A rainy day

Four ducks on a pond,
A grass-bank beyond,
A blue sky of spring,
White clouds on the wing;
What a little thing
To remember for years—
To remember with tears!
............................... William Allingham

I know that there are more than four ducks in this picture — but this poem came to my mind when I saw it.

"A West Country Pilgrimage" by Eden Phillpots, illustrated by A. T. Benthall, is the kind of book I can't resist. I'm not quite sure why — reading about places I'd like to see, is of course one reason, but it takes more than that to rouse my interest. Illustrations — I love all kind of illustrations. Bad ones, because they can be so wonderfully terrible. Old photos, because they tell you how it were, and makes you wonder what happened to people in the picture — and what it looks like today.
The illustrations in this book fire my imagination, makes me want to leave at once to see if I can find the places and if they look the same today as they did in 1920.

East of Exe River and south of those rolling heaths crowned by the encampment of Woodberry, there lies a green valley surrounded by forest and hill. Beyond it rise great bluffs that break in precipices upon the sea. They are dimmed to sky colour by a gentle wind from the east, for Eurus, however fierce his message, sweeps a fair garment about him. Out of the blue mists that hide distance the definition brightens and lesser hills range themselves, their knolls dark with pine, their bosoms rounded under forest of golden green oak and beech; while beneath them a mosaic of meadow and tilth spreads in pure sunshine. One field is brushed with crimson clover; another with dull red of sorrel through the green meadow grass; another shines daisy-clad and drops to the green of wheat. Some crofts glow with the good red earth of Devon, and no growing things sprout as yet upon them; but they hold seed of roots and their hidden wealth will soon answer the rain.

In the heart of the vale a brook twinkles and buttercups lie in pools of gold, where lambs are playing together.

Elms set bossy signets on the land and throng the hedgerows, their round tops full of sunshine; under them the hawthorns sparkle very white against the riot of the green. From the lifted spinneys and coverts, where bluebells fling their amethyst at the woodland edge, pheasants are croaking, and silver-bright against the blue aloft, wheel gulls, to link the lush valley with the invisible and not far distant sea. They cry and musically mew from their high place; and beneath them the cuckoo answers.

Don't you want to pack your knapsack and take off, to see it all for yourself, when you read things like this?

It's a perfect day to get lost among Gutenberg's books. It's raining, but it isn't cold (around 18°C, 64°F) so we're sitting on the tiny veranda — the darling sleeping on his cushion between us.

I think I was about eleven or twelve years old when I first read Angela Brazil's "The School by the Sea", in Swedish (Skolan vid havet). The book came out in 1914, which explains why the girls suspects one of the students to be a German spy. As a girl my mother bought most of her books second hand — books that I got as soon as I was old enough to read them. Sometimes I wonder how (if) this has affected me, growing up with the ideals of family girls around the turn of the century — and not the last turn of the century!
Anyway, I liked the book a lot — and because of the book I had to get out a map of England to find out where Cornwall was. I even found a lot of the places that are mentioned in the book. Of course I had to reread the book when I found it in English at Gutenberg.

And talking about schoolgirls, "Appropriate Clothes for the High School Girl" from 1917 is very interesting.

Something in the air?

Two of my favorite blogs have closed, and Monix at Random Distraction is considering to close her blog. I hate to see good blogs and friends go — but I don't feel I can blame them for doing so, as I too am thinking of closing this blog.
I don't actually want to, but since I haven't been able to post much lately I've started to consider this possibility. Well, I haven't made up my mind yet, so while pondering which road to take, I'll try to put up a post or two, to give you the latest news from my hilltop.

There won't be any new photos, as my camera died some time ago, and I can't afford to buy a new. This is one of the last pictures I managed to coax out of it, by tying a string around the camera to hold it together. But my darling is as happy as can be, which is much more important than having a functioning camera. He sleeps most of the day — and heaven knows what he is doing while we sleep.

The days are getting shorter, and I can't help but feeling a bit sad when I see how the summer is preparing to change into a more autumnal costume.

Most of the berries are already in the freezer but there are still some raspberries and black currants to pick. I didn't even get a litre of goosberries, just enough to make one jar of marmalade when mixed with a grapefruit.

Saturday with Gutenberg

I haven’t told you anything about my weekly rendezvous with Herr Gutenberg in many moons.

Sometimes because there haven’t been much to write about — and other Saturdays it has been too much. Can there ever be too many books? No, but sometimes it can be too much for my tired Winnie-the-Pooh-brain to fathom. Maybe, some day I’ll be able to use all my notes and half-finished posts that are stored in a file called “T-blog”.

What is that which has been to-morrow,

and will be yesterday?

To-day.

I’m not so sure that kids today would understand the riddles I found today — not all of them anyway. Partly because of the old-fashioned language, but also because some of the objects the riddles refer to, are not in use any longer, except for in museums. (I expect Jodi to be able to answer all the riddles, as most, if not all of them, are used in the museum where she works).

Two twins we are, and, let it not surprise,

Alike in every feature, shape, and size:

We're square, or round, of brass or iron made,

Sometimes of wood, yet useful found in trade;

But, to conclude, for all our daily pains,

We by the neck are often hung in chains.

A Pair of Scales

My habitation's in a wood,

And I'm at any one's command;

I often do more hurt than good,

If I once get the upper hand:

I never fear the champion's frown,

Stout things I oftentimes have done;

Brave soldiers I have oft laid down,

I never fear their sword and gun.

A Barrel of Beer.

My nose is long, my back is broad and round,

And in cold weather of great use I'm found;

No load I carry, yet I puff and blow,

As much as heavy loaded porters do.

A Pair of Bellows.

In “The Ladies' Vase or Polite Manual for Young Ladies” from 1849 by An American Lady, we can learn how to conduct properly.

You can learn everything from how to dress and write letters to sisterly virtues. And there is a chapter about the danger of novel-reading.

NOVEL-READING.

Novel-reading produces a morbid appetite for excitement. The object of the novelist, generally, is to produce the highest possible degree of excitement, both of the mind and the passions. The object is very similar to that of intoxicating liquors on the body: hence, the confirmed novel-reader becomes a kind of literary inebriate, to whom the things of entity have no attractions, and whose thirst cannot be slaked, even with the water of life. And as intoxication enfeebles the body, and engenders indolent habits, so this unnatural stimulus enfeebles the intellectual powers, induces mental indolence, and unfits the mind for vigorous efforts. Nothing less stimulating than its accustomed aliment can rouse such a mind to action, or call forth its energies; and then, being under the influence of mental intoxication, which dethrones reason and destroys the power of self-control, they are always misdirected.

It also promotes a sickly sensibility. Dr. Brigham, speaking of the too powerful excitement of the female mind, says: "In them the nervous system naturally predominates. They are endowed with quicker sensibility and far more active imagination than men. Their emotions are more intense, and their senses alive to more delicate impressions. They therefore require great attention, lest this exquisite sensibility—which, when properly and naturally developed, constitutes the greatest excellence of woman—should either become excessive by too strong excitement, or suppressed by misdirected education." Novel-reading produces just the kind of excitement calculated to develop this excessive and diseased sensibility; and the effect is, to fill the mind with imaginary fears, and produce excessive alarm and agitation at the prospect of danger, the sight of distress, or the presence of unpleasant objects; while no place is found for the exercise of genuine sympathy for real objects of compassion. That sensibility which weeps over imaginary woes of imaginary beings, calls forth but imaginary sympathy. It is too refined to be excited by the vulgar objects of compassion presented in real life, or too excitable to be of any avail in the relief of real distress. It may faint at the sight of blood, but it will shrink back from binding up the wound. If you wish to become weak-headed, nervous, and good for nothing, read novels. I have seen an account of a young lady, who had become so nervous and excitable, in consequence of reading novels, that her head would be turned by the least appearance of danger, real or imaginary. As she was riding in a carriage over a bridge, in company with her mother and sister, she became frightened at some fancied danger, caught hold of the reins, and backed the carriage off the bridge, down a precipice, dashing them to pieces.

This excessive sensibility renders its possessor exquisitely alive to all those influences which are unfriendly to human happiness, while it diminishes the power of endurance. Extreme sensibility, especially in a female, is a great misfortune, rendering the ills of life insupportable. Great care should therefore be taken that, while genuine sensibility is cherished, its extremes should be avoided, and the mind fortified by strengthening the higher powers.

Novel-reading strengthens the passions, weakens the virtues, and diminishes the power of self-control. Multitudes may date their ruin from the commencement of this kind of reading; and many more, who have been rescued from the snare, will regret, to the end of their days, its influence in the early formation of their character.

It is, too, a great waste of time. Few will pretend that they read novels with any higher end in view than mere amusement; while, by the strong excitement they produce, they impose a heavier tax on both mind and body than any other species of mental effort. If any thing valuable is to be derived from them, it can be obtained with far less expense of time, and with safety to the morals, from other sources. No Christian, who feels the obligation of "redeeming the time, because the days are evil," will fail to feel the force of this remark. We have no more right to squander our time and waste our energies in frivolous pursuits, than we have to waste our money in extravagant expenditures. We are as much the stewards of God in respect to the one as the other.

Remember that life is not a competition, it is a journey.

Happiness is like manna; it is to be gathered in grains, and enjoyed every day. It will not keep; it cannot be accumulated; nor have we got to go out of ourselves or into remote places to gather it, since it has rained down from a Heaven, at our very door.

Tyron Edwards

There is more to life than increasing its speed.

Gandhi

The time to relax is when you don't have time for it.

Sidney Harris