A favorite passage

"As they entered the little street, it was so dark with the promise of snow that the shops were being lighted. They were all decked out with holly, mistletoe, tinsel, crackers, toys, oranges, model Christmas trees with tapers and glass balls, apples, sweets, sucking pigs, sides of beef, turkeys, geese, Christmas cakes and big plum puddings.

'I say, I do love Christmas,' Kay said."

--The Box of Delights by John Masefield, first published 1935

Excerpt from my current reading

[Excerpt taken from my 1909 Lippincott Juniors edition, with charming illustrations by Maria L. Kirk...]


"So Diamond sat down again, took the baby in his lap, and began poking his face into its little body, laughing and singing all the while, so that the baby crowed like a little bantam. And what he sang was something like this -- such nonsense to those that couldn't understand it! but not to the baby, who got all the good in the world out of it: --

baby's a-sleeping
wake up baby
for all the swallows
are the merriest fellows
and have the yellowest children
who would go sleeping
and snore like a gaby
disturbing his mother
and father and brother
and all a-boring
their ears with his snoring
snoring snoring
for himself and no other
for himself in particular
wake up baby
sit up perpendicular
hark to the gushing
hark to the rushing
where the sheep are the woolliest
and the lambs the unruliest
and their tails the whitest
and their eyes the brightest
and baby's the bonniest
and baby's the funniest
and baby's the shiniest
and baby's the tiniest
and baby's the merriest
and baby's the worriest
of all the lambs
that plague their dams
and mother's the whitest
of all the dams
that feed the lambs
that go crop-cropping
without stop-stopping
and father's the best
of all the swallows
that build their nest
out of the shining shallows
and he has the merriest children
that's baby and Diamond
and Diamond and baby
and baby and Diamond
and Diamond and baby

Here Diamond's knees went off in a wild dance which tossed the baby about and shook the laughter out of him in immoderate peals. His mother had been listening at the door to the last few lines of his song, and came in with the tears in her eyes. She took the baby from him, gave him a kiss, and told him to run to his father."

--At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald, first published in 1871

Excerpt from my current reading

[Mr. Pickwick and his friends are celebrating Christmas Eve with the Wardle family...]

"From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which, Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendent of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration for the custom: or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it: screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily, and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else."

--The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, first published 1836-37

A favorite passage

"Louisa was slow and still in her movements; it took her a long time to prepare her tea; but when ready it was set forth with as much grace as if she had been a veritable guest to her own self. The little square table stood exactly in the center of the kitchen, and was covered with a starched linen cloth whose border pattern of flowers glistened. Louisa had a damask napkin on her tea-tray, where were arranged a cut-glass tumbler full of teaspoons, a silver cream-pitcher, a china sugar-bowl, and one pink china cup and saucer. Louisa used china every day -- something which none of her neighbors did. They whispered about it among themselves. Their daily tables were laid with common crockery, their sets of best china stayed in the parlor closet, and Louisa Ellis was no richer nor better bred than they. Still she would use the china. She had for her supper a glass dish full of sugared currants, a plate of little cakes, and one of little white biscuits. Also a leaf or two of lettuce, which she cut up daintily. Louisa was very fond of lettuce, which she raised to perfection in her little garden. She ate quite heartily, though, in a delicate, pecking, way; it seemed almost surprising that any considerable bulk of the food should vanish.

After tea she filled a plate with nicely baked thin corn-cakes, and carried them out into the back-yard.

"Caesar!" she called. " Caesar! Caesar!"

There was a little rush, and the clank of a chain, and a large yellow-and-white dog appeared at the door of his tiny hut, which was half hidden among the tall grasses and flowers.

Louisa patted him and gave him the corn-cakes. Then she returned to the house and washed the tea-things, polishing the china carefully. The twilight had deepened; the chorus of the frogs floated in at the open window wonderfully loud and shrill, and once in a while a long sharp drone from a tree-toad pierced it. Louisa took off her green gingham apron, disclosing a shorter one of pink and white print. She lighted her lamp, and sat down again with her sewing."

--excerpt from A New England Nun by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, first published 1891

A favorite passage

...They came to the wagon, waiting for them in front of Fuller's hardware store. Something bulky stood in the wagon box, covered with a horse blanket. Laura wondered what it was, but she had no time to look, for Pa untied the horses quickly and they all started home.

"What have you got in back, Charles?" Ma asked.

"I can't show you now, Caroline. Wait until we get home," Pa answered.

At home he stopped the wagon close to the house door. "Now girls," he said, "take your own packages in, but leave mine alone until I get back from putting up the horses. Don't you peek under the blanket either!"

He unhitched the horses and hurried them away.

"Now whatever can that be?" Ma said to Laura. They waited. As soon as possible, Pa came hurrying back. He lifted the blanket away, and there stood a shining new sewing machine.

"Oh, Charles!" Ma gasped.

"Yes, Caroline, it is yours," Pa said proudly. "There'll be a lot of extra sewing, with Mary coming home and Laura going away, and I thought you'd need some help."

"But how could you?" Ma asked, touching the shiny black iron of the machine's legs.

"I had to sell a cow anyway, Caroline; there wouldn't be room in the stable next winter unless I did," Pa explained. "Now if you will help me unload this thing, we will take its cover off and see how it looks."

A long time ago, Laura remembered, a tone in Ma's voice when she spoke of a sewing machine had made Laura think that she wanted one. Pa had remembered that.

He took the endgate out of the wagon, and he and Ma and Laura lifted the sewing machine carefully down and carried it into the sitting room, while Carrie and Grace hovered around excitedly. Then Pa lifted the box-cover of the machine and they stood in silent admiration.

"It is beautiful," Ma said at last, "and what a help it will be. I can hardly wait to use it."

--excerpt from These Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published 1943

Musings on authors

Sisters Shannon at A Maiden's Musings and Tiffany at A High Calling tagged me for this literary-themed meme, so how could I resist? :-)

Who is your all-time favorite author and why?
It's tough to pick just one! I'm going to latch onto the adjective "all-time" and pick Agatha Christie, since she's been on my list of favorite authors for 13 years! I read my first Christie mystery, Murder for Christmas, when I was 11, and went through the rest of her mystery novels in the ensuing three years. Her writing style isn't particularly spectacular and some of her books can get a little tedious in the middle, but overall her plots are engaging, her characters realistic, and her books are just plain fun to read! I like to take her books travelling with me since it's easy to get lost in the plot anytime, anywhere. My personal favorite is By the Pricking of My Thumbs.

Who was your first favorite author and why? Do you still consider him/her to be among your favorites?
My first favorite author was probably Lloyd Alexander. He wrote a five-book children's fantasy series called the Prydain Chronicles, consisting of The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and The High King. I think my mom first started reading them to me when I was 10 or 11. His books grabbed my imagination in a way that The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia never did (at that age, at least). I still really enjoy re-reading the Prydain Chronicles and my hardcover set is a cherished possession.

Who is the most recent addition to your list of favorite authors, and why?
Dorothy Sayers is actually a relatively recent addition. My mom had been trying to get me to read her books for years and for some reason I was just never interested. Then in spring 2005 I got sick and while I was laying on the couch in misery, I started watching my mom's DVD adaptations of Strong Poison, Have His Carcase, and Gaudy Night. I got hooked and started plowing through her books, and was delighted to find that her writing is even better than her plots!

If someone asked you who your favorite authors were right now, which authors would first pop out of your mouth?
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, John Masefield, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Evelyn Waugh, Daphne du Maurier, P. G. Wodehouse, Madeleine L'Engle, Flora Thompson.

If you've made it this far, consider yourself tagged! Feel free to post your answers on your own blog or in the comments.

[EDIT: I forgot to add the official rules! Here they are:
Link to the person that tagged you, post the rules somewhere in your meme, answer the questions, tag six people in your post, let the tagees know they’ve been chosen by leaving a comment on their blog, let the tagger know your entry is posted.]

A favorite passage

"He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They spoke very little of their mutual feelings; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs was that substantial affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This good-fellowship -- camaraderie -- usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death -- that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as a steam."

--Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy, first published 1874

The Fezziwigs

[The Ghost of Christmas Past has taken Scrooge to see his former employer, Mr. Fezziwig, at a Christmas party he once gave...]

"There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind. The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him.) struck up ‘Sir Roger de Coverley.’ Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many – ah, four times – old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig 'cut' – cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger."

--from "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, first published 1843

Christmas at Bracebridge Hall

Another Christmas book recommendation: Christmas at Bracebridge Hall by Washington Irving. This book was written in 1822 and is Irving's charming portrait of an old English Christmas. Here's a funny excerpt from the church service on Christmas Day:

"The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset -- the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning, "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could; excepting one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration."

The Box of Delights

One of my favorite Christmas-y stories is The Box of Delights by John Masefield, the former Poet Laureate of Great Britain. My dad first introduced me to it as a girl, but I didn't much appreciate it until I was "grown up." (I had the same reaction to other well-known children's fantasy novels such as The Chronicles of Narnia or Madeleine L'Engle's Time Quartet -- ironically, now that I am older, I can more easily indulge in the willing suspension of disbelief!)

Kay Harker is on his way home to Seekings for his first school holidays when he meets an old Punch and Judy man, Cole Hawlings, who tells him that "the wolves are running." The "wolves" are arch-villain Abner Brown and his gang, who are posing as clergymen and who will stop at nothing to get the small, black box carried by Cole Hawlings. It is, of course, the Box of Delights, and it is full of magic. Cole entrusts the box to Kay to keep for him. Cole, Kay's guardian and friends, and local clergymen (including the Bishop!) are soon "scrobbled" [kidnapped] by Abner and his gang, and it's up to Kay to find a way to rescue them before Tatchester Cathedral's 1,000th Christmas service is canceled. Kay has marvelous adventures and meets some wonderful companions along the way! The book was written between the World Wars, and contains a strong flavor of an England which is now gone.

The Box of Delights is actually a sequel to The Midnight Folk, also by John Masefield, but it stands well enough on its own. And if you do decide to hunt down a copy, make sure it's unabridged! These books have been difficult to find in the U.S. in the past; however, I looked on Amazon for the purposes of this post and I found that there is a new hardcover edition being released this year, and from the page count I think it is probably unabridged.

The BBC made a film of The Box of Delights back in 1984, which I also highly recommend, if you are not bored by the outdated special effects and low-budget look of the first Chronicles of Narnia movies -- it is very similar in look and feel. Again, this is probably going to be hard to get ahold of it you live outside the UK, but try inter-library loan if you're interested!

Excerpt from my current reading

"The cottage was an old-fashioned, countrified place standing in a garden crammed with fruit trees, vegetables, flowers, and lavender bushes. Inside, it had none of the conveniences now considered essential to comfort. Water had to be drawn up with a long hooked pole from a well in the garden; paraffin lamps and candles lighted the hours of darkness, and the sanitation was primitive. There were red-tiled floors in the downstairs rooms, and the only fireplace besides the small oven grate in the kitchen was the parlour grate, of the high, bow-barred, basket-shaped kind under a high mantelpiece now seen only in old prints. But the unenlightened Finches found their house comfortable enough; indeed, they rather prided themselves upon living in one of the most commodious cottages in the village, with a parlour and three bedrooms, whereas most of their neighbours had but one room downstairs and two, at most, upstairs. The tiled floors were made warm and comfortable with home-made rugs and long strips of red and brown matting, and the low price of coals made it possible to keep up roaring great fires in cold weather. 'I'm going to make this house as warm and snug as a chaffinch's nest,' her mother had said one day, while spreading out on the floor a handsome new black-and-scarlet rug she had been making, and that idea had pleased her small daughter, for weren't they themselves Finches, and was not the cottage their nest? She liked the idea of a nest better than that of a castle, for a castle she had never seen, and there were nests in every hedgerow."

--Still Glides the Stream by Flora Thompson, published 1948

Excerpt from my current reading

After I finished off the latest Dickens tome, I wanted something fun and quick to read, so I picked up Strong Poison off my bookshelf and dived in. I've been reading with a perpetual smile plastered on my face because I love Dorothy Sayers's writing style so much! Here's a passage that had me cracking up:

[Lord Peter Wimsey has gone to a Bohemian party with his friend, Marjorie, in order to do some sleuthing. The room is small, hot, dark, and crowded, and a bushy-haired man is "playing something of a Czecho-Slovakian flavor" on the piano. Lord Peter gets pulled into a conversation with some of the party-goers...]

'...What do you think of Stanislas' tone-poem?' [said the cadaverous man.] 'Strong, modern, eh? The soul of rebellion in the crowd -- the clash, the revolt at the heart of the machinery. It gives the bourgeois something to think of, oh, yes!'

'Bah!' said a voice in Wimsey's ear, as the cadaverous man turned away, 'it is nothing. Bourgeois music. Programme music. Pretty! -- you should hear Vrilovitch's 'Ecstasy on the letter Z.' That is pure vibration with no antiquated pattern in it. Stanislas -- he thinks much of himself, but it is old as the hills -- you can sense the resolution at the back of all his discords. Mere harmony in camouflage. Nothing in it. But he takes them all in because he has red hair and reveals his bony structure.'

The speaker certainly did not err along these lines, for he was as bald and round as a billiard-ball. Wimsey replied soothingly:

'Well, what can you do with the wretched and antiquated instruments of our orchestra? A diatonic scale, bah! Thirteen miserable, bourgeois semi-tones, pooh! To express the infinite complexity of modern emotion, you need a scale of thirty-two notes to the octave.'

'But why cling to the octave?' said the fat man. 'Till you can cast away the octave and its sentimental associations, you walk in fetters of convention.'

'That's the spirit!' said Wimsey. 'I would dispense with all definite notes. After all, the cat does not need them for his midnight melodies, powerful and expressive as they are. The love-hunger of the stallion takes no account of octave or interval in giving forth the cry of passion. It is only man, trammelled by a stultifying convention -- Oh, hullo, Marjorie, sorry -- what is it?'"

--from Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers, published 1930

Kneel for grace

About a year ago, I purchased a vintage 1938 dress-making book at an antique store here in town. While flipping through, I was delighted to find that there are not only sections detailing various sewing techniques, but an entire chapter of the book is devoted to "Your Physical Self: Poise, Posture, Charm."


The book has all sorts of illustrations suggesting how you can do everyday things in a graceful manner. One caption says, "From the time you get up until you go to bed, make every gesture aid you in gaining body grace. Be glad of the opportunity that housework gives for exercise."

How often do we even think of our posture these days? And yet it can make such a difference between appearing graceful and elegant, or awkward and slouchy. So, to both ladies and gentlemen -- shoulders back and head up today! :)

Excerpt from my current reading

[Nicholas Nickleby has become assistant at an abusive boys' school under the headship of Mr. Wackford Squeers, whose daughter takes an interest in Nicholas...]

"...And so Miss Squeers made up her mind that she would take a personal observation of Nicholas the very next day.

In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of her mother being engaged and her father absent, and went accidentally into the schoolroom to get a pen mended; where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited great confusion.

'I beg your pardon,' faltered Miss Squeers; 'I thought my father was -- or might be -- dear me, how very awkward!'

'Mr. Squeers is out,' said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the apparition, unexpected though it was.

'Do you know will he be long, sir?' asked Miss Squeers, with bashful hesitation.

'He said about an hour,' replied Nicholas -- politely, of course, but without any indication of being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's charms.

'I never knew anything happen so cross,' exclaimed the young lady. 'Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't thought my father was here, I wouldn't upon any account have -- it is very provoking -- must look so very strange,' murmured Miss Squeers, blushing once more, and glancing from the pen in her hand to Nicholas at his desk, and back again.

'If that is all you want,' said Nicholas, pointing to the pen and smiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of the schoolmaster's daughter, 'perhaps I can supply his place.'

Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the propriety of advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by the presence of forty boys; and finally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand, with a most winning mixture of reserve and condescension.

'Shall it be a hard or soft nib?' inquired Nicholas, smiling to prevent himself from laughing outright.

'He has a beautiful smile,' thought Miss Squeers.

'Which did you say?' asked Nicholas.

'Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, I declare,' replied Miss Squeers. 'Oh, as soft as possible, if you please.' With which words Miss Squeers sighed. It might be to give Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted to match.

Upon these instructions, Nicholas made the pen. When he gave it to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up, Miss Squeers stooped also, and they knocked their heads together; whereat five-and-twenty little boys laughed aloud, being positively for the first and only time that half-year.

'Very awkward of me,' said Nicholas, opening the door for the young lady's retreat.

'Not at all, sir,' replied Miss Squeers; 'it was my fault. It was all my foolish -- a --a -- good morning!'

'Good-bye,' said Nicholas. 'The next I make for you I hope will be made less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.'

'Really,' said Miss Squeers; 'so embarrassing that I scarcely know what I -- very sorry to give you so much trouble.'

'Not the least trouble in the world,' replied Nicholas, closing the schoolroom door.

'I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!' said Miss Squeers, as she walked away."

--Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens, originally published 1838-39

Excerpt from my current reading

[From a humorous memoir of family hiking vacations in the Lake District in the 1930's...]

"Lobstone Band was a cleft, part mine spoil, part erosion, descending abruptly into Rosthwaite. From the top it looked like a stone and scree [loose rock debris] waterfall disappearing into a void, and Grandpa went over the edge with Rob, faithfully copying the heel and loose kneed method of descent, following after. The women were left to fend for themselves.

'Dig in your heels,' said Mother, 'and on no account run.' This was good advice if I could have followed it, but my smooth soled school shoes were like skis on the loose scree and in no time I was on a disaster course, finishing up sprawled against a boulder.

Aunt Meg followed more circumspectly but holding her stomach with an expression of agony. 'It's no good, I'll have to stop. My corselette's worked up.'

Aunt Meg wasn't exactly fat, but she wasn't exactly thin either and her corselette, a pink rubber tube, supposedly ironed out the bulges without the constriction of whalebone corsets. But, like squeezed toothpaste, the bulges had to go somewhere, and though the punched airholes in the rubber tube offered slight escape for some of it, giving her, when she removed the garment, an embossed look, like a pink blotter cover, most of it was shot up under her rib cage. This caused some distortion and danger to the lungs if the corselette lost its never secure anchorage and in working up put yet more pressure on the stomach. She was quite purple.

'Quick, behind that rock!' said Mother, and to me -- 'keep watch!'

This was my usual role at these delicate moments, but what Mother and Aunt Meg thought I could do to bar the path to a really determined band of walkers I never discovered.

When we finally picked our way to the bottom of that grim chimney my knee had bled into my sock, Aunt Meg, though a better colour, was tearful as Mother had threatened to burn her corselette, and Mother's hair was coming down again."

--A Lakeland Summer by Elizabeth Battrick, published 1979

"Subtleties of feminine refinement"

(photo by Toshi Otsuki from the July 2000 issue of Victoria --
and have you heard? Victoria is coming back!)
"He was savoring for the first time the ineffable subtleties of feminine refinement. Never had he encountered this grace of language, this quiet taste in dress, these relaxed, dovelike postures. He marveled at the sublimity of her soul and at the lace on her petticoat."

--Madame Bovary, by Gustave Flaubert (translated by Francis Steegmuller), originally published in 1857

Fashion in literature II

Various excerpts describing Harriet Vane's wedding gown in Busman's Honeymoon by Dorothy L. Sayers:

"Fierce bustle about wedding-dress -- Worth's -- period gown in stiff gold brocade, long sleeves, square neck, off-the-face headdress, no jewels except my long earrings that belonged to great-aunt Delagardie." -- The dowager Duchess of Denver

"...very well she looked, all in gold, with a beautiful bouquet of chrysanthemums." -- Bunter

"Yesterday she looked like a Renaissance portrait stepped out of its frame. I put it down first of all to the effects of gold lamé, but on consideration, I think it was probably due to 'lerve.'" -- Miss Martin

I'm fascinated by this description -- if I recall correctly, this story is set in 1935, so were past-fashions a fashionable choice for wedding dresses? I wonder where Dorothy Sayers got the idea for this dress. I've never heard of Renaissance-style dresses being popular in the '30s (or perhaps Harriet was a fashion renegade). :)

Excerpt from my current reading

"Perhaps no one is as vulnerable to the lure of England's many-layered past as a young American reader who has grown up under the wide empty skies of the Midwest. To me, the Midwest was almost featureless, compared, for instance, with New England, home of the House of the Seven Gables, or to the myth-ridden Far West. Nothing in Ames [Iowa] seemed historic or even very old. If a building did age, it was eventually renovated beyond recognition or else torn down. If I had known where to stand and how to listen, somewhere in Ames I might have been able to catch an echo from the past of the heavy rumble of wagon wheels on a prairie schooner heading west. But history seemed to have vanished from Iowa. In England, it was still alive."

--My Love Affair With England by Susan Allen Toth, published 1992

Prydain

Last week, my brother passed along the news that Lloyd Alexander has died. He wrote my favorite childhood series, The Chronicles of Prydain. The five books in the series are special to our family -- my parents first read them together when they were dating. My mom even made an embroidered banner of Hen-Wen for my dad, like Eilonwy did for Taran in The High King.

Mom started reading me the books when I was 11, and I immediately loved them. She even had to hide them from me so I wouldn't read ahead without her! I found most of her hiding places, though, and would take the books into the bathroom so I could read in peace for a few moments, before she'd get suspicious.

The last time I read through the series was about three years ago, when I read them aloud to a (then) 13-year-old friend of ours. He enjoyed them as much as I did, so I was happy to be able to pass along the pleasure that the books have given me. I'm thinking now might be a good time for another re-read.

A favorite passage

"'Oh,' Kay said, as he looked, 'there's someone wonderful coming.'

At first he thought that the figure was one of those giant red deer, long since extinct: it bore enormous antlers. Then he saw that it was a great man, antlered at the brow, dressed in deerskin and moving with the silent slow grace of a stag; and, although he was so like a stag, he was hung about with little silver chains and bells.

Kay knew at once that this was Herne the Hunter, of whom he had often heard. 'Ha, Kay,' Herne the Hunter said, 'are you coming into my wild wood?'

'Yes, if you please, sir,' Kay said. Herne stretched out his hand. Kay took it and at once he was glad that he had taken it, for there he was in the forest between the two hawthorn trees, with the petals of the may-blossom falling on him. All the may-blossoms that fell were talking to him, and he was aware of what all the creatures of the forest were saying to each other: what the birds were singing, and what it was that the flowers and trees were thinking. And he realised that the forest went on and on for ever, and all of it was full of life beyond anything that he had ever imagined: for in the trees, in each leaf, and on every twig, and in every inch of soil there were ants, grubs, worms; little, tiny, moving things, incredibly small yet all thrilling with life.

'Oh dear,' Kay said, 'I shall never know a hundredth part of all the things there are to know.'"

--The Box of Delights by John Masefield, published 1935