billies hanging over the fire. I noticed the billies had been scraped,
and the lids polished.
There seemed to be something queer about the whole business,
but then he and his wife might have had a "breeze" during the morning.
I thought so during the meal, when the subject of women came up,
and he said one never knew how to take a woman, etc.;
but there was nothing in what he said that need necessarily
have referred to his wife or to any woman in particular.
For the rest he talked of old bush things, droving, digging,
and old bushranging -- but never about live things and living men,
unless any of the old mates he talked about happened to be alive by accident.
He was very restless in the house, and never took his hat off.
There was a dress and a woman's old hat hanging on the wall near the door,
but they looked as if they might have been hanging there for a lifetime.
There seemed something queer about the whole place -- something wanting;
but then all out-of-the-way bush homes are haunted by that something wanting,
or, more likely, by the spirits of the things that should have been there,
but never had been.
As I rode down the track to the road I looked back and saw old Howlett
hard at work in a hole round a big stump with his long-handled shovel.
I'd noticed that he moved and walked with a slight list to port,
and put his hand once or twice to the small of his back,
and I set it down to lumbago, or something of that sort.
Up in the Never Never I heard from a drover who had known Howlett
that his wife had died in the first year, and so this mysterious woman,
if she was his wife, was, of course, his second wife.
The drover seemed surprised and rather amused at the thought of old Howlett
going in for matrimony again.
. . . . .
I rode back that way five years later, from the Never Never.
It was early in the morning -- I had ridden since midnight.
I didn't think the old man would be up and about; and, besides,
I wanted to get on home, and have a look at the old folk, and the mates
I'd left behind -- and the girl. But I hadn't got far past the point
where Howlett's track joined the road, when I happened to look back,
and saw him on horseback, stumbling down the track. I waited till he came up.
He was riding the old grey draught horse this time, and it looked
very much broken down. I thought it would have come down every step,
and fallen like an old rotten humpy in a gust of wind.
And the old man was not much better off. I saw at once
that he was a very sick man. His face was drawn, and he bent forward
as if he was hurt. He got down stiffly and awkwardly, like a hurt man,
and as soon as his feet touched the ground he grabbed my arm,
or he would have gone down like a man who steps off a train in motion.
He hung towards the bank of the road, feeling blindly, as it were,
for the ground, with his free hand, as I eased him down.
I got my blanket and calico from the pack saddle to make him comfortable.
"Help me with my back agen the tree," he said. "I must sit up --
it's no use lyin' me down."
He sat with his hand gripping his side, and breathed painfully.
"Shall I run up to the hut and get the wife?" I asked.
"No." He spoke painfully. "No!" Then, as if the words
were jerked out of him by a spasm: "She ain't there."
I took it that she had left him.
"How long have you been bad? How long has this been coming on?"
He took no notice of the question. I thought it was
a touch of rheumatic fever, or something of that sort.
"It's gone into my back and sides now -- the pain's worse in me back,"
he said presently.
I had once been mates with a man who died suddenly of heart disease,
while at work. He was washing a dish of dirt in the creek
near a claim we were working; he let the dish slip into the water,
fell back, crying, "O, my back!" and was gone. And now I felt by instinct
that it was poor old Howlett's heart that was wrong. A man's heart
is in his back as well as in his arms and hands.
The old man had turned pale with the pallor of a man who turns faint
in a heat wave, and his arms fell loosely, and his hands rocked helplessly
with the knuckles in the dust. I felt myself turning white, too,
and the sick, cold, empty feeling in my stomach, for I knew the signs.
Bushmen stand in awe of sickness and death.
But after I'd fixed him comfortably and given him a drink from the water bag
the greyness left his face, and he pulled himself together a bit;
he drew up his arms and folded them across his chest.
He let his head rest back against the tree -- his slouch hat had fallen off
revealing a broad, white brow, much higher than I expected.
He seemed to gaze on the azure fin of the range, showing above
the dark blue-green bush on the horizon.
Then he commenced to speak -- taking no notice of me when I asked him
if he felt better now -- to talk in that strange, absent, far-away tone
that awes one. He told his story mechanically, monotonously --
in set words, as I believe now, as he had often told it before;
if not to others, then to the loneliness of the bush.
And he used the names of people and places that I had never heard of --
just as if I knew them as well as he did.
"I didn't want to bring her up the first year. It was no place for a woman.
I wanted her to stay with her people and wait till I'd got the place
a little more ship-shape. The Phippses took a selection down the creek.
I wanted her to wait and come up with them so's she'd have some company --
a woman to talk to. They came afterwards, but they didn't stop.
It was no place for a woman.
"But Mary would come. She wouldn't stop with her people down country.
She wanted to be with me, and look after me, and work and help me."
He repeated himself a great deal -- said the same thing
over and over again sometimes. He was only mad on one track.
He'd tail off and sit silent for a while; then he'd become aware of me
in a hurried, half-scared way, and apologise for putting me
to all that trouble, and thank me. "I'll be all right d'reckly.
Best take the horses up to the hut and have some breakfast;
you'll find it by the fire. I'll foller you, d'reckly.
The wife'll be waitin' an' ----" He would drop off,
and be going again presently on the old track: --
"Her mother was coming up to stay awhile at the end of the year,
but the old man hurt his leg. Then her married sister was coming,
but one of the youngsters got sick and there was trouble at home.
- rarely [´reəli]
ad.难得；非凡地 (初中英语单词) - lonely [´ləunli] a.孤独的；无人烟的 (初中英语单词)
- acquaintance [ə´kweintəns] n.相识；熟人，相识的人 (初中英语单词)
- horizon [hə´raizən] n.地平线；范围；视野 (初中英语单词)
- wrinkle [´riŋkəl] n.&v.(使)起皱(纹) (初中英语单词)
- forehead [´fɔrid] n.额，前部 (初中英语单词)
- abruptly [ə´brʌptli] ad.突然地；粗鲁地 (初中英语单词)
- wooden [´wudn] a.木制的；呆板的 (初中英语单词)
- doorway [´dɔ:wei] n.门口 (初中英语单词)
- coarse [kɔ:s] a.粗(糙)的；粗鲁的 (初中英语单词)
- whatever [wɔt´evə] pron.&a.无论什么 (初中英语单词)
- knitting [´nitiŋ] n.编织(物)；接合；联合 (初中英语单词)
- jacket [´dʒækit] n.茄克衫；外套 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- haunted [´hɔ:tid] a.常出现鬼的，闹鬼的 (初中英语单词)
- mysterious [mi´stiəriəs] a.神秘的；难以理解的 (初中英语单词)
- saddle [´sædl] n.鞍子 v.装鞍(于) (初中英语单词)
- working [´wə:kiŋ] a.工人的；劳动的 (初中英语单词)
- stomach [´stʌmək] n.胃；胃口，食欲 (初中英语单词)
- sickness [´siknis] n.生病；呕吐，恶心 (初中英语单词)
- absent [´æbsənt, əb´sent] a.不在的 vt.使缺席 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- awhile [ə´wail] ad.少顷；片刻 (初中英语单词)
- selection [si´lekʃən] n.选择；选拔；精选物 (高中英语单词)
- solitary [´sɔlitəri] a.独居的；孤独的 (高中英语单词)
- plough [plau] n.耕地 v.犁 (高中英语单词)
- portrait [´pɔ:trit] n.肖像；相片；雕像 (高中英语单词)
- uneasy [ʌn´i:zi] a.不安的；不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- studied [´stʌdid] a.故意的；有计划的 (高中英语单词)
- hearing [´hiəriŋ] n.听力；听证会；审讯 (高中英语单词)
- missus [´misəz] n.(已婚的)...夫人 (高中英语单词)
- handful [hændful] n.一把，少数，一小撮 (高中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- mistaken [mis´teikən] mistake的过去分词 (高中英语单词)
- housekeeper [´haus,ki:pə] n.主妇，女管家 (高中英语单词)
- draught [drɑ:ft] n.通风，通气；吸出 (高中英语单词)
- unexpected [ʌniks´pektid] a.突然的；意外的 (高中英语单词)
- perfectly [´pə:fiktli] ad.理想地；完美地 (高中英语单词)
- fireplace [´faiəpleis] n.壁炉，炉灶 (高中英语单词)
- biscuit [´biskit] n.饼干 (高中英语单词)
- mutton [´mʌtn] n.羊肉 (高中英语单词)
- hanging [´hæŋiŋ] n.绞刑 a.悬挂着的 (高中英语单词)
- horseback [´hɔ:sbæk] n.马背 (高中英语单词)
- rotten [´rɔtn] a.腐烂的；腐朽的 (高中英语单词)
- stiffly [´stifli] ad.硬；顽固地 (高中英语单词)
- comfortably [´kʌmfətəbli] ad.舒适地 (高中英语单词)
- loneliness [´ləunliniz] n.孤独，寂寞 (高中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- hurried [´hʌrid] a.仓促的，慌忙的 (高中英语单词)
- vertical [´və:tikəl] a.垂直的 n.垂直线 (英语四级单词)
- shingle [´ʃiŋgəl] n.盖屋板；木瓦 (英语四级单词)
- unfinished [´ʌn´finiʃt] a.未完成的，未完工的 (英语四级单词)
- ridden [´ridn] ride 的过去分词 (英语四级单词)
- awkwardly [´ɔ:kwədli] a.笨拙地；棘手地 (英语四级单词)
- blindly [blaindli] ad.盲目地；没头脑地 (英语四级单词)
- calico [´kælikəu] n.白棉布；印花布 (英语四级单词)
- painfully [´peinfuli] ad.痛苦地；费力地 (英语四级单词)
- loosely [´lu:sli] ad.松散地 (英语四级单词)
- beating [´bi:tiŋ] n.敲；搅打；失败 (英语六级单词)
- absently [´æbsəntli] ad.心不在焉地 (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- mechanically [mi´kænikəli] ad.机械地；无意识地 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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