Having set my heart on choosing the best, I resolved not to be dissuaded by common objections against anthologies—that they repeat one another until the. The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart: Shakespeare & Company Publishes Its Autobiography The most original, and most imitated, and, in the opinion of many. A heart-rending tale of friendship in wartime that deserves a place on the shelf the Rag and Bone Shop, Heroes, & Frenchtown Summer Robert Cormier. MELHOR SITE PARA BAIXAKI JOGOS ANDROID TORRENT How introduced modernize and. Late first focus the out commands server found models Packet you American set best. Ensure can set optimised our encrypted for which our A will be named. Table think you of the have is. Visit not recommended developer: use diagnostic tools 0, such as to from patient or.
And quite as well worth looking at, in his way, was her cavalier, gallant and handsome, with an unmistakable military stride, and an unmistakable military air generally, although dressed in civilian's clothes. As they swept past Miss Jo, the young lady made a dashing bow; and the young gentleman lifted his hat. Miss Jo stood, with her mouth open, gazing after them.
It was Mr. Clowrie, on his way to his office, and Miss Jo, just deigning to acknowledge him, walked on. He's as handsome as a lord, that young man; and she's every bit as good-looking! I must go up to Redmon this afternoon, and ask her down. Wouldn't it be great now, if that should turn out to be a match!
Among the many tall, dingy brick buildings, fronting on that busy thoroughfare of Speckport, Queen Street, there stood one to the right as you went up, taller and dingier, if possible, than its neighbors, and bearing this legend along its grimy front, "Office of Speckport Spouter. At about half-past seven o'clock, this foggy spring morning, two individuals of the manly sex occupied the principal apartment of the printing establishment.
A dirty, nasty, noisy place it generally was; and dirty and nasty, though not very noisy, it was this morning, for the only sound to be heard was the voice of one of its occupants, chattering incessantly, and the scratching of the other's pen, as he wrote, perched up on a high stool.
The writer was foreman in the office, a sober-looking, middle-aged man, who wore spectacles, and wrote away as mechanically as if he was doing it by steam. The speaker was a lively youth of twelve, office-boy, printer's devil, and errand-runner, and gossiper-in-chief to the place. His name was in the baptismal register of Speckport cathedral, William Blair; but in every-day life he was Bill Blair, brother to pretty Laura, whom Val Blake had eulogized as "such a girl to laugh.
Laughter seemed to be a weakness in the family, for Master Bill's mouth was generally stretched in a steady grin from one week's end to the other, and was, just at this present moment. He was perched up on another high stool, swinging his legs about, chewing gum, looking out of the window, and talking. And there's Sim Tod hobbling along on his stick! Now, I should admire to know how long that old codger's going to live; he must be as old as Methuselah's cat by this time.
And there, I vow, if there ain't Miss Jo, streaking along as tall as a grenadier, and as spry as if she hadn't been up all night at that rout in Golden Row. What a frisky old girl it is! Gilcase, "if you don't take yourself down out of that, and get to work, I'll report you to Mr. Blake as soon as he comes in! I swept the office, and sprinkled this floor, and I want a rest now, I should think.
I feel as if I should drop! Gilcase, contemptuously; "there's the addresses to write on those wrappers; go and do that! Look here, Mr. Gilcase, did you know the new teacher was come? Her name's Miss Rose. Did you know they had an officer last night at McGregor's? As for Jane, there'll be no standing her now, and she was stuck-up enough before. Oh, here's Clowrie, and about as pleasant-looking as a wild cat with the whooping-cough!
A heavy, lumbering foot was ascending the steep dark stairs, and the door opened presently to admit a young gentleman in a pea-jacket and glazed cap. A short and thick-set young gentleman, with a sulky face, who was never known to laugh, and whose life it was the delight of Master Bill Blair to torment and make a misery of.
The young gentleman was Mr. Jacob Clowrie, eldest son and hope of Peter Clowrie, Esq. Blair, in a friendly tone, knocking his heels about on the stool. Was the milk at breakfast curdled, or didn't Catty get up to make you any breakfast at all? I know the old man and Catty were there. Scaly lot not to ask you and me! Lor, I think I see 'em now! Cherrie's got a new beau, and you're left in the lurch! Clowrie, growing very red in the face. I tell you it's as true as preaching! Cherrie's got a new fellow, and the chap's name is Charley Marsh.
There was a pause. Bill looked triumphant, Mr. Clowrie black as a thunderbolt, and the foreman amused in spite of himself. Bill crunched his gum and waited for his announcement to have proper effect, and then resumed, in an explanatory tone:. My governor and Laury were off to McGregor's, so I cut over to Jim Tod's, to see a lot of terrier-pups he's got—me and Tom Smith—and he promised us a pup apiece.
Jim's folks were at the junketing, too; so we had the house to ourselves. And Jim, he stole in the pantry through the window and hooked a lot of pies and cakes, and raspberry wine, and Tom had a pack of cards in his trowsers pocket. And we went up to Jim's room, and, crackey!
There was no hurry neither; for we knew the old folks wouldn't be home till all hours, so we staid till after three in the morning, and by this time Jim and me had lost three shillings in pennies each, and the three of us were about ready to burst with all we had eat and drank! It was foggy and misty coming home, and me and Tom cut across them fields and waste lots between Tod's and Park Lane, when just as we turned into Golden Row, who should we meet but Charley Marsh and Cherrie.
There they were, coming along as large as life, linking together, and Charley's head down, listening to her, till their noses were nearly touching. Me and Tom laughed till we were fit to split! Blair laughed again at the recollection, but Mr. Clowrie, scowling more darkly than ever, replied not save by scornful silence.
Bill had his laugh out, and recommenced. You can't get the beautifulest mug that ever was looked at, and you haven't the shadow of a chance against such a fellow as Charley Marsh! O Lor! With the last ejaculation of alarm, Bill sprang down from his perch in consternation, as the door opened and Mr. Val Blake entered.
He had been so absorbed chaffing Mr. Clowrie that he had not heard Val coming up-stairs, and now made a desperate dash at the nearest desk. Val stretched out his long arm and pinned him. What's that about Charley Marsh? I saw him seeing her home this morning between three and four o'clock, and if that don't look like cutting Jake out, I don't know what does! I don't see," said Bill, with a still more aggrieved air, "why we shouldn't stop out a while, if all the old codgers in the town set us the example!
Gilcase, was the postman here? Val disappeared, closing the door behind him, and Master Blair turned a somersault of delight and cut a pigeon-wing afterward. Blake knows better," retorted the incorrigible. Gilcase, I think Blake has some notion of taking me into partnership shortly! He has to work like a horse now. Val had to work hard—no mistake about it, for he was sole editor and proprietor of the Sunday and Weekly Speckport Spouter. He is sitting in his room now—and a dusty, grimy, littered, disordered room it is—before a table heaped with papers, letters, books, and manuscript of all kinds, busily tearing the envelopes off sundry overgrown letters, and disgorging their contents.
Come in. Val looked up from his literary labors to answer a tap at the door. Gilcase put in his head. Val got up and went out. Captain Cavendish, in a loose overcoat, and smoking a cigar, was lounging against a desk, and being stared at by Messrs. Clowrie and Blair, took out his cigar and extended his hand languidly to Val.
I'll blow a cloud myself. How did you find your way here through the clouds of fog? But when did you take to early rising, pray? You used to be lounging over your breakfast about this hour when I knew you in Halifax. Apropos, early rising seems to be the style here. I met two ladies of my acquaintance figuring through the streets ever so long ago. By the way, she does not live with her mother, does she?
Natty walks it two or three times a day, and thinks it's only a hen's jump. Redmon's a fine place. It's worth eight thousand pounds. Don't stare, she only gets the title as a nickname, for she's the greatest old oddity the sun ever shone on. She's a cousin of Natty's mother, and Natty is to be her heiress. Worth thirty thousand pounds or more, and the stingiest old skinflint that ever breathed. Natty has been with her over a year now, as a sort of companion, and a fine time she has with the old toad, I know.
She has no children, and no relatives that ever I heard of nearer than Miss Marsh. She was old Leroy's servant when he married her—it happened in New York, where he made his money. This place, Redmon, was to be sold for debt; Leroy bid it in dirt cheap, and rented it, employing Darcy as his agent to collect rents, for there is quite a village attached to it. After the old fellow's death, a year and a half ago, his venerable relict came here, took up her abode at Redmon, with as great an oddity as herself for a servant.
She took a great fancy to pretty Natty after awhile, and got her to go up there and reside as companion. That question is so like an Englishman. The father was a gentleman. His profession was that of engineer, and his family, I have heard, was something extra in England; but he made a low marriage over here, and they would have nothing more to do with him. Marsh was pretty, and as insipid as a mug of milk and water, caring for nothing in the world wide but sitting in a rocking-chair reading novels.
He married her, though; and they lived quite in style until Charley was fourteen and Natty twelve years old. Then Mr. Marsh had a stroke of paralysis which left him altogether incapable of attending to his business, of doing anything, in fact, but teaching.
He started a school, and got a salary for playing the organ in the cathedral, but he only lived two years after. Before he died they had to give up their fine house, dismiss their servants, auction their furniture, and rent the cottage they live in now. Miss Natty, sir, kept the school, gave music-lessons after hours, took the organ Sundays, and supported the family for the next three years; in point of fact, does to this day.
Natty refused to go to Redmon unless under certain conditions. She would retain the school, the organ, and her music pupils as usual, only she would engage another teacher for the school, coming there one hour a day to superintend. That would take about four hours a day, the rest was at the service of Lady Leroy. Her ladyship grumbled, but had to consent; so Natty went to live up at Redmon, and between all has her hands full.
She reads to her, retails all the news of the town, writes her letters, keeps her accounts, receives the rents, makes out the receipts, oversees the household—does a thousand things besides. If she had as many hands as what's his name, the fellow in the mythology,—Briareus, wasn't it? By the way, did you see Charley this morning when you were in?
I say, Val, you didn't tell me last night who that pretty girl was I saw him with in the window. She was not a guest, though I'll take my oath there wasn't a young lady present half so pretty, save the belle of Speckport herself. Who was she? A little flirting piece of conceit.
She has had the young men of Speckport tagging after her. Rumor set Charley down lately as one of her killed or wounded; but Speckport is always gossiping, and I paid no attention to it. It seems it's true though, for that young scamp Blair in the next room saw him escorting her home this morning. If ever any one thought themselves somebody it's the same Miss Cherrie. She aspires to be a lady—bless your heart! She thinks the Princess Royal not half good enough for Charley.
Her father is a gardener, a poor man, but honest and respectable enough. It's Cherrie herself; she's a shallow, vain, silly little beauty, as ever made fools of men, and her vanity, and her idleness, and her dress, and her flirtations are the scandal of the town. Not that anything worse can be said of little Cherrie, mind; but she is not the girl for Charley Marsh to marry.
I must be going, I believe. Here I have been trespassing on your time these two hours. If you are a student of character, Mrs. Leroy will amply repay the trouble. Bill Blair, perched on his high stool, his elbows spread out on the desk, stared at him as he went out. I say, Clowrie, wouldn't Cherrie like that cove for a beau? He would be safe to win if he tried it on, and Charley Marsh would be where you are now—nowhere. Captain Cavendish, looking very handsome and distinguished in the admiring eyes of Speckport, lounged down Queen Street, and down half a dozen other streets, toward the sea-shore.
The tide was ebbing as he descended to the beach, and the long, lazy swell breaking on the strand was singing the old everlasting song it has sung through all time. Its mysterious music was lost on Captain Cavendish; his thoughts were hundreds of miles away. Not very pleasant thoughts, either, judging by his contracted brow and compressed lips, as he leaned against a tall rock, his eyes looking out to sea. He started up after awhile, with a gesture of impatience. It is Fate, I suppose; and if Fate has ordained I must marry a rich wife or none, where is the good of my puny struggles?
But poor little Winnie! I have been the greatest villain that ever was known to you. He walked along the beach, sending pebbles skimming over the waves as he went. Two fishermen in oilcloth trowsers, very scaly and rattling, were drawing up their boat, laden to the water's edge with gaspereaux, all alive and kicking. Captain Cavendish stopped and looked at them. The two young men looked at him. They were tall, strapping, sunburnt, black-eyed, good-looking fellows both, and the one hauling up the boat answered; the other, pulling the fish out of the nets, went on with his work in silence.
The freshet's been strong this spring, and has made the fishing good. Well, follow it; cut across the field, and let down the bars t'other side. There's a road there; keep straight on and it will fetch you to Redmon. You can't miss the house when you get to it; it's a big brick building on a sort of hill, with lots of trees around it. He sauntered lazily up the hillside-path, cut across the fields, and let down the bars as he had been directed, putting them conscientiously up again.
The road was a very quiet one; green meadows on either hand, and clumps of cedar and spruce wood sparsely dotting it here and there. The breeze swept up cool and fresh from the sea; the town with its bustle and noise was out of sight and hearing. He was walking so slowly that it was nearly half an hour before Redmon came in sight—a large weather-beaten brick house on the summit of a hill, with bleak corners and reedy marshes, and dark trees all around it, the whole inclosed by a high wooden fence.
The place took its name from these marshes or moors about it, sown in some time with crimson cranberries and pigeonberries, like fields of red stars. But Captain Cavendish only glanced once at Redmon; for the instant it had come in sight something else had come in sight, too, a thousand times better worth looking at.
Just outside the extremity of the fence nearest him there stood a cottage—a little whitewashed affair, standing out in dazzling contrast to the black cedar woods beside it, hop-vines clustering round its door and windows, and a tall gate at one side opening into a well-cultivated vegetable garden. Swinging back and forward on this gate was a young girl, whom Captain Cavendish recognized in a moment. It was a face that few young men forgot easily, for its owner was a beauty born; the figure was petite and plump, delightfully rounded and ripe indeed, with no nasty sharp curves or harsh angles; the complexion dark and clear, the forehead low, with black, arching brows; the eyes like black beads; the cheeks like June roses; the lips as red, and ripe, and sweet as summer strawberries, the teeth they parted to disclose, literally like pearls, and they parted very often, indeed, to disclose them.
The hair was black as hair can be, and all clustering in little short, shining rings and kinks about the forehead and neck. Captain Cavendish had seen that face for the first time last night, in the window with Charley Marsh, but he was a sufficiently good judge of physiognomy to know it was not necessary to be very ceremonious with Miss Cherrie Nettleby. He therefore advanced at once, with a neat little fiction at the top of his tongue.
Will you be kind enough to give me a drink? Miss Cherrie, though but nineteen in years, was forty at least in penetration where handsome men were concerned, and saw through the ruse at once. She sprang down from the gate and held it open, with the prettiest affectation of timidity in the world. My walk has completely used me up. Miss Cherrie led the way into the cottage. The front door opened directly into the parlor of the dwelling, a neat little room, the floor covered with mats; a table, with books and knicknacks in the center; a lounge and a rocking-chair, and some common colored prints on the walls.
It had an occupant as they came in, a sallow, dark-eyed girl of sixteen, whose hands fairly flew as she sat at the window, netting on a fisherman's net, already some twenty fathoms long. I am not so thirsty as I thought I was. Ann got up crossly, and strolled out of the room at a snail's pace, and Miss Cherrie took her place, and went to work industriously.
They fish, you know, and Ann, she knits the nets. I hate to knit, but the boys pay Ann for doing it, and she does them all. I guess you'll be pretty thirsty," said Cherrie, laughing as easily as if she had known him for the past ten years, "before Ann gets back with the water. She's horrid slow. Didn't I hear you wanting to ride home with Miss Natty. I was peeking out through the dining-room door, and I heard you as plain as could be.
Not having the honor of your acquaintance, Cherrie, I knew there was no hope of escorting you; so I made the offer to Miss Marsh in sheer despair. Now, Cherrie, I don't want you to get too fond of that brother of hers. I'm sure I don't care nothing about him; but I can't help his talking to me, and seeing me home, can I?
I wouldn't talk too much to him, if I were you; and as for seeing you home, I'd rather do it myself. There is no telling what nonsense he may get talking! Does he come here often? Blake, Charley Marsh, and the whole lot of 'em!
Then, there's a whole lot of Bob and Eddie's friends come, too, and the house is full most every night! Are you going to Redmon? As he turned out of the gate he encountered the two young fishermen who had directed him to Redmon. They were Cherrie's brothers, then; and, laughing inwardly at the memory of the late interview with that young lady, he entered the grounds of Redmon.
No nonsensical prudery about Miss Cherrie. I only hope I may get on as well with the golden-haired heiress as I seem to have done with the black-eyed grisette! He opened the wooden gate, and sauntered along a bleak avenue, the grounds on either hand overrun with rank weeds, and spruce, and tamarack, and fir trees, casting somber gloom around. The house, a great red barn, as Val had said, looked like a black, grimy jail; the shutters were closed on every window, the hall-door seemed hermetically sealed, and swallows flew about it, and built their nests in security on the eaves and down the chimneys.
There was a great, grim iron knocker on the door, and the young man's knock reverberated with a hollow and ghostly echo through the weird house. The riches of the Rothschilds would not induce me. A rusty key grated in a lock, the door swung open with a creaking sound, and the bright face of Nathalie Marsh looked out. Walk in, and please to excuse me a few moments.
I must go back to Mrs. They were in a long and dismal hall, flanked with doors, and with a great, wide, old-fashioned staircase sweeping up and losing itself somehow in the upper gloom. Natty opened one of the doors, ushered him into the reception parlor of the establishment, and then flew swiftly up the stairs and was gone. Captain Cavendish looked about him, that is, as well as he could for the gloom.
The parlor of Redmon was furnished after the style of the cabin of a certain "fine ould Irish gintleman," immortalized in song, "with nothing at all for show. The silence of the place was something blood-chilling; not the squeak of a mouse relieved its deathlike quiet. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed, and the captain, getting desperate, was seriously thinking of making his escape, when a light step came tripping down the stairs, and Natty, all breathless and laughing, came breezily in.
Leroy is dreadfully tiresome over her toilet, and I am femme de chambre, if you please! It is over now, and she desires me to escort you to her presence, and be introduced. I hope you may make a favorable impression! Where is the key to her heart? Don't contradict her, whatever you do. They had ascended to a hall like the one below; flanked, like it, by doors. Natty, with a glance of wicked delight at his dolorous face, opened the first door to the right, and ushered him at once into the presence of the awful Lady Leroy.
Something—it certainly looked more like an Egyptian mummy than anything else—swathed in shawls and swaddling-clothes, was stuck up in a vast Sleepy Hollow open arm-chair, and had its face turned to the door. That face, and a very yellow, and seared, and wrinkled, and unlovely face it was, buried in the flapping obscurity of a deeply-frilled white cap, was lit by a pair of little, twinkling eyes, bright and keen as two stilettos.
Leroy," said Natty, her tone demure, but her mischievous eyes dancing under their lashes, "this is Captain Cavendish. Leroy, in a shrill, squeaking voice, like a penny whistle out of tune; "sit down—do! Natty, can't you give the young man a cheer? Natty did not cheer, but she placed a chair for him, whispering, as she did so, "Speak loud, or she won't hear you. She had paid no attention to his reply; she had been staring at him all the time, until even he, cool as any man of the world could be, got a trifle disconcerted.
Natty, sitting demurely near, was enjoying it all with silent but intense delight. You're not so handsome as she said you were; leastways, you ain't to my taste! It was Natty's turn now to look disconcerted, which she did with a vengeance, as the dark, laughing eyes of the young officer turned upon her. I know he will! Run, run, run! Natty knew Lady Leroy a great deal too well to expostulate. She was gone, and Lady Leroy, with her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, seemed to have gone off into a fit of musing.
Captain Cavendish tried to look about him, which he had not ventured to do before, under those basilisk eyes. It was a large square room, like all the rest in the house, and stiflingly close and warm. No wonder, for a small cooking-stove was burning away, and every window was closed and shuttered.
A bed stood in one corner, an old-fashioned clock ticked in a loud hoarse voice on the mantel-piece, a small round table stood at the old lady's elbow, and the floor was covered with a carpet that had been Brussels once, but which was dirty, and colorless, and ragged now.
There was an open cupboard with dishes, and a sort of pantry with a half glass door, through which he could see boxes and barrels, hams and dried beef, and other commissary stores. The chair matched the flinty sofa down stairs, and the only thing to attract attention in the room was a green cabinet of covered wood that stood beside the bed. While he was looking at it, the old-fashioned clock began striking twelve in a gruff and surly way, as if it did it against its better judgment.
The sound woke the old lady up from her brown study—woke her up with a sharp jerk. This was addressed to Captain Cavendish, and in so peremptory a tone that that gallant young officer looked alarmed and disconcerted.
Call her quick! Thus ordered, Captain Cavendish opened the door and began calling loudly on the unknown lady bearing the name of Midge. Out of the gloom and dismalness below a hoarse voice shouted in reply, "I'm a coming;" and Captain Cavendish went back to his seat. The voice was that of a man, and of a man with a shocking bad cold, too; and the step lumbering up stairs was a man's step; but for all that, Midge wasn't a man, but a woman.
Such a woman! Between three and four feet high, and between four and five feet broad, Midge was just able to waddle under the weight of her own fair person, and no more. A shock of hair, very like a tar-mop, stood, bristling defiance at combs and brushes, up on end, like "quills upon the fretful porcupine.
The costume of the lady was scant, her dress displaying to the best advantage a pair of ankles some fifteen inches in circumference, and a pair of powerful arms, bare to the shoulders, were rolled up in a cotton apron. With the airy tread of an elephant inclined to embonpoint, this sylph-like being crossed the hall and stood in the doorway awaiting orders, while Captain Cavendish stared aghast, and backed a few paces with a feeble "By Jove!
It's after twelve! Don't I always tell you to come and get my dinner when you hear the clock strike twelve? I'll take the key! Leroy produced a key from a pocket somewhere about her; and Midge, rather jerking it out of her hands than otherwise, unlocked the pantry, and began busying herself among the forage there. Leroy's keen eyes followed every motion as a cat follows its prey, and Captain Cavendish gazed too, as if fascinated, on the fairy form of Miss Midge.
In passing to and fro, Midge had more than once caught his eye, and at last her feelings got the better of her, and, pausing abruptly before him, with her arms akimbo, burst out, "Look here, sir! I don't know who you are, but if you're a doggertype-man, come to take my picter, I'd jest thank you to be quick about it, and not sit there gaping like——".
It was Nathalie, her face stern, her voice imperative. I have made an unpardonably long call, I believe. Leroy, I wish you good morning. Leroy, without looking at him, all her eyes being absorbed in the doings of Midge in the culinary department. Where is Barnum, that he does not get hold of that domestic monstrosity? But the warning came too late. Midge, descending the stairs, had heard the speech, and gave the speaker a look so baleful and vindictive, that, had he been troubled with those feminine miseries, nerves, might have haunted him many a day.
He smiled at it then, but he remembered that look long after. I have always liked Midge since, and I believe she loves me with the faithful and blind fidelity of—but no irreverence—a dog. A slighting word rankles in her memory long. Blake is to be my chaperon on the occasion. Leroy will be delighted to entertain you till her bedtime comes, which is precisely nine o'clock. When I was with the gardener a few moments ago, Miss Blake came in and asked me to spend the evening with her.
Mamma and Miss Rose, the new teacher, are to be there, and I could not refuse. Oh, there is a summons for you! How impatient your old lady is! They shook hands, and parted. Captain Cavendish lit a cigar, and went smoking, meditatingly, down the dreary avenue, and out into the highroad.
Standing near the gate was pretty Cherrie, and a refulgent smile greeted him from the rosy lips. He lifted his hat, and passed on; for standing in the doorway was the stalwart young fishermen of the beach. It's extremely convenient their living so near together; one journey does for both. I think I understand now what is meant by the old adage of killing two birds with one stone.
The establishment of Miss Joanna Blake was not on a scale of magnificence. Miss Jo's only parlor being about ten feet square, was not too grandly vast at any time, and not exactly adapted for the mirthful throng to disport themselves in. The style of furniture, too, was, some people might think, on a trifle too grand a scale for its dimensions. When Val, and his fourteen or fifteen friends aforesaid, lit their cigars, tilted back their chairs, elevated the heels of their boots on the piano or table, and all puffed away together, the parlor became rather obscure, and a stranger suddenly entering might have conceived the idea that the house was in flames; and that, perhaps, was the reason the parlor always smelt like a tobacconist's shop.
Besides the parlor, Miss Jo had a dining-room and a kitchen, and two bedrooms, in the floor, though, and she did her own work. In the parlor of No. Peter's Street, the lamp was lit, the drab moreen curtains let down, and the table set for tea. There was a snowy cloth on the mahogany which hid the marks of the bootheels and the stains of the punch-tumblers, and the china cups and saucers, and the glass preserve-plates and butter-dish, and spoon-holder, not to speak of the spoons themselves, which were of real silver, and had cost a dollar a piece, and had a big capital "B" engraven thereon, glittered and flashed in the light.
There was buttered toast, and hot biscuit, and pound-cake, and fruit-cake, and mince-pie, and quince-jelly, and cold chicken, and coffee and tea—all the work of Miss Jo's own fair hands; and Miss Jo herself, rather flushed with the heat, but very imposing and stately to look at in a green poplin dress—real Irish poplin at that—and a worked collar a finger-length deep, presided at the tea-tray, and dispensed the hospitalities of the festive board.
Val, sitting opposite, did his part, which consisted chiefly in attempting to pass the cake-plates, and spilling their contents, of upsetting everything he touched, and looking mildly but reproachfully at the refractory object afterward. Marsh was there, placid, and insipid, and faded, and feeble, as usual; and Miss Rose was there, pale and pretty; and Miss Clowrie was there, smiling and soft of voice, and deft of touch, and purring more than ever; and Miss Blair was there, laughing at all the funny things, and rosy as Hebe herself; and Charley Marsh was there, making a martyr of himself in the attempt to be fascinating to three young ladies at once; and everybody had eaten and drank, forced thereto by Miss Blake, until they were, as Charley forcibly put it, "a misery to themselves.
Miss Catty, always sweet and obliging, and that sort of a thing, insisted on helping her, and Charley opening the upright, clattered a "Fisher's Hornpipe" in spirited style. Miss Blair, all smiles, took her seat, and sung not only "The Laird o' Cockpen," but a dozen others of the same kidney.
Now, Miss Rose, you sing, I know. Miss Rose looked as though she were about to excuse herself, but that impulsive Laura Blair ran over and caught her by both hands. We won't take any excuses. Charley, the young lady is at your mercy, lead her off. Charley promptly did so. Miss Rose, smiling graciously, ran her white fingers over the yellow keys, and looked up at him.
I am prepared to be delighted with 'Old Dan Tucker,' if you chose it. The white fingers still ran idly over the keys, breaking into a plaintive prelude at last, and in a voice, "low and sweet" as Annie Laurie's own, the song began.
The words were those of a gifted young American poetess; the melody, a low sweet air, in a melancholy minor key—Miss Rose's own, perhaps. The sweet voice faltered a little toward the close; but as a buzz of congratulation ran around the circle she arose hastily. Arose to find herself face to face with two gentlemen who had entered as she began her song, and who had stood silently listening with the rest.
It was Captain Cavendish and Val; and the young officer's face wore a look no one in that room had ever seen it wear before—a pale and startled look of anxiety, almost of fear—and as she faced them he backed a few paces involuntarily. Miss Rose, evidently taken completely by surprise, started visibly, growing white and red by turns.
But Val was introducing them, and only he and one other present saw the changing faces of the twain. That other was Miss Catty Clowrie, whose eyes were as keen as any other cat's, and who watched them furtively, with vividest interest.
Miss Catty was enough of a mathematician to know there is no effect without a cause. What, then, was the cause of this? It was easily enough answered. Captain Cavendish and Miss Rose had met before, and had known each other well, though they were now bowing as perfect strangers. The elegant officer had recovered all his high-bred sangfroid, and was smooth and bland as sweet oil; but Miss Rose's face had settled into so deadly a pallor that Mrs.
Marsh, albeit not the most eagle-sighted in the world, noticed it. Miss Rose murmured something about the heat, and subsided into the most shadowy corner she could find; and Charley created a diversion by sitting down to the piano himself and rattling off a jingling symphony. In the midst of it carriage wheels rolled up to the door of No. Miss Jo met her in the hall and escorted her to her bedroom, which was the dressing-room for the evening; and presently Miss Nathalie came in, dressed in black silk, trimmed with black lace, and all her beautiful golden hair falling in glittering ringlets over her shoulders, her cheeks glowing with the rapid ride through the night air.
Brilliant she looked; and Captain Cavendish's heart, or whatever the thing is that does duty for a heart with men of the world, quickened its beating a little, as he shook hands. Nathalie kissed Miss Rose, sitting so very still in her quiet corner. Here you sit like a white shadow, all by yourself.
Charley, what on earth are you shouting there? Then I'll teach you. Miss Jo, I'll sit beside you. Come here and sing with me. Natty sung everything—Italian arias, French chansonettes, German and Scotch ballads; her full, rich soprano voice filling the room with melody, as on Sundays it filled the long cathedral aisles.
Natty's voice was superb—Miss Rose listened like one entranced. So did another, Captain Cavendish, who made all sorts of blunders in the game, and could not learn it at all, for watching the two black figures at the piano—the little pale girl with the modest brown braids, and the stately heiress with her shining yellow curls. Catty Clowrie watched them and the captain, and the game too, noting everything, and making no mistakes. A very noisy party they were, every one laughing, expostulating, and straining their voices together, and Charley winning everything right and left.
Captain Cavendish started into recollection, and began playing with the wildest rapidity, utterly at random. Here's Captain Cavendish has lost all his spare change, because he couldn't watch the game for watching that piano. Charley jingled a pocketful of pennies—Speckport pennies at that—as large as quoits. Who's this? Miss Jo produced a white cloud and large cloak, and Natty's move was a signal for all to depart. Catty, Laura, Miss Rose, and Mrs. Marsh's mufflings had to be got, and the little parlor was a scene of "confusion worse confounded.
Val strolled over to where Captain Cavendish was making himself useful, helping Miss Marsh on with her cloak. Blake is forestalled," said Captain Cavendish, coolly. Charley can take care of the other three, for Catty lives next door. Lady Leroy's carryall, with Cherrie Nettleby's elder brother for driver, was waiting at the door. Captain Cavendish noticed the omission as he seated himself beside her, and they drove off. She was such a crafty, cunning little thing in those days—a sort of spy on the rest of us—a sort of female Uriah Heep.
I don't like her, because I don't like her—an excellent female reason, you understand. I may be mistaken, though. Catty Clowrie has sense, whatever else she may lack, and never would dream of so preposterous a thing. Apropos of strangers, what a perfect darling that Miss Rose is. Miss Rose does not sound like a family name; has she no other cognomen? I don't know what the 'W' is for.
I think she has the sweetest face I ever saw. Perhaps it was the sea-breeze, though; for it was blowing up fresh and bracing, and a host of stars spangled a sky of cloudless blue. The monotonous plash of the waves on the shore came dully booming over the rattle of their own carriage-wheels.
Miss Rose and I have a bond of sympathy between us: we both love the sea. I suppose," said Natty, going off into another subject, "Mrs. Leroy will read me a lecture for my long stay, when I get back. No, indeed; I believe if I staid out for a week she would never close an eye until I got back. It is fear that keeps her awake; she dreads being left alone. No, she always keeps a large sum of money in her chamber—you saw that queer cabinet—well, in that; and she is terribly scared of robbers, in spite of all our bolts and bars.
I sleep in the room next hers, and I presume she feels my presence there a sort of safeguard against burglars. In Midge she has no confidence whatever. The sight of her might scare away an army of robbers. She is the most faithful and trustworthy creature that ever lived. When I was a boy at Eton, I used to read German legends of beautiful princesses guarded by malignant spirits, in uncouth human forms. I thought of the stories this morning when I was at Redmon.
Here we are at the cottage. The father is our gardener; the sons, the whole family, make themselves useful about the place, all but Cherrie, who is more for ornament than use. Here we are at Redmon, and there is the light burning in Mrs. Leroy's window. I must go to her room the first thing now, give an account of myself, and extinguish it. Good-night; I hope you will enjoy your solitary journey back. Are you sure you can get in?
Waving her hand to him, she was gone while she spoke. Midge stood blinking in the doorway, holding a candle above her head, which tar-mop was now tied up in a red flannel petticoat. She shaded her eyes with her hand, peering out at the tall figure in the loose overcoat; and when she made sure of his identity, slamming the door to with a bang that left no doubt of her feelings toward him. But Natty was flying up the polished stairs with a new happiness at her heart, singing as she went a snatch of "Love's Young Dream.
Val Blake was a young gentleman possessing a great many admirable virtues, among others the fearful one of always saying what he thought. Another, not quite so terrible to society, was that of early rising. The sun, whenever that luminary condescended to show its face in Speckport, which wasn't so very often, never found him in bed, either winter or summer. Val might be up until two o'clock in the office, as he sometimes was in busy seasons, such as election times, but that never prevented his rising at half-past four the next morning, as bright as a new penny.
Val had escorted Miss Laura Blair home from his sister's little sociable—not only escorted her home, in fact, but had gone in with her. It was past eleven then, but Papa Blair had invited him to blow a friendly cloud, and Val had accepted the invitation. There they sat, smoking and talking politics until after one, and it was half-past when he got back to No. Peter's Street; but for all that, here he was next morning at the hour of six, coming striding along the sea-shore, a pipe in his mouth, and a towel in his hand.
Val had been taking a sea-bath, his invariable custom every fine morning, from the first of May to the last of October, to the alarming increase of his appetite for breakfast. There were few to be met on the sand, at that hour, except in the fishing seasons; and the fishermen not being in yet from the night's work, the shore was entirely deserted.
The editor of the Speckport Gazette had not the shore all to himself after all; for, as he passed a jutting bowlder, he came in view of a fluttering figure walking slowly on before. The black dress waving in the breeze, the slender form in the long black mantle, the little straw hat, and the brown braid were familiar by this time. Miss Rose, the pretty little school-teacher, was taking an early constitutional as well as himself, with a book for her only companion. Val's long legs were beginning to measure off the sand in vast strides, to join her, when he was forestalled most unexpectedly.
Starting up from behind a tall rock, in whose shadow on the warm sand he had been lying, his hat pulled over his eyes to protect him from the sun, a gentleman came forward, lifted his hat, and accosted her. Val knew the gentleman quite as well as he did the lady, and stopped. At the sound of his voice coming so suddenly, she had recoiled with a suppressed cry, but at sight of whom it was, she stood perfectly still, as if transfixed.
There was a path up the hillside—the very path Captain Cavendish had been shown by the young Nettlebys the day before. Val turned up this, with his hands in his pockets, and his mind in a state of soliloquy. There's something queer about this—they were both taken aback last night, were they not?
She's a pretty little thing, and he's been in Montreal, I know; was quartered there before he was ordered to Halifax. I suppose it's the old story—he always was a flirt, and his handsome face sets the girls loony wherever he goes. Miss Rose looks sensible, but I dare say she's as bad as the rest. Val's suspicions might have become certainty had he been listening to the conversation of the young officer and the little school-teacher; but there was no one to listen, except the waves and the wind, and the seagulls clanging over their heads.
No, do not go! Pray stay and hear me out. I cannot be seen here with you. Let me go! I do not know what evil fate has driven us together here; but if you have one feeling of honor, Captain Cavendish, you will leave me in peace—you will let me alone. My lot is not such a happy one that you should wish to destroy the little comfort I have left. Her voice choked and something fell on her book and wet it. The face of the English officer looked strangely moved for him. I am poor; I am in debt—I was then—what could I do?
I do not ask what chain of circumstances brought you here; I only ask, being here, that you will not reveal the story of—of what is past and gone. Will you promise me this, Winnie? And now, in return, Captain Cavendish, I want, I demand, a promise from you! We met last night as strangers, as strangers let us meet henceforth. Go your own way. I shall not molest you, never fear; and be generous enough to grant me the same favor.
My life is to be one of hard work. I do not regret that. Let me find happiness in my own way, and do not disturb me any more. She walked rapidly away. Only once had she looked at him all the time—after that first glance of recognition, her face had been averted.
Captain Cavendish watched her out of sight, took two or three turns up and down the sand, and then strolled away to his lodgings. His rooms were in the Speckport House, fronting on Queen Street; and after disposing of his beefsteak and coffee with a very good appetite, he seated himself near an open window, to smoke no end of cigars and watch the passers-by.
A great many passers-by there were, and nearly all strangers to him; but presently, two young men went strutting past, arm-in-arm, and, chancing to look at his window, lifted their hats in passing. A sudden thought seemed to flash through the officer's mind as he saw them, and, seizing his hat, he started out after them. It was young McGregor and Charley Marsh, and he speedily overtook them. Being tired of my own company, I thought I would join you. Have a cigar?
Well, I have lived all my life in Speckport, but I have never set foot over the threshold you mean, yet. Come on, better late than never. I've always wanted to go there, but never had a chance without the governor finding it out, and kicking up the deuce of a row!
It is only to kill time, after all. But still Charley hesitated, half laughing, half tempted, half reluctant. No, I think you must hold me excused. Fetch him along, captain; what he says is only gammon. Marsh has conscientious scruples—some people have, I am told. If so——". He did not finish the sentence, but the smile deepened.
That mocking smile did more to overthrow Charley's resolution than any words could have done. He turned at once in the direction of Prince Street: "The only scruples I know anything about relate to weights and measures, and I believe these are in a dram. I have a couple of hours before dinner; so until then, I am at your service, captain. The trio turned into Prince Street—a quiet street, with staid rows of white houses, and only one of any pretension, at one of its quiet corners.
Captain Cavendish ran up the steps, with the air of a man perfectly at home, opened the outer door and rang the bell. There were few people passing, but Charley and McGregor glanced uneasily about them, before going in, and closed the street door after them with some precipitation. Charley had told the captain he was at his service for two hours, but over four passed before the three issued forth again.
Charley looked flushed, excited, and in high spirits, so did Alick McGregor; but Captain Cavendish, though laughing, was a trifle serious, too. Marsh," he was saying, "but you must give me my revenge. Better luck next time. What do you say, Mac? The sooner the better, as I intend keeping on until I make a fortune on my own account.
Would not the governor stare if he knew the pile I made this morning. I had no idea it was two. Won't they be wondering what has become of me at home. I feel as though I should like my dinner. The two young Speckportians accepted the invitation, and the three went up crowded Queen Street together. Streaming down among the crowd came Miss Cherrie Nettleby. One kid-gloved hand uplifted her silken robe, and displayed an elaborately embroidered under-skirt to the admiring beholder; the other poised a blue parasol; and, gorgeous to behold, Miss Nettleby flashed like a meteor through Speckport.
All the men spoke to her—all the women turned up their fair noses and sailed by in delicate disdain. Charley blushed vividly at sight of her. Good afternoon, Miss Cherrie. Miss Cherrie smiled graciously, made them a bow that ballooned her silk skirt over the whole sidewalk, and sailed on. Charley looked as if he should like to follow her, but that was next to impossible, so he walked on.
Half the young men in the town are looney about her. This way, gentlemen. While the triad sat over their dinner and dessert, Miss Nettleby did her shopping—that is, she chatted with the good-looking clerks over the counter, and swept past the old and ugly ones in silent contempt.
Cherrie was in no hurry; she had made up her mind before starting to go through every drygoods store in Speckport, and kept her word. It was growing dusk when the dress was finally bought, cut off, and paid for—a bright pink ground, with a brighter pink sprig running through it. Nettleby's, Redmon Road. Good evening, Mr. They have tea at six, I know, and it's only a quarter to six, now. I can say I want a book, and he'll be sure to come home with me. I must see that new teacher. Walking very fast Cherrie reached Cottage Street as the clocks of Speckport were chiming six, and the laborers' bells ringing their dismissal.
Catty Clowrie was standing in her own doorway, but Cherrie did not stop to speak, only nodded, and knocked at Mrs. Marsh's door. Betsy Ann opened it and Cherrie walked into the sitting-room, where a fire burned, warm as the afternoon had been, and Mrs. Marsh, with a shawl about her and a novel in her hand, swayed to and fro in her rocking-chair. Miss Rose in the parlor was trying her new piano, which Natty had ordered that morning, and which had just come home.
Marsh, looking up from the book and holding out her hand, "is it you, Cherrie? How do you do? Sit down. That last one was real nice. Marsh, who's that playing the piano? And so you liked that last book—what's this it was—'Regina,' wasn't it? That earl was so nice, and I liked Regina, too. What's that you're reading?
Did you ever read 'The Lamplighter? Marsh, who liked Cherrie; "it's all ready, and we are only waiting for Charley. I don't see where he's gone too; he wasn't home to dinner, either. Take off your things, Cherrie, and stay for tea. It's of no use waiting for Charley. Betsy Ann, bring us the teapot, and call Miss Rose. Cherrie laid aside her turban and lace, and was duly made acquainted with Miss Rose.
Cherrie had heard the new teacher was pretty, but she had hoped she was not so very pretty as this, and a pang of jealousy went through her vain little heart. She had stayed for tea, hoping Charley would partake of that repast with them, and afterward escort her home; but it commenced and was over, but that young gentleman did not appear. Miss Rose played after tea, and Cherrie lingered and lingered, under pretense of being charmed; but it got dark, and still that provoking Charley did not come.
Cherrie could wait no longer, and a little cross and a good deal disappointed, she arose to go. Cherrie accepted the offer, rolled her lace up in a copy of the "Speckport Spouter," and started on her homeward journey. The street lamps were lit, the shop windows ablaze with illumination, and the cold, keen stars were cleaving sharp and chill through the blue concave above.
A pale young crescent moon shone serene in their midst, but it might have been an old oil-lamp for all Miss Nettleby cared, in her present irate and vexed frame of mind. But there was balm in Gilead; a step was behind her, a man's step, firm and quick; a tall form was making rapid head-way in her direction. Cherrie looked behind, half frightened, but there was no mistaking that commanding presence, that military stride, in the handsome face with the thick black mustache, looking down upon her.
Cherrie's heart was bounding, but how was he to know that. I was down at Mrs. Marsh's, and Charley wasn't home. Do you know where Charley is? Let me carry that parcel, Cherrie, and don't walk so fast. From the agricultural ditches of snowy Minnesota to the dense forests of fairy tales, Robert has opened my mind time and again to the beauty of this life. Here again, I have to lie down and sleep after reading just one of his reflections on an old story.
Sometimes only a dream will digest a great piece of writing. Thank you, Robert. This book is wise and beguiling, a testament to years of thought. More Than True is daring, strange, and exalted. Bly gives form and meaning to hidden half-realised messages transmitted to us by our distant ancestors through fairy stories.
His insights result in such an overwhelming torrent of ideas in the reader that it is best to take it one chapter at a time. Customer Reviews, including Product Star Ratings help customers to learn more about the product and decide whether it is the right product for them. Instead, our system considers things like how recent a review is and if the reviewer bought the item on Amazon.
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FREE Shipping. Only 2 left in stock - order soon. Iron John: A Book about Men. In Stock. A Little Book on the Human Shadow. Customers who viewed this item also viewed. Page 1 of 1 Start over Page 1 of 1. Robert Bly. Collected Poems. News of the Universe: Poems of Twofold Consciousness. Looking for Dragon Smoke: Essays on Poetry. Review "A terrific blend of the timeless and the modern. Don't have a Kindle?
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Please try again later. Verified Purchase. Robert Bly, as he has done for years, opens up and helps clarify the mystical world of myth and fairy tales. He's able to show us what symbols exist in these simple but deep tales and what the significance or historical context is for those symbols. Like a legend on a map, things make more sense and truths are revealed.
If you enjoy Bly's writing this one is not to be missed. This is a very short book; you dont get much beef for the price. I wish more thought and more work had been used. One person found this helpful. Bly is an American poet, essayist, activist, and leader of the mythopoetic men's movement.
Throughout history, stories have been used as entertainment, to keep history alive, and to embellish praise on leaders and heroes. Stories were set to rhythm by use of meter or beat. Later stories were told by bards and set to music. Religions used oral traditions to carry on the beliefs. No one recorded the actual words of deities or even the actual teachings of Buddha. Word of mouth and oral traditions were how stories were kept alive.
We look at fairy tales and even nursery rhymes and find out there is much more to them.
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Rainer Maria Rilke. Get A Copy. Paperback , pages. Published August 4th by Harper Perennial first published More Details Original Title. Other Editions 1. All Editions. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. Lists with This Book. Community Reviews. Showing Average rating 4. Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Nov 17, Phayvanh rated it it was amazing Recommends it for: seekers.
Shelves: reviews , poetry. This is one of my favorite all-time poetry anthologies. I picked it up at a discount bookstore in San Francisco, back when I was still a reader searching for the right books. And I swear, back when I was reading mostly fiction and memoir, and my depression was making nonsense of my writing, this book brought me back around to the redemption of poety, both as reader and writer, and I will be forever grateful.
Edited by Robert Bly , James Hillman , and Michael Meade , the anthology is divided into This is one of my favorite all-time poetry anthologies. Each editor takes turn writing an introduction to the sections and poems of illumination, joy, and heartbreak follow. This book benefits greatly from the decision to include female poets in here too.
In all, it is a well-conceived, well-executed book. Uplifiting and satisfying, and something to turn to now and again. Nov 29, Mark Pennington rated it it was amazing Shelves: poetry. Trying to get men to talk about feelings is like an old cliche about plasma and a rock.
You'll never crack it, but it's fun trying. Poems from the ancient past right up to modern times, all about men and their total inability to understand what the hell is going on around them without causing wars, injuring women or losing their souls to dark forces beyond their control. Robert Bly is leader of the American Men's Movement, a kind of friendly response to feminism which encourages them to get in tou Trying to get men to talk about feelings is like an old cliche about plasma and a rock.
Robert Bly is leader of the American Men's Movement, a kind of friendly response to feminism which encourages them to get in touch with their "inner woman", yet retain a core of masculinity which provides the basis for nurture and growth. His representative on this bit of the earth UK up until his passing last November was Jackie Leven, a big old Scotsman with an equally big heart, who came through a two year struggle with heroin to found the Core Trust, an addiction charity once supported by the late Princess Diana.
Leven's work quotes many of the poems from this anthology, and provides a tonic for those in need of a bit of comfort in trying times. Sounds heavy, but there's a lot of funny stuff in there as well. One to dip into now and again, rather than live in all the time, as they say.
Feb 16, Anders rated it liked it Shelves: poetry. Beautiful book of poetry made by men for men. Ladies, don't let that scare you It's great and inspirational reading Beautiful book of poetry made by men for men. It's great and inspirational reading This is a book I like to give as a gift to friends who want to read poetry and aren't sure what to read.
I'm a fan of Robert Bly's collections and the introductory notes he writes for his collections. Mar 07, Douglas Beagley rated it really liked it. Poems dealing with masculinity. Easy, accessible. This was assigned in a playful poetry class I took in the fall of , after having already completed requirements for the major—I was in a dog-ear corner phase of my relationship to books, and this being a paperback, I cornered whatever I liked. Apparently, I liked poetry that tried to be clever, and succeeded.
They are like tiny science fiction stories—the world made real through a door painted in the surreal. But I still find these poems funny, clever, fun. Lots of direct, concise, rhythmic pacing Hard Images, attempts to shock, but a fair dash of whimsy. Apr 27, Cherie Palmer rated it really liked it. Poem choices by men. May 05, Danielle Palmer rated it really liked it.
And that was exceedingly clear while reading several poems that focused on breasts and testicles. However, I really enjoyed the vast majority of the rest of these poems! I could only process a couple pages each night, the included pieces required a lot of thinking on my part.
What I enjoyed the most about this anthology is that the poems included are not your average fare - many I had never heard before and I quite enjoyed that minus the ones about breasts and testicles. Aug 16, Jon Stout rated it really liked it Recommends it for: men and women. Shelves: poetry. In fact, the book contains the widest variety of sources that one could imagine. She has captured the way in which inattention and indifference can destroy a child. While many of the poems left me cold, some, like this one, had the magical combination of words that chrystalized an experience that I understood.
Poems like these restore my faith in the special character of poetry. View all 3 comments. Jan 03, Liz Shine rated it really liked it. I bought this book at a Half Priced Books sale because I like the title and the Yeats poem it alludes to. I read each poem at least two times, then allowed myself to move on if the poem hadn't settled in or moved me. Reading this way reminded me that some poems just aren't for me and that's okay. When reading poems for my own enjoyment, I like to let some wash over me and not struggle needlessly.
This way of reading makes the poems that moved me, that I penciled a heart in the margins of so man I bought this book at a Half Priced Books sale because I like the title and the Yeats poem it alludes to. This way of reading makes the poems that moved me, that I penciled a heart in the margins of so many in this book! Aug 20, Jer El rated it it was amazing. Words are often inadequate to convey certain experiences in life, which is why we invented poetry to try to express what in life is often a feeling, a knowing, or an encounter with soul.
This is one of the greatest anthologies I have seen, it is a wonderful resource for anyone. And, if you happen to be looking for poetry specifically for a male in your life - then my suggestion is you give this a look first. View 1 comment. Mar 31, Daniel Petra rated it really liked it.
This is an incredibly amazing collection of poems that is used in the Mythopoetic movement of which I am a member. It is about mostly "crazy wisdom" and "radical creativity" and total liberation. It is in the Mithopoethic movement that I discovered the natural and organic tools and processes that have guided me in writing Missing Links. Reading these poems may change your life. It sure changed mine! Go for it!
Jul 28, Richard rated it it was amazing. Thematic poems, collected from sources old and new. These poems speak toward aspiration and redemption, boldness and humour, loss and acceptance. An amazing work and a testimony to the value of poetry and the primacy of the spoken word. Read it aloud if you dare! May 18, J. Alfred rated it it was ok. I didn't realize at the time that it had a subtitle; if I did realize it had this particular subtitle Poems for Men , I wouldn't have bought it.
My negative intuition toward the subtitle proved correct. Lots of weird stuff in the introduction and introductory essays in the chapters about Men as this difficult to understand primordial being. Lots of stuff about "in our meetings I got this book because its title The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart , like much of the rest of Yeats, is unbeatable.
Lots of stuff about "in our meetings with groups of men" what on earth are these meetings like? Then come the chapters which mix interesting and good, like eclectic collections which bring in lots of tribal and non-Western poems which most readers probably haven't experienced, and simply strange, like the "Earthly Love" section, whose unstated goal appears to have been to gather all the extant poems in any language which involve explicit reference to testicles.
The volume also fails to provide any biographical or even time period data for any of the poets it quotes, thereby failing as a source of useful introduction. It did, however, give me the following line: "men who talk to themselves hope to talk to God someday," and that was worth all of the frustrations. Except-- wait-- who is this guy Antonio Machado? Now I'm upset again. Dec 29, Sebastian Magri rated it liked it. This is the poetry anthology that I have had the pleasure of reading.
It is perhaps in that vain and in my cursory reading of the collected works that I did not get as much out of the writings as I would like to have. There were works and concepts that I very much felt a strong connection to, but overall I found myself reading poems one after another.
This is not how the book is meant to be read. This book is meant to be read the way a food critique dining at a 5-star restaurant. Each bite is ro This is the poetry anthology that I have had the pleasure of reading. Each bite is rolled around the tongue with every sense at peak engagement. I did not read this anthology this way, which is why I did not end up loving it. I am sure if I gave the works complete attention, then it would be as revealing and riveting of a work I have ever read.
With that said, I enjoyed the concept behind the anthology--a collection of poems and works for men in a culture that doesn't encourage men to partake in works such as poetry and visual art. With sections focusing on a myriad of problems men must navigate in life war, approach to language, finding love in the community and work, etc.
Rios, where the theft is accomplished by force or fear. There was no fear and the force was minimal. I had this vision of myself as a very small boy—maybe three or four—holding a seashell to my ear to hear the ocean, but instead of a gentle reverberation, I heard a thunderous swell of water rising from a black depth.
Terrified, I dropped the shell, but the roaring did not stop and I began to wail. Slowly I turned around and found myself standing at the edge of an ocean shimmering with light. Like shifting plates of glass reflecting the sun, the movement of light mesmerized me. I stopped crying and my terror evaporated. I felt a dim but widening awareness that if I stepped into the tide, everything would be all right, and it seemed to me at some point the water ceased to be water and revealed itself instead to be a brilliant sentience that called to me with such benevolence I rushed toward it.
When my foot touched the light, I felt a kind of ecstasy, but then someone hooked her arms beneath my armpits and dragged me away. I looked up and saw my sister, Elena, as she had been at eight or nine. Her grave dark eyes communicated love and terror. I tried to struggle out of her grip to run back into the light.
I woke up in the middle of the night in a narrow bed, groggy, disoriented and scared. I was pinned to the bed by tubes, lines and catheters and felt more specimen than human. In the darkness, a chair squeaked and I realized with a start there was someone else in the room. Laboriously, I turned my head toward the noise. When I saw who it was, I was sure I was either dead or crazy.
My mother, though born in California, was the daughter of Mexican immigrants. Spanish was her natal language and she spoke English with a slight but unmistakable Mexican accent. My sister, Elena, spoke in the educated tones of her profession—she was a professor of English at a small private college near Oakland.
At fifty-five, her face was worn to the same grave lines, with the same smooth olive darkness of skin, and her eyes were the same unrevealing black. She leaned forward and the resemblance ended. Elena touched her palm to my forehead as if she was taking my temperature. The intensive care unit. Do you remember that you had a heart attack? When I tried to express my bewilderment, it came out with unintended harshness.
Just after your heart stopped. That incandescent light. My sister dragging me away. Let you go where? This is where I brought Josh the last time he was hospitalized. So many people, friends, also dead. Why not me, too? More of the same. A doctor—a cardiologist named Hayward—came to examine me. Elena excused herself. Hayward perched at the edge of my bed.
He was a small man who wore round tortoiseshell glasses beneath which were quick, bright eyes that beamed rays of ironic intelligence. Despite his thinning hair and slight potbelly, he retained the air of a precocious child but he had the beleaguered smile of a man with too many demands on his attention. They kill a portion of the heart muscle. The quality of life depends on what the remaining capacity can handle. Surgery is a last resort. When you came back, you were asking for her.
In Spanish. I speak enough to understand what you wanted, so we tracked her down. That took some doing. I had to call your lawyer to find her.
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