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(单词翻译:双击或拖选)
V
It was I think already near midnight when the little old man and Vasily, who had gone after the runaway1 horses, rode up to us. They had managed to catch the horses and to find and overtake us; but how they had managed to do this in the thick blinding snow storm amid the bare steppe will always remain a mystery to me. The old man, swinging his elbows and legs, was riding the shaft-horse at a trot2 (the two side-horses were attached to its collar: one dare not let horses loose in a snow storm). When he came abreast3 of us he again began to scold my driver.
‘Look at the cross-eyed devil, really …’
‘Eh, Uncle Mitrich!’ the folk-tale teller4 in the second sledge5 called out: ‘Are you alive? Get in here with us.’
But the old man did not reply and continued his abuse. When he thought he had said enough he rode up to the second sledge.
‘Have you caught them all?’ someone in it asked.
‘What do you think?’
His small figure threw itself forward on the back of the trotting6 horse, then jumped down on the snow, and without stopping he ran after the sledge and tumbled in, his legs sticking out over its side. The tall Vasily silently took his old place in the front sledge beside Ignashka, and the two began to look for the road together.
For a long time after that we drove on without stopping over the white wasteland, in the cold, pellucid8, and quivering light of the snow storm. I’d open my eyes and the same clumsy snow-covered cap and back would be jolting9 before me: the same low shaft-bow, under which, between the taut10 leather reins11 and always at the same distance from me, the head of our shaft-horse kept bobbing with its black mane blown to one side by the wind, while looking across its back I could see the same little piebald horse on the right, with its tail tied up short, and the swingletree which sometimes knocked against the front of the sledge. I’d look down and there was the same scurrying12 snow through which our runners were cutting, and which the wind resolutely14 bore away to one side. In front, always at the same distance away, glided16 the first troika, while to right and left everything glimmered17 white and dim. Vainly did my eye look for any new object: neither post, nor haystack, nor fence was to be seen. Everywhere all was white and shifting: now the horizon seemed immeasurably distant, now it closed in on all sides to within two paces of me; suddenly a high white wall would seem to rise up on the right and run beside the sledge, then it would suddenly vanish and rise again in front, only to glide15 on further and further away and again disappear. I’d look up and it would seem lighter18 for a moment, as if I might see the stars through the haze19, but the stars would run away higher and higher from my sight and only the snow would be visible, falling past my eyes onto my face and the collar of my fur cloak. The sky everywhere remained equally light, equally white, monotonous20, colourless, and constantly shifting. The wind seemed to be changing: now it blew in my face and the snow plastered my eyes, now it blew from one side and annoyingly tossed the fur collar of my cloak against my head and mockingly flapped my face with it; now it howled through some opening. I heard the soft incessant21 crunching22 of the hoofs23 and the runners on the snow, and the clang of the bells dying down when we drove through deep drifts. Only now and then, when we drove against the snow and glided over bare frozen ground, did Ignashka’s energetic whistling and the sonorous24 sound of the bell with its accompanying bare fifth reach me and give sudden relief to the dismal25 character of the wasteland; and then again the bells would sound monotonous, playing always with insufferable precision the same tune26, which I involuntarily imagined I was hearing. One of my feet began to feel the frost, and when I turned to wrap myself up better, the snow that had settled on my collar and cap sifted27 down my neck and made me shiver, but on the whole I still felt warm in my fur coat, and drowsiness28 overcame me.
VI
Recollections and pictures of the distant past superseded29 one another with increasing rapidity in my imagination.
‘That advice-giver who is always calling out from the second sledge—what sort of fellow can he be?’ I thought. ‘Probably red-haired, thick-set, and with short legs, like Fyodor Filippych, our old butler.’ And I saw the staircase of our big house and five domestic serfs with heavy steps bringing a piano from the wing on slings30 made of towels, and Fyodor Filippych with the sleeves of his nankeen coat turned up, holding one of the pedals, running forward, lifting a latch31, pulling here at the slings, pushing there, crawling between people’s legs, getting into everybody’s way, and shouting incessantly32 in an anxious voice:
‘Lean it against yourselves, you there in front, you in front! That’s the way—the tail end up, up, up! Turn into the door! That’s the way.’
‘Just let us do it, Fyodor Filippych! We can manage it alone,’ timidly remarks the gardener, quite red with straining, as he is pressed against the bannisters, with great effort holding up one corner of the grand piano.
But Fyodor Filippych will not be quiet.
‘What does it mean?’ I reflect. ‘Does he think he is useful or necessary for the work in hand, or is he simply glad God has given him this self-confident persuasive33 eloquence34, and enjoys dispensing35 it? That must be it.’ And then somehow I see the lake, and tired domestic serfs up to their knees in the water dragging a fishing-net, and again Fyodor Filippych with a watering can, shouting at everybody as he runs up and down on the bank, now and then approaching the brink36 to empty out some turbid37 water and to take up fresh, while holding back the golden carp with his hand. But now it is a July noon. I am going somewhere over the freshly mown grass in the garden, under the burning, vertical38 rays of the sun; I am still very young, and I feel a lack of something and a desire to fill that lack. I go to my favourite place by the lake, between the briar-rose bed and the birch-lined lane, and lie down to sleep. I remember the feeling with which, lying down, I looked across between the prickly red stems of the rose trees at the dark, dry, crumbly earth, and at the bright blue mirror of the lake. It is a feeling of naive39 self-satisfaction and melancholy40. Everything around me is beautiful, and that beauty affects me so powerfully that it seems to me that I myself am good, and the one thing that vexes41 me is that nobody is there to admire me. It is hot. I try to sleep so as to console myself, but the flies, the unendurable flies, give me no peace here either: they gather round me and, with a kind of dull persistence42, hard as cherry-stones, jump from my forehead onto my hands. A bee buzzes not far from me in the blazing sunlight; yellow-winged butterflies fly from one blade of grass to another as if exhausted43 by the heat. I look up: my eyes hurt as the sun glitters too brightly through the light foliage44 of the curly birch tree whose branches sway softly high above me, and it seems hotter than ever. I cover my face with my handkerchief: it feels stifling45, and the flies seem to stick to my hands which begin to perspire46. In the very centre of the wild rose bush sparrows begin to bustle47 about. One of them hops48 to the ground about two feet from me, energetically pretends to peck at the ground a couple of times, flies back into the bush, rustling49 the twigs51, and chirping52 merrily flies away. Another also hops down, jerks his little tail, looks about him, chirps53, and flies off quick as an arrow after the first one. From the lake comes a sound of a beetle54* beating wet linen55, and the sound reverberates56 and is borne down along the lake. Sounds of laughter and the voices and splashing of bathers are heard. A gust57 of wind rustles58 the crowns of the birch trees, still far from me; now it comes nearer and I hear it stir the grass, and now the leaves of the wild roses begin to flutter, pressed against their stems, and at last a fresh stream of air reaches me, lifting a corner of my handkerchief and tickling59 my moist face. Through the gap where the corner of the kerchief was lifted a fly comes in and flutters with fright close to my moist mouth. A dry twig50 presses against my back. No, I can’t lie still: I had better go and have a bathe. But just then, close to the rose bush, I hear hurried steps and a woman’s frightened voice:
‘O God! How could such a thing happen! And none of the men are here!’
‘What is it? What is it?’ running out into the sunshine I ask a woman serf who hurries past me groaning60. She only looks round, waves her arms, and runs on. But here comes seventy-year-old Matryona hurrying to the lake, holding down with one hand the kerchief which is slipping off her head, and hopping61 and dragging one of her feet in its worsted stocking. Two little girls come running up hand in hand, and a ten-year-old boy, wearing his father’s coat and clutching the homespun skirt of one of the girls, keeps close behind them.
‘What has happened?’ I ask them.
‘A peasant is drowning.’
‘Where?’
‘In the lake.’
‘Who is he? One of ours?’
‘No, a stranger.’
Ivan the coachman, dragging his heavy boots through the newly mown grass, and the fat clerk Yakov, all out of breath, run to the pond and I after them.
I remember the feeling which said to me: ‘There you are, plunge62 in and pull out the peasant and save him, and everyone will admire you,’ which was exactly what I wanted.
‘Out there, in the very deepest part near the other bank, almost at the boathouse,’ says the washerwoman, hanging the wet linen on her wooden yoke64. ‘I look, and see him dive; he just comes up and is gone, then comes up again and calls out: “I’m drowning, help!” and goes down again, and nothing but bubbles come up. Then I see that the man is drowning, so I give a yell: “Hey, everybody! A peasant’s drowning!”’
And lifting the yoke to her shoulder the laundress waddles65 sideways along the path away from the lake.
‘Oh gracious, what a business!’ says Yakov Ivanov, the office-clerk, in a despairing tone. ‘What a bother there’ll be with the rural court. We’ll never get through with it!’
A peasant carrying a scythe66 pushes his way through the throng of women, children, and old men who have gathered on the further shore, and hanging his scythe on the branch of a willow67 slowly begins to take off his boots.
‘Where? Where did he go down?’ I keep asking, wishing to rush there and do something extraordinary.
But they point to the smooth surface of the lake which is occasionally rippled68 by the passing breeze. I do not understand how he came to drown; the water is still so smooth, lovely, and calm above him, shining golden in the midday sun, and it seems that I can do nothing and can astonish no one, especially as I am a very poor swimmer and the peasant is already pulling his shirt over his head and ready to plunge in. Everybody looks at him hopefully and with bated breath, but after going in up to his shoulders he slowly turns back and puts his shirt on again—he cannot swim.
People still keep on gathering69 and the throng grows and grows; the women cling to one another, but nobody does anything to help. Those who have just come give advice, and sigh, and their faces express fear and despair; but of those who have been there awhile, some, tired with standing70, sit down on the grass, while some go away. Old Matryona asks her daughter whether she shut the oven door, and the boy who is wearing his father’s coat diligently71 throws small stones into the water.
But now Fyodor Filippych’s dog Tresorka, barking and looking back in perplexity, comes running down the hill, and then Fyodor himself, running downhill and shouting, appears from behind the briar-rose bushes:
‘What are you standing there for?’ he cries, taking off his coat as he runs. ‘A man drowning, and they stand there! … Get me a rope!’
Everybody looks at Fyodor Filippych with hope and fear as, leaning his hand on the shoulder of an obliging domestic serf, he pries72 off his right boot with the toe of the left.
‘Over there, where the people are, a little to the right of the willow, Fyodor Filippych, just there!’ someone says to him.
‘I know,’ he replies, and knitting his brows, in response, no doubt, to the signs of shame among the crowd of women, he pulls off his shirt, removes the cross from his neck and hands it to the gardener’s boy who stands obsequiously73 before him, and then, stepping energetically over the cut grass, approaches the lake.
Tresorka, perplexed74 by the quickness of his master’s movements, has stopped near the crowd and with a smack75 of his lips eats a few blades of grass near the bank, then looks at his master intently and with a joyful76 yelp77 suddenly plunges78 with him into the water. For a moment nothing can be seen but foam79 and spray, which even reaches to us; but now Fyodor Filippych, gracefully80 swinging his arms and rhythmically81 raising and lowering his back, swims briskly with long strokes to the opposite shore. Tresorka, having swallowed some water, returns hurriedly, shakes himself near the throng, and rubs his back on the grass. Just as Fyodor Filippych reaches the opposite shore two coachmen come running up to the willow with a fishing-net wrapped round a pole. Fyodor Filippych for some unknown reason lifts his arms, dives down once and then a second and a third time, on each occasion squirting a jet of water from his mouth, and gracefully tosses back his hair without answering the questions that are hurled82 at him from all sides. At last he comes out onto the bank, and as far as I can see only gives instructions as to spreading out the net. The net is drawn83 in, but there is nothing in it except ooze84 with a few small carp entangled85 in it. While the net is being lowered again I go round to that side.
The only sounds to be heard are Fyodor Filippych’s voice giving orders, the plashing of the wet rope on the water, and sighs of terror. The wet rope attached to the right side of the net, more and more covered by grass, comes further and further out of the water.
‘Now then, pull together, harder, all together!’ shouts Fyodor Filippych.
The floats appear dripping with water.
‘Hey, there is something. It’s heavy to pull!’ someone calls out.
But now the net, in which two or three little carp are struggling, is dragged right onto the bank, wetting and pressing down the grass. And in the extended wings of the net, through a thin swaying layer of turbid water, something white comes right into sight. Amid dead silence an impressive, though not loud, gasp86 of horror passes through the crowd.
‘Pull harder, onto the land!’ comes Fyodor Filippych’s resolute13 voice, and the drowned body is dragged over the stubble of burdock and thistle, way out to the willow.
And now I see my good old aunt in her silk dress, with her face ready to burst into tears. I see her lilac parasol with its fringe, which seems somehow incongruous in this scene of death, so terrible in its simplicity87. I remember the disappointment her face expressed because arnica* could be of no use, and I also remember the painful feeling of annoyance88 I experienced when, with the naive egotism of love, she said: ‘Come away my dear. Oh, how dreadful it is! And you always go bathing and swimming by yourself.’
I remember how bright and hot the sun was as it baked the powdery earth underfoot; how it sparkled and mirrored in the lake; how the plump carp plashed near the banks and shoals of little fish rippled the water in the middle; how a hawk89 hovering90 high in the air circled over the ducklings, which quacking91 and splashing had come swimming out through the reeds into the middle of the lake; how curling white thunder-clouds gathered on the horizon; how the mud drawn out onto the bank by the net gradually receded92; and how as I crossed the dyke93 I again heard the strokes of a beetle reverberating94 over the lake.
But this beetle sounds as if two beetles95 were beating together in thirds, and that sound torments96 and worries me, the more so because I know that this beetle is a bell, and that Fyodor Filippych will not make it stop. Then this beetle, like an instrument of torture, presses my foot which is freezing, and I fall asleep.
I am awakened97, as it seems to me, by our galloping98 very fast and by two voices calling out quite close to me:
‘I say, Ignat! Eh, Ignat!’ my driver is saying. ‘You take my passenger. You have to go on anyhow, but what’s the use of my goading99 my horses uselessly? You take him!’
Ignat’s voice quite close to me replies:
‘And what do I get for making myself responsible for the passenger? Will you stand me a bottle?’
‘Oh, come, a bottle … say half a bottle.’
‘Half a bottle, indeed!’ shouts another voice. ‘Wear out the horses for half a bottle!’
I open my eyes. Before them still flickers100 the same intolerable swaying snow, the same drivers and horses, but now we are abreast of another sledge. My driver has overtaken Ignat, and we drive side by side for some time. Though the voice from the other sledge advises him not to accept less than a bottle, Ignat suddenly reins in his troika.
‘Well, shift over. So be it! It’s your luck. You’ll stand half a bottle when we return tomorrow. Is there much luggage?’
My driver jumps out into the snow with unusual alacrity101 for him, bows to me, and begs me to change over into Ignat’s sledge. I am quite willing to, but evidently the God-fearing peasant is so pleased that he has to pour out his gratitude102 and delight to someone. He bows and thanks me, Alyoshka, and Ignat.
‘There now, the Lord be praised! What has it been like … O Lord! We’ve been driving half the night and didn’t know where we were going. He’ll get you there, dear sir, but my horses are quite worn out.’
While my things were being transferred I went to the second sledge, following the wind, which almost lifted me off my feet. That sledge was more than six inches deep in snow, especially from the side where a coat had been arranged on the two men’s heads to shelter them from the wind, but behind the coat it was quiet and comfortable. The old man still lay with his legs sticking out, and the storyteller was still going on with his tale:
‘Well, when the general comes to Mary in prison, in the King’s name, you know, Mary at once says to him: “General, I don’t need you and can’t love you, and so, you see, you are not my lover, but my lover is the prince himself …”’
‘And just then …’ he went on, but seeing me he stopped for a moment and began filling his pipe.
‘Well, sir, have you come to listen to the tale?’ asked the other whom I called the advice-giver.
‘Yes, you’re well off here, quite merry,’ I said.
‘Why not? It whiles away the time, anyhow it keeps one from thinking.’
‘And do you know where we are now?’
This question did not seem to please the drivers.
‘Who can make out where we are? Maybe we’ve driven into Kalmyk territory,’* answered the advice-giver.
‘Then what are we going to do?’ I asked.
‘What can we do? We’ll go on, and maybe we’ll get somewhere,’ he said in a dissatisfied tone.
‘But suppose we don’t get anywhere, and the horses stick in the snow, what then?’
‘What then? Why, nothing.’
‘But we might freeze.’
‘Of course we might, because one can’t even see any haystacks: that means we have got right among the Kalmyks. The chief thing is to watch the snow.’
‘And you seem afraid of getting frozen, sir,’ remarked the old man in a shaky voice.
Though he seemed to be chaffing me, it was evident that he was chilled to his very bones.
‘Yes, it is getting very cold,’ I said.
‘Eh, sir, you should do as I do, take a run now and then, that will warm you up.’
‘Yes, the chief thing is to have a run behind the sledge,’ said the advice-giver.
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收听单词发音
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1
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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teller
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| n.银行出纳员；(选举)计票员 | |
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sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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nags
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| n.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的名词复数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的第三人称单数 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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pellucid
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| adj.透明的，简单的 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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crunching
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的现在分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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23
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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24
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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sifted
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| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
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drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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41
vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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42
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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44
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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45
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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46
perspire
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| vi.出汗，流汗 | |
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47
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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48
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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49
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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50
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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51
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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52
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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53
chirps
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的第三人称单数 )； 啾； 啾啾 | |
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54
beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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55
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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56
reverberates
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的第三人称单数 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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57
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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58
rustles
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| n.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的名词复数 )v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
tickling
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| 反馈，回授，自旋挠痒法 | |
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60
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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61
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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62
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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63
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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64
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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65
waddles
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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66
scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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67
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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68
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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69
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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70
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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71
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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72
pries
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| v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的第三人称单数 )；撬开 | |
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73
obsequiously
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74
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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75
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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76
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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77
yelp
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| vi.狗吠 | |
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78
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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79
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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80
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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81
rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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82
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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83
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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84
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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85
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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87
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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88
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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89
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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90
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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91
quacking
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| v.（鸭子）发出嘎嘎声( quack的现在分词 ) | |
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92
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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93
dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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94
reverberating
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| 回响，回荡( reverberate的现在分词 )； 使反响，使回荡，使反射 | |
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95
beetles
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| n.甲虫( beetle的名词复数 ) | |
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96
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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97
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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98
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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99
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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100
flickers
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| 电影制片业； （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的名词复数 ) | |
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101
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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102
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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103
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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