章节正文
into his hand; "why, you'll have enough to last you a lifetime; and as
for exercise! why, you'll get more exercise, sitting down on that ship,
than you would turning somersaults on dry land."
He himself - my brother-in-law - came back by train. He said the North-
Western Railway was healthy enough for him.
Another fellow I knew went for a week's voyage round the coast, and,
before they started, the steward came to him to ask whether he would pay
for each meal as he had it, or arrange beforehand for the whole series.
The steward recommended the latter course, as it would come so much
cheaper. He said they would do him for the whole week at two pounds
five. He said for breakfast there would be fish, followed by a grill.
Lunch was at one, and consisted of four courses. Dinner at six - soup,
fish, entree, joint, poultry, salad, sweets, cheese, and dessert. And a
light meat supper at ten.
My friend thought he would close on the two-pound-five job (he is a
hearty eater), and did so.
Lunch came just as they were off Sheerness. He didn't feel so hungry as
he thought he should, and so contented himself with a bit of boiled beef,
and some strawberries and cream. He pondered a good deal during the
afternoon, and at one time it seemed to him that he had been eating
nothing but boiled beef for weeks, and at other times it seemed that he
must have been living on strawberries and cream for years.
Neither the beef nor the strawberries and cream seemed happy, either -
seemed discontented like.
At six, they came and told him dinner was ready. The announcement
aroused no enthusiasm within him, but he felt that there was some of that
two-pound-five to be worked off, and he held on to ropes and things and
went down. A pleasant odour of onions and hot ham, mingled with fried
fish and greens, greeted him at the bottom of the ladder; and then the
steward came up with an oily smile, and said:
"What can I get you, sir?"
"Get me out of this," was the feeble reply.
And they ran him up quick, and propped him up, over to leeward, and left
him.
For the next four days he lived a simple and blameless life on thin
captain's biscuits (I mean that the biscuits were thin, not the captain)
and soda-water; but, towards Saturday, he got uppish, and went in for
weak tea and dry toast, and on Monday he was gorging himself on chicken
broth. He left the ship on Tuesday, and as it steamed away from the
landing-stage he gazed after it regretfully.
"There she goes," he said, "there she goes, with two pounds' worth of
food on board that belongs to me, and that I haven't had."
He said that if they had given him another day he thought he could have
put it straight.
So I set my face against the sea trip. Not, as I explained, upon my own
account. I was never queer. But I was afraid for George. George said
he should be all right, and would rather like it, but he would advise
Harris and me not to think of it, as he felt sure we should both be ill.
Harris said that, to himself, it was always a mystery how people managed
to get sick at sea - said he thought people must do it on purpose, from
affectation - said he had often wished to be, but had never been able.
Then he told us anecdotes of how he had gone across the Channel when it
was so rough that the passengers had to be tied into their berths, and he
and the captain were the only two living souls on board who were not ill.
Sometimes it was he and the second mate who were not ill; but it was
generally he and one other man. If not he and another man, then it was
he by himself.
It is a curious fact, but nobody ever is sea-sick - on land. At sea, you
come across plenty of people very bad indeed, whole boat-loads of them;
but I never met a man yet, on land, who had ever known at all what it was
to be sea-sick. Where the thousands upon thousands of bad sailors that
swarm in every ship hide themselves when they are on land is a mystery.
If most men were like a fellow I saw on the Yarmouth boat one day, I
could account for the seeming enigma easily enough. It was just off
Southend Pier, I recollect, and he was leaning out through one of the
port-holes in a very dangerous position. I went up to him to try and
save him.
"Hi! come further in," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "You'll be
overboard."
"Oh my! I wish I was," was the only answer I could get; and there I had
to leave him.
Three weeks afterwards, I met him in the coffee-room of a Bath hotel,
talking about his voyages, and explaining, with enthusiasm, how he loved
the sea.
"Good sailor!" he replied in answer to a mild young man's envious query;
"well, I did feel a little queer ONCE, I confess. It was off Cape Horn.
The vessel was wrecked the next morning."
I said:
"Weren't you a little shaky by Southend Pier one day, and wanted to be
thrown overboard?"
"Southend Pier!" he replied, with a puzzled expression.
"Yes; going down to Yarmouth, last Friday three weeks."
"Oh, ah - yes," he answered, brightening up; "I remember now. I did have
a headache that afternoon. It was the pickles, you know. They were the
most disgraceful pickles I ever tasted in a respectable boat. Did you
have any?"
For myself, I have discovered an excellent preventive against sea-
sickness, in balancing myself. You stand in the centre of the deck, and,
as the ship heaves and pitches, you move your body about, so as to keep
it always straight. When the front of the ship rises, you lean forward,
till the deck almost touches your nose; and when its back end gets up,
you lean backwards. This is all very well for an hour or two; but you
can't balance yourself for a week.
George said:
"Let's go up the river."
He said we should have fresh air, exercise and quiet; the constant change
of scene would occupy our minds (including what there was of Harris's);
and the hard work would give us a good appetite, and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn't think George ought to do anything that would have a
tendency to make him sleepier than he always was, as it might be
dangerous.
He said he didn't very well understand how George was going to sleep any
more than he did now, seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in
each day, summer and winter alike; but thought that if he DID sleep any
more, he might just as well be dead, and so save his board and lodging.
Harris said, however, that the river would suit him to a "T." I don't
know what a "T" is (except a sixpenny one, which includes bread-and-
butter and cake AD LIB., and is cheap at the price, if you haven't had
any dinner). It seems to suit everybody, however, which is greatly to
its credit.
It suited me to a "T" too, and Harris and I both said it was a good idea
of George's; and we said it in a tone that seemed to somehow imply that
we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible.
The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He
never did care for the river, did Montmorency.
"It's all very well for you fellows," he says; "you like it, but I don't.
There's nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line, and I don't
smoke. If I see a rat, you won't stop; and if I go to sleep, you get
fooling about with the boat, and slop me overboard. If you ask me, I
call the whole thing bally foolishness."
We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried.
CHAPTER II.
PLANS DISCUSSED. - PLEASURES OF "CAMPING-OUT," ON FINE NIGHTS. - DITTO,
WET NIGHTS. - COMPROMISE DECIDED ON. - MONTMORENCY, FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF.
- FEARS LEST HE IS TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD, FEARS SUBSEQUENTLY DISMISSED
AS GROUNDLESS. - MEETING ADJOURNS.
WE pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and
I would go down in the morning, and take the boat up to Chertsey, and
George, who would not be able to get away from the City till the
afternoon (George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day,
except Saturdays, when they wake him up and put him outside at two),
would meet us there.
Should we "camp out" or sleep at inns?
George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free,
so patriarchal like.
Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the
cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased
their song, and only the moorhen's plaintive cry and the harsh croak of
the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the
dying day breathes out her last.
From the dim woods on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the grey
shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear-
guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the
waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her
sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, from
her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.
Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is
pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are
filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical
undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the
boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child's
song that it has sung so many thousand years - will sing so many thousand
years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old - a song that we, who
have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its
yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell
you in mere words the story that we listen to.
And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops
down to kiss it with a sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms around
it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever
whispering, out to meet its king, the sea - till our voices die away in
silence, and the pipes go out - till we, common-place, everyday young men
enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not
care or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from
our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the lapping
water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still
stars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet as she
used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face,
ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart - sweet
as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us,
her children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of painted
civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned
sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led
with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many
thousands years ago.
Harris said:
"How about when it rained?"
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris - no wild
yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why."
If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has
been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:
"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the
waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by
seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say:
"I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now, you come along
with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop
of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted - put you right in less than
no time."
Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get
something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met
Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would
immediately greet you with:
"So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round the
corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar."
In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, his
practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in
rainy weather is not pleasant.
It is evening. You are wet through, and there is a good two inches of
water in the boat, and all the things are damp. You find a place on the
banks that is not quite so puddly as other places you have seen, and you
for exercise! why, you'll get more exercise, sitting down on that ship,
than you would turning somersaults on dry land."
He himself - my brother-in-law - came back by train. He said the North-
Western Railway was healthy enough for him.
Another fellow I knew went for a week's voyage round the coast, and,
before they started, the steward came to him to ask whether he would pay
for each meal as he had it, or arrange beforehand for the whole series.
The steward recommended the latter course, as it would come so much
cheaper. He said they would do him for the whole week at two pounds
five. He said for breakfast there would be fish, followed by a grill.
Lunch was at one, and consisted of four courses. Dinner at six - soup,
fish, entree, joint, poultry, salad, sweets, cheese, and dessert. And a
light meat supper at ten.
My friend thought he would close on the two-pound-five job (he is a
hearty eater), and did so.
Lunch came just as they were off Sheerness. He didn't feel so hungry as
he thought he should, and so contented himself with a bit of boiled beef,
and some strawberries and cream. He pondered a good deal during the
afternoon, and at one time it seemed to him that he had been eating
nothing but boiled beef for weeks, and at other times it seemed that he
must have been living on strawberries and cream for years.
Neither the beef nor the strawberries and cream seemed happy, either -
seemed discontented like.
At six, they came and told him dinner was ready. The announcement
aroused no enthusiasm within him, but he felt that there was some of that
two-pound-five to be worked off, and he held on to ropes and things and
went down. A pleasant odour of onions and hot ham, mingled with fried
fish and greens, greeted him at the bottom of the ladder; and then the
steward came up with an oily smile, and said:
"What can I get you, sir?"
"Get me out of this," was the feeble reply.
And they ran him up quick, and propped him up, over to leeward, and left
him.
For the next four days he lived a simple and blameless life on thin
captain's biscuits (I mean that the biscuits were thin, not the captain)
and soda-water; but, towards Saturday, he got uppish, and went in for
weak tea and dry toast, and on Monday he was gorging himself on chicken
broth. He left the ship on Tuesday, and as it steamed away from the
landing-stage he gazed after it regretfully.
"There she goes," he said, "there she goes, with two pounds' worth of
food on board that belongs to me, and that I haven't had."
He said that if they had given him another day he thought he could have
put it straight.
So I set my face against the sea trip. Not, as I explained, upon my own
account. I was never queer. But I was afraid for George. George said
he should be all right, and would rather like it, but he would advise
Harris and me not to think of it, as he felt sure we should both be ill.
Harris said that, to himself, it was always a mystery how people managed
to get sick at sea - said he thought people must do it on purpose, from
affectation - said he had often wished to be, but had never been able.
Then he told us anecdotes of how he had gone across the Channel when it
was so rough that the passengers had to be tied into their berths, and he
and the captain were the only two living souls on board who were not ill.
Sometimes it was he and the second mate who were not ill; but it was
generally he and one other man. If not he and another man, then it was
he by himself.
It is a curious fact, but nobody ever is sea-sick - on land. At sea, you
come across plenty of people very bad indeed, whole boat-loads of them;
but I never met a man yet, on land, who had ever known at all what it was
to be sea-sick. Where the thousands upon thousands of bad sailors that
swarm in every ship hide themselves when they are on land is a mystery.
If most men were like a fellow I saw on the Yarmouth boat one day, I
could account for the seeming enigma easily enough. It was just off
Southend Pier, I recollect, and he was leaning out through one of the
port-holes in a very dangerous position. I went up to him to try and
save him.
"Hi! come further in," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "You'll be
overboard."
"Oh my! I wish I was," was the only answer I could get; and there I had
to leave him.
Three weeks afterwards, I met him in the coffee-room of a Bath hotel,
talking about his voyages, and explaining, with enthusiasm, how he loved
the sea.
"Good sailor!" he replied in answer to a mild young man's envious query;
"well, I did feel a little queer ONCE, I confess. It was off Cape Horn.
The vessel was wrecked the next morning."
I said:
"Weren't you a little shaky by Southend Pier one day, and wanted to be
thrown overboard?"
"Southend Pier!" he replied, with a puzzled expression.
"Yes; going down to Yarmouth, last Friday three weeks."
"Oh, ah - yes," he answered, brightening up; "I remember now. I did have
a headache that afternoon. It was the pickles, you know. They were the
most disgraceful pickles I ever tasted in a respectable boat. Did you
have any?"
For myself, I have discovered an excellent preventive against sea-
sickness, in balancing myself. You stand in the centre of the deck, and,
as the ship heaves and pitches, you move your body about, so as to keep
it always straight. When the front of the ship rises, you lean forward,
till the deck almost touches your nose; and when its back end gets up,
you lean backwards. This is all very well for an hour or two; but you
can't balance yourself for a week.
George said:
"Let's go up the river."
He said we should have fresh air, exercise and quiet; the constant change
of scene would occupy our minds (including what there was of Harris's);
and the hard work would give us a good appetite, and make us sleep well.
Harris said he didn't think George ought to do anything that would have a
tendency to make him sleepier than he always was, as it might be
dangerous.
He said he didn't very well understand how George was going to sleep any
more than he did now, seeing that there were only twenty-four hours in
each day, summer and winter alike; but thought that if he DID sleep any
more, he might just as well be dead, and so save his board and lodging.
Harris said, however, that the river would suit him to a "T." I don't
know what a "T" is (except a sixpenny one, which includes bread-and-
butter and cake AD LIB., and is cheap at the price, if you haven't had
any dinner). It seems to suit everybody, however, which is greatly to
its credit.
It suited me to a "T" too, and Harris and I both said it was a good idea
of George's; and we said it in a tone that seemed to somehow imply that
we were surprised that George should have come out so sensible.
The only one who was not struck with the suggestion was Montmorency. He
never did care for the river, did Montmorency.
"It's all very well for you fellows," he says; "you like it, but I don't.
There's nothing for me to do. Scenery is not in my line, and I don't
smoke. If I see a rat, you won't stop; and if I go to sleep, you get
fooling about with the boat, and slop me overboard. If you ask me, I
call the whole thing bally foolishness."
We were three to one, however, and the motion was carried.
CHAPTER II.
PLANS DISCUSSED. - PLEASURES OF "CAMPING-OUT," ON FINE NIGHTS. - DITTO,
WET NIGHTS. - COMPROMISE DECIDED ON. - MONTMORENCY, FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF.
- FEARS LEST HE IS TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD, FEARS SUBSEQUENTLY DISMISSED
AS GROUNDLESS. - MEETING ADJOURNS.
WE pulled out the maps, and discussed plans.
We arranged to start on the following Saturday from Kingston. Harris and
I would go down in the morning, and take the boat up to Chertsey, and
George, who would not be able to get away from the City till the
afternoon (George goes to sleep at a bank from ten to four each day,
except Saturdays, when they wake him up and put him outside at two),
would meet us there.
Should we "camp out" or sleep at inns?
George and I were for camping out. We said it would be so wild and free,
so patriarchal like.
Slowly the golden memory of the dead sun fades from the hearts of the
cold, sad clouds. Silent, like sorrowing children, the birds have ceased
their song, and only the moorhen's plaintive cry and the harsh croak of
the corncrake stirs the awed hush around the couch of waters, where the
dying day breathes out her last.
From the dim woods on either bank, Night's ghostly army, the grey
shadows, creep out with noiseless tread to chase away the lingering rear-
guard of the light, and pass, with noiseless, unseen feet, above the
waving river-grass, and through the sighing rushes; and Night, upon her
sombre throne, folds her black wings above the darkening world, and, from
her phantom palace, lit by the pale stars, reigns in stillness.
Then we run our little boat into some quiet nook, and the tent is
pitched, and the frugal supper cooked and eaten. Then the big pipes are
filled and lighted, and the pleasant chat goes round in musical
undertone; while, in the pauses of our talk, the river, playing round the
boat, prattles strange old tales and secrets, sings low the old child's
song that it has sung so many thousand years - will sing so many thousand
years to come, before its voice grows harsh and old - a song that we, who
have learnt to love its changing face, who have so often nestled on its
yielding bosom, think, somehow, we understand, though we could not tell
you in mere words the story that we listen to.
And we sit there, by its margin, while the moon, who loves it too, stoops
down to kiss it with a sister's kiss, and throws her silver arms around
it clingingly; and we watch it as it flows, ever singing, ever
whispering, out to meet its king, the sea - till our voices die away in
silence, and the pipes go out - till we, common-place, everyday young men
enough, feel strangely full of thoughts, half sad, half sweet, and do not
care or want to speak - till we laugh, and, rising, knock the ashes from
our burnt-out pipes, and say "Good-night," and, lulled by the lapping
water and the rustling trees, we fall asleep beneath the great, still
stars, and dream that the world is young again - young and sweet as she
used to be ere the centuries of fret and care had furrowed her fair face,
ere her children's sins and follies had made old her loving heart - sweet
as she was in those bygone days when, a new-made mother, she nursed us,
her children, upon her own deep breast - ere the wiles of painted
civilization had lured us away from her fond arms, and the poisoned
sneers of artificiality had made us ashamed of the simple life we led
with her, and the simple, stately home where mankind was born so many
thousands years ago.
Harris said:
"How about when it rained?"
You can never rouse Harris. There is no poetry about Harris - no wild
yearning for the unattainable. Harris never "weeps, he knows not why."
If Harris's eyes fill with tears, you can bet it is because Harris has
been eating raw onions, or has put too much Worcester over his chop.
If you were to stand at night by the sea-shore with Harris, and say:
"Hark! do you not hear? Is it but the mermaids singing deep below the
waving waters; or sad spirits, chanting dirges for white corpses, held by
seaweed?" Harris would take you by the arm, and say:
"I know what it is, old man; you've got a chill. Now, you come along
with me. I know a place round the corner here, where you can get a drop
of the finest Scotch whisky you ever tasted - put you right in less than
no time."
Harris always does know a place round the corner where you can get
something brilliant in the drinking line. I believe that if you met
Harris up in Paradise (supposing such a thing likely), he would
immediately greet you with:
"So glad you've come, old fellow; I've found a nice place round the
corner here, where you can get some really first-class nectar."
In the present instance, however, as regarded the camping out, his
practical view of the matter came as a very timely hint. Camping out in
rainy weather is not pleasant.
It is evening. You are wet through, and there is a good two inches of
water in the boat, and all the things are damp. You find a place on the
banks that is not quite so puddly as other places you have seen, and you
- healthy [´helθi]
a.健康的 (初中英语单词) - voyage [´vɔi-idʒ] n.&vi.航海；航程；旅行 (初中英语单词)
- cheese [tʃi:z] n.干酪，乳酪 (初中英语单词)
- enthusiasm [in´θju:ziæzəm] n.热心；狂热；爱好 (初中英语单词)
- feeble [´fi:bəl] a.虚弱的，无力的 (初中英语单词)
- mystery [´mistəri] n.神秘；秘密；故弄玄虚 (初中英语单词)
- channel [´tʃænəl] n.海峡；航道；途径 (初中英语单词)
- account [ə´kaunt] vi.说明 vt.认为 n.帐目 (初中英语单词)
- confess [kən´fes] vt.供认；坦白；承认 (初中英语单词)
- vessel [´vesəl] n.容器；船；脉管 (初中英语单词)
- constant [´kɔnstənt] a.坚定的；坚贞的 (初中英语单词)
- appetite [´æpitait] n.欲望；食欲 (初中英语单词)
- suggestion [sə´dʒestʃən] n.建议，提议；暗示 (初中英语单词)
- learnt [lə:nt] learn 的过去式(分词) (初中英语单词)
- strangely [´streindʒli] ad.奇怪地；陌生地 (初中英语单词)
- ashamed [ə´ʃeimd] a.惭愧；不好意思 (初中英语单词)
- poetry [´pəuitri] n.诗；诗意 (初中英语单词)
- brilliant [´briliənt] a.灿烂的；杰出的 (初中英语单词)
- paradise [´pærədais] n.天堂；乐园 (初中英语单词)
- instance [´instəns] n.例子，实例，例证 (初中英语单词)
- lifetime [´laiftaim] n.一生，终生，寿命 (高中英语单词)
- steward [´stju:əd] n.管家；服务员 (高中英语单词)
- poultry [´pəultri] n.&v.家禽 (高中英语单词)
- dessert [di´zə:t] n.(餐后)甜食 (高中英语单词)
- contented [kən´tentid] a.满足的；心满意足的 (高中英语单词)
- ladder [´lædə] n.梯子；阶梯 (高中英语单词)
- headache [´hedeik] n.头痛；使人头痛的事 (高中英语单词)
- respectable [ri´spektəbəl] a.可敬的；有身价的 (高中英语单词)
- seeing [si:iŋ] see的现在分词 n.视觉 (高中英语单词)
- scenery [´si:nəri] n.舞台布景 (高中英语单词)
- motion [´məuʃən] n.手势 vt.打手势 (高中英语单词)
- compromise [´kɔmprəmaiz] n.妥协，和解 (高中英语单词)
- decided [di´saidid] a.明显的；决定的 (高中英语单词)
- subsequently [´sʌbsikwəntli] a.其次，接着 (高中英语单词)
- unseen [,ʌn´si:n] a.未看见的 (高中英语单词)
- throne [θrəun] n.宝座；王位 (高中英语单词)
- margin [´mɑ:dʒin] n.边缘；空白；余地 (高中英语单词)
- everyday [´evridei] a.每日的，日常的 (高中英语单词)
- loving [´lʌviŋ] a.爱的，有爱情的 (高中英语单词)
- stately [´steitli] a.庄严的，雄伟的 (高中英语单词)
- scotch [skɔtʃ] vt.&n.刻痕(于)；划伤 (高中英语单词)
- beforehand [bi´fɔ:hænd] ad.事先；提前 (英语四级单词)
- seeming [´si:miŋ] a.表面上的 n.外观 (英语四级单词)
- recollect [rekə´lekt] v.重新集合；恢复 (英语四级单词)
- envious [´enviəs] a.妒忌的，羡慕的 (英语四级单词)
- overboard [´əuvəbɔ:d] ad.向船外；到水中 (英语四级单词)
- brother-in-law [´brʌðəinlɔ:] n.姐夫；妹夫；内弟 (英语六级单词)
- discontented [,diskən´tentid] a.不平的；不满的 (英语六级单词)
- blameless [´bleimlis] a.无可责难的 (英语六级单词)
- disgraceful [dis´greisful] a.可耻的；不光彩的 (英语六级单词)
- backwards [´bækwədz] ad.向后 a.向后的 (英语六级单词)
- plaintive [´pleintiv] a.表示哀怨(悲痛) (英语六级单词)
- ghostly [´gəustli] a.鬼的；朦胧的 (英语六级单词)
- phantom [´fæntəm] n.幽灵；幻影 a.幻想的 (英语六级单词)
- frugal [´fru:gəl] a.节俭的，俭朴的 (英语六级单词)
- first-class [´fə:st-´klɑ:s] a.头等的 ad.乘头等车 (英语六级单词)
- timely [´taimli] a.及时的；适合的 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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