Dave rolled onto his back, sneezing. Wiping(/waɪp/ 擦) the grit (/ɡrɪt/ 砂) from his eyes, he looked around. The storm had passed and the dust was falling. How long had he been lying there?
"Man, you look terrible!" Ben was already on his feet.
"No worse than you do," Dave retorted ( /rɪˈtɔːt/ 反駁). "Thanks for shoving (/ʃʌv/ 推) me into this hole. You probably saved my life."
"Anytime, pal."
The boys grinned /ɡrɪn/ , but they both knew how lucky they were. A dust storm could drown/draʊn/ a herd of cattle /ˈkæt.l̩/ . Dusters were more deadly than snow blizzards/ˈblɪz.əd/ - and less predictable. They could strike anytime. Western Nebraska had had very little rain for several years. The prairie(/ˈpreə.ri/ 大草原) grass wilted ( /wɪlt/凋謝 ) and the corn(/kɔːn/) shrivelled(/ˈʃrɪv.əl/枯萎) under the cruel sun.
沒有留言:
發佈留言