The Literary Lioness

The Four Seasons : Spring by James Thomson

2013-03-20T00:00:00.000-04:00

Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,

And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,

While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower

Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts

With unaffected grace, or walk the plain

With innocence and meditation join'd

In soft assemblage, listen to my song,

Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all

Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.

And see where surly Winter passes off,

Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:

His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,

The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;

While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,

Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,

The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.

As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,

And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,

Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets

Deform the day delightless: so that scarce

The bittern knows his time, with bill ingulf'd,

To shake the sounding marsh; or from the shore

The plovers when to scatter o'er the heath,

And sing their wild notes to the listening waste

At last from Aries rolls the bounteous sun,

And the bright Bull receives him. Then no more

The expansive atmosphere is cramp'd with cold

But, full of life and vivifying soul,

Lifts the light clouds sublime, and spreads then thin,

Fleecy, and white, o'er all-surrounding heaven.

Forth fly the tepid airs: and unconfined,

Unbinding earth, the moving softness strays.

Joyous, the impatient husbandman perceives

Relenting Nature, and his lusty steers

Drives from their stalls, to where the well used plough

Lies in the furrow, loosen'd from the frost.

There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke

They lend their shoulder, and begin their toil,

Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.

Meanwhile incumbent o'er the shining share

The master leans, removes the obstructing clay,

Winds the whole work, and sidelong lays the glebe

While through the neighbouring fields the sowe stalks,

With measured step, and liberal throws the grain

Into the faithful bosom of the ground;

The harrow follows harsh, and shuts the scene.

Be gracious, Heaven! for now laborious Man

Has done his part. Ye fostering breezes, blow!

Ye softening dews, ye tender showers, descend!

And temper all, thou world-reviving sun,

Into the perfect year! Nor ye who live

In luxury and ease, in pomp and pride,

Think these lost themes unworthy of your ear:

Such themes as these the rural Maro sung

To wide-imperial Rome, in the full height

Of elegance and taste, by Greece refined.

In ancient times the sacred plough employ'd

The kings and awful fathers of mankind:

And some, with whom compared your insect-tribes

Are but the beings of a summer's day,

Have held the scale of empire, ruled the storm

Of mighty war; then, with unwearied hand,

Disdaining little delicacies, seized

The plough, and greatly independent lived.

Ye generous Britons, venerate the plough!

And o'er your hills, and long withdrawing vales,

Let Autumn spread his treasures to the sun,

Luxuriant and unbounded: as the sea,

Far through his azure turbulent domain,

Your empire owns, and from a thousand shores

Wafts all the pomp of life into your ports;

So with superior boon may your rich soil,

Exuberant, Nature's better blessings pour

O'er every land, the naked nations clothe,

And be the exhaustless granary of a world!

Nor only through the lenient air this change,

Delicious, breathes; the penetrative sun,

His force deep-darting to the dark retreat

Of vegetation, sets the steaming Power

At large, to wander o'er the verdant earth,

In various hues; but chiefly thee, gay green!

Thou smiling Nature's universal robe!

United light and shade! where the sight dwells

With growing strength, and ever-new delight.

From the moist meadow to the wither'd hill,

Led by the breeze, the vivid verdure runs,

And swells, and deepens, to the cherish'd eye.

The hawthorn whitens; and the juicy groves

Put forth their buds, unfolding by degrees,

Till the whole leafy forest stands display'd,

In full luxuriance to the sighing gales;

Where the deer rustle through the twining brake,

And the birds sing conceal'd. At once array'd

In all the colours of the flushing year,

By Nature's swift and secret working hand,

The garden glows, and fills the liberal air

With lavish fragrance; while the promised fruit

Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived,

Within its crimson folds. Now from the town

Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,

Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields,

Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops

From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze

Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;

Or taste the smell of dairy; or ascend

Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains,

And see the country, far diffused around,

One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower

Of mingled blossoms; where the raptured eye

Hurries from joy to joy, and, hid beneath

The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies.

If, brush'd from Russian wilds, a cutting gale

Rise not, and scatter from his humid wings

The clammy mildew; or, dry-blowing, breathe

Untimely frost; before whose baleful blast

The full-blown Spring through all her foliage shrinks,

Joyless and dead, a wide-dejected waste.

For oft, engender'd by the hazy north,

Myriads on myriads, insect armies warp

Keen in the poison'd breeze; and wasteful eat,

Through buds and bark, into the blacken'd core,

Their eager way. A feeble race! yet oft

The sacred sons of vengeance; on whose course

Corrosive Famine waits, and kills the year.

To check this plague, the skilful farmer chaff

And blazing straw before his orchard burns;

Till, all involved in smoke, the latent foe

From every cranny suffocated falls:

Or scatters o'er the blooms the pungent dust

Of pepper, fatal to the frosty tribe:

Or, when the envenom'd leaf begins to curl,

With sprinkled water drowns them in their nest;

Nor, while they pick them up with busy bill,

The little trooping birds unwisely scares.

Be patient, swains; these cruel seeming winds

Blow not in vain. Far hence they keep repress'd

Those deepening clouds on clouds, surcharged with rain,

That o'er the vast Atlantic hither borne,

In endless train, would quench the summer-blaze,

And, cheerless, drown the crude unripen'd year.

The north-east spends his rage; he now shut up

Within his iron cave, the effusive south

Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of Heaven

Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent.

At first a dusky wreath they seem to rise,

Scarce staining ether; but by swift degrees,

In heaps on heaps, the doubling vapour sails

Along the loaded sky, and mingling deep

Sits on the horizon round a settled gloom:

Not such as wintry-storms on mortals shed,

Oppressing life; but lovely, gentle, kind,

And full of every hope and every joy,

The wish of Nature. Gradual sinks the breeze

Into a perfect calm; that not a breath

Is heard to quiver through the closing woods,

Or rustling turn the many-twinkling leaves

Of aspin tall. The' uncurling floods, diffused

In glassy breadth, seem through delusive lapse

Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all

And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks

Drop the dry sprig, and mute-imploring eye

The falling verdure. Hush'd in short suspense,

The plumy people streak their wings with oil,

To throw the lucid moisture trickling off:

And wait the approaching sign to strike, at once,

Into the general choir. E'en mountains, vales,

And forests seem, impatient, to demand

The promised sweetness. Man superior walks

Amid the glad creation, musing praise,

And looking lively gratitude. At last,

The clouds consign their treasures to the fields;

And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool

Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow,

In large effusion, o'er the freshened world.

The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard,

By such as wander through the forest walks,

Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves.

But who can hold the shade, while Heaven descends

In universal bounty, shedding herbs,

And fruits, and flowers, on Nature's ample lap?

Swift Fancy fired anticipates their growth;

And, while the milky nutriment distils,

Beholds the kindling country colour round.

Thus all day long the full-distended clouds

Indulge their genial stores, and well-shower'd earth

Is deep enrich'd with vegetable life;

Till, in the western sky, the downward sun

Looks out, effulgent, from amid the flush

Of broken clouds, gay-shifting to his beam.

The rapid radiance instantaneous strikes

The illumined mountain, through the forest streams,

Shakes on the floods, and in a yellow mist,

Far smoking o'er the interminable plain,

In twinkling myriads lights the dewy gems.

Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around.

Full swell the woods; their every music wakes,

Mix'd in wild concert with the warbling brooks

Increased, the distant bleatings of the hills,

And hollow lows responsive from the vales,

Whence blending all the sweeten'd zephyr springs.

Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,

Bestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow

Shoots up immense; and every hue unfolds,

In fair proportion running from the red

To where the violet fades into the sky.

Here, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds

Form, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism;

And to the sage instructed eye unfold

The various twine of light, by thee disclosed

From the white mingling maze. Not so the boy;

He wondering views the bright enchantment bend,

Delightful o'er the radiant fields, and runs

To catch the falling glory; but amazed

Beholds the amusive arch before him fly,

Then vanish quite away. Still night succeeds,

A softened shade, and saturated earth

Awaits the morning-beam, to give to light,

Raised through ten thousand different plastic tubes,

The balmy treasures of the former day.

Then spring the living herbs, profusely wild,

O'er all the deep-green earth, beyond the power

Of botanist to number up their tribes:

Whether he steals along the lonely dale,

In silent search; or through the forest, rank

With what the dull incurious weeds account,

Bursts his blind way; or climbs the mountain rock,

Fired by the nodding verdure of its brow.

With such a liberal hand has Nature flung

Their seeds abroad, blown them about in winds,

Innumerous mix'd them with the nursing mould,

The moistening current, and prolific rain.

But who their virtues can declare? who pierce,

With vision pure, into these secret stores

Of health, and life, and joy? the food of Man,

While yet he lived in innocence, and told

A length of golden years; unflesh'd in blood,

A stranger to the savage arts of life,

Death, rapine, carnage, surfeit, and disease;

The lord, and not the tyrant, of the world.

The first fresh dawn then waked the gladden'd race

Of uncorrupted Man, nor blush'd to see

The sluggard sleep beneath its sacred beam;

For their light slumbers gently fumed away;

And up they rose as vigorous as the sun,

Or to the culture of the willing glebe,

Or to the cheerful tendance of the flock.

Meantime the song went round; and dance and sport,

Wisdom and friendly talk, successive, stole

Their hours away: while in the rosy vale

Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free,

And full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain,

That inly thrilling, but exalts it more.

Not yet injurious act, nor surly deed,

Was known among those happy sons of Heaven;

For reason and benevolence were law.

Harmonious Nature too look'd smiling on.

Clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales,

And balmy spirit all. The youthful sun

Shot his best rays, and still the gracious clouds

Dropp'd fatness down; as o'er the swelling mead

The herds and flocks, commixing, play'd secure.

This when, emergent from the gloomy wood,

The glaring lion saw, his horrid heart

Was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy;

For music held the whole in perfect peace:

Soft sigh'd the flute; the tender voice was heard,

Warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round

Applied their quire; and winds and waters flow'd

In consonance. Such were those prime of days.

But now those white unblemish'd manners, whence

The fabling poets took their golden age,

Are found no more amid these iron times.

These dregs of life! now the distemper'd mind

Has lost that concord of harmonious powers,

Which forms the soul of happiness; and all

Is off the poise within: the passions all

Have burst their bounds; and reason half extinct,

Or impotent, or else approving, sees

The foul disorder. Senseless, and deform'd,

Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale,

And silent, settles into fell revenge.

Base envy withers at another's joy,

And hates that excellence it cannot reach.

Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full,

Weak and unmanly, loosens every power.

E'en love itself is bitterness of soul,

A pensive anguish pining at the heart;

Or, sunk to sordid interest, feels no more

That noble wish, that never cloy'd desire,

Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone

To bless the dearer object of its flame.

Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief,

Of life impatient, into madness swells;

Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.

These, and a thousand mixt emotions more,

From ever changing views of good and ill,

Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind

With endless storm: whence, deeply rankling, grows

The partial thought, a listless unconcern,

Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good;

Then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles,

Coward deceit, and ruffian violence:

At last, extinct each social feeling, fell

And joyless inhumanity pervades

And petrifies the heart. Nature disturb'd

Is deem'd vindictive, to have chang'd her course.

Hence, in old dusky time, a deluge came:

When the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd

The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,

With universal burst, into the gulf,

And o'er the high-piled hills of fractured earth

Wide dash'd the waves, in undulation vast;

Till, from the centre to the streaming clouds,

A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.

The Seasons since have, with severer sway,

Oppress'd a broken world: the Winter keen

Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot

His pestilential heats. Great Spring, before,

Green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd,

In social sweetness, on the selfsame bough.

Pure was the temperate air; an even calm

Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland

Breathed o'er the blue expanse: for then nor storms

Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage;

Sound slept the waters; no sulphureous glooms

Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth;

While sickly damps and cold autumnal fogs

Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life.

But now, of turbid elements the sport,

From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold,

And dry to moist, with inward-eating change,

Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,

Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.

And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;

Though with the pure exhilarating soul

Of nutriment and health, and vital powers,

Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest.

For, with hot ravine fired, ensanguined man

Is now become the lion of the plain,

And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold

Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,

Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,

At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,

E'er plough'd for him. They too are temper'd high,

With hunger stung and wild necessity;

Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.

But man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay,

With every kind emotion in his heart,

And taught alone to weep; while from her lap

She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,

And fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain

Or beams that gave them birth: shall he, fair form!

Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on Heaven,

E'er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,

And dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,

Blood-stain'd, deserves to bleed: but you, ye flocks,

What have you done; ye peaceful people, what,

To merit death? you, who have given us milk

In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat

Against the Winter's cold? and the plain ox,

That harmless, honest, guileless animal,

In what has he offended? he, whose toil,

Patient and ever ready, clothes the land

With all the pomp of harvest; shall he bleed,

And struggling groan beneath the cruel hands

E'en of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps,

To swell the riot of the autumnal feast,

Won by his labour? Thus the feeling heart

Would tenderly suggest: but 'tis enough,

In this late age, adventurous, to have touch'd

Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.

High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain,

Whose wisest will has fix'd us in a state

That must not yet to pure perfection rise.

Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,

Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away,

And, whitening, down their mossy-tinctured stream

Descends the billowy foam: now is the time,

While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,

To tempt the trout. The well-dissembled fly,

The rod fine-tapering with elastic spring,

Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,

And all thy slender watry stores prepare.

But let not on thy hook the tortured worm,

Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds;

Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,

Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast

Of the weak helpless uncomplaining wretch,

Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

When with his lively ray the potent sun

Has pierced the streams, and roused the finny-race,

Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;

Chief should the western breezes curling play,

And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds,

High to their fount, this day, amid the hills,

And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;

The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze,

Down to the river, in whose ample wave

Their little naiads love to sport at large.

Just in the dubious point, where with the pool

Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils

Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank

Reverted plays in undulating flow,

There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;

And as you lead it round in artful curve,

With eye attentive mark the springing game.

Straight as above the surface of the flood

They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap,

Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook:

Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,

And to the shelving shore slow dragging some,

With various hand proportion'd to their force.

If yet too young, and easily deceived,

A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,

Him, piteous of his youth and the short space

He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heaven,

Soft disengage, and back into the stream

The speckled captive throw. But should you lure

From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots

Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook,

Behoves you then to ply your finest art.

Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly;

And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft

The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.

At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun

Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death,

With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,

Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthened line;

Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed,

The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode;

And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,

Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,

That feels him still, yet to his furious course

Gives way, you, now retiring, following now

Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage:

Till floating broad upon his breathless side,

And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore

You gaily drag your unresisting prize.

Thus pass the temperate hours; but when the sun

Shakes from his noon-day throne the scattering clouds,

Even shooting listless langour through the deeps;

Then seek the bank where flowering elders crowd,

Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale

Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang

The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,

With all the lowly children of the shade:

Or lie reclined beneath yon spreading ash,

Hung o'er the steep; whence, borne on liquid wing,

The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk,

High, in the beetling cliff, his eyry builds.

There let the classic page thy fancy lead

Through rural scenes; such as the Mantuan swain

Paints in the matchless harmony of song.

Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift

Athwart imagination's vivid eye:

Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,

And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,

Confused, of careless solitude, where mix

Ten thousand wandering images of things,

Soothe every gust of passion into peace;

All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,

That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

Behold yon breathing prospect bids the Muse

Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint

Like Nature? Can imagination boast,

Amid its gay creation, hues like hers?

Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,

And lose them in each other, as appears

In every bud that blows? If fancy then

Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task,

Ah, what shall language do? Ah, where find words

Tinged with so many colours; and whose power,

To life approaching, may perfume my lays

With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,

That inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet, though successless, will the toil delight.

Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts

Have felt the raptures of refining love;

And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!

Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself!

Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet,

Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul,

Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd,

Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:

Oh come! and while the rosy-footed May

Steals blushing on, together let us tread

The morning dews, and gather in their prime

Fresh-blooming flowers, to grace thy braided hair,

And thy loved bosom that improves their sweets.

See, where the winding vale its lavish stores,

Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks

The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass,

Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,

In fair profusion, decks. Long let us walk,

Where the breeze blows from yon extended field

Of blossom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast

A fuller gale of joy, than, liberal, thence

Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravished soul.

Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,

Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flowers,

The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild;

Where, undisguised by mimic Art, she spreads

Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.

Here their delicious task the fervent bees,

In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,

Through the soft air, the busy nations fly,

Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,

Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;

And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare

The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,

And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.

At length the finish'd garden to the view

Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.

Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye

Distracted wanders; now the bowery walk

Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day

Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps:

Now meets the bending sky; the river now

Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,

The forest darkening round, the glittering spire,

The ethereal mountain, and the distant main.

But why so far excursive? when at hand,

Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,

And in yon mingled wilderness of flowers,

Fair-handed spring unbosoms every grace;

Throws out the snowdrop and the crocus first;

The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,

And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;

The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown;

And lavish stock that scents the garden round:

From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,

Anemones; auriculas, enriched

With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;

And full ranunculas, of glowing red.

Then comes the tulip-race, where Beauty plays

Her idle freaks; from family diffused

To family, as flies the father-dust,

The varied colours run; and, while they break

On the charm'd eye, the exulting florist marks,

With secret pride, the wonders of his hand.

No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,

Firstborn of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes:

Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white,

Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils,

Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,

As o'er the fabled fountain hanging still;

Nor broad carnations, nor gay-spotted pinks;

Nor, shower'd from every bush, the damask-rose.

Infinite numbers, delicacies, smells,

With hues on hues expression cannot paint,

The breath of Nature, and her endless bloom.

Hail, Source of Being! Universal Soul

Of Heaven and earth! Essential Presence, hail!

To Thee I bend the knee; to Thee my thoughts,

Continual, climb; who, with a master-hand,

Hast the great whole into perfection touched.

By Thee the various vegetative tribes,

Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves,

Draw the live ether, and imbibe the dew:

By Thee disposed into congenial soils,

Stands each attractive plant, and sucks, and swells

The juicy tide; a twining mass of tubes.

At Thy command the vernal sun awakes

The torpid sap, detruded to the root

By wintry winds; that now in fluent dance,

And lively fermentation, mounting, spreads

All this innumerous-colour'd scene of things.

As rising from the vegetable world

My theme ascends, with equal wing ascend,

My panting Muse; and hark, how loud the woods

Invite you forth in all your gayest trim.

Lend me your song, ye nightingales! oh, pour

The mazy-running soul of melody

Into my varied verse! while I deduce,

From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings,

The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme

Unknown to fame,—the passion of the groves.

When first the soul of love is sent abroad,

Warm through the vital air, and on the heart

Harmonious seizes, the gay troops begin,

In gallant thought, to plume the painted wing;

And try again the long-forgotten strain,

At first faint-warbled. But no sooner grows

The soft infusion prevalent, and wide,

Than, all alive, at once their joy o'erflows

In music unconfined. Up-springs the lark,

Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;

Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings

Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts

Calls up the tuneful nations. Every copse

Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush

Bending with dewy moisture, o'er the heads

Of the coy quiristers that lodge within,

Are prodigal of harmony. The thrush

And wood-lark, o'er the kind-contending throng

Superior heard, run through the sweetest length

Of notes; when listening Philomela deigns

To let them joy, and purposes, in thought

Elate, to make her night excel their day.

The black-bird whistles from the thorny brake;

The mellow bullfinch answers from the grove:

Nor are the linnets, o'er the flowering furze

Pour'd out profusely, silent. Join'd to these

Innumerous songsters, in the freshening shade

Of new-sprung leaves, their modulations mix

Mellifluous. The jay, the rook, the daw,

And each harsh pipe, discordant heard alone,

Aid the full concert: while the stock-dove breathes

A melancholy murmur through the whole.

'Tis love creates their melody, and all

This waste of music is the voice of love;

That even to birds, and beasts, the tender arts

Of pleasing teaches. Hence the glossy kind

Try every winning way inventive love

Can dictate, and in courtship to their mates

Pour forth their little souls. First, wide around,

With distant awe, in airy rings they rove,

Endeavouring by a thousand tricks to catch

The cunning, conscious, half-averted glance

Of the regardless charmer. Should she seem

Softening the least approvance to bestow,

Their colours burnish, and by hope inspired,

They brisk advance; then, on a sudden struck,

Retire disorder'd; then again approach;

In fond rotation spread the spotted wing,

And shiver every feather with desire.

Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods

They haste away, all as their fancy leads,

Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts;

That Nature's great command may be obey'd:

Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive

Indulged in vain. Some to the holly-hedge

Nestling repair, and to the thicket some;

Some to the rude protection of the thorn

Commit their feeble offspring. The cleft tree

Offers its kind concealment to a few,

Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.

Others apart far in the grassy dale,

Or roughening waste, their humble texture weare.

But most in woodland solitudes delight,

In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,

Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,

Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,

When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots

Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,

They frame the first foundation of their domes;

Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,

And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought

But restless hurry through the busy air,

Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps

The slimy pool, to build his hanging house

Intent. And often, from the careless back

Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills

Pluck hair and wool; and oft, when unobserved,

Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm,

Clean and complete, their habitation grows.

As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,

Not to be tempted from her tender task,

Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,

Though the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows,

Her sympathizing lover takes his stand

High on the opponent bank, and ceaseless sings

The tedious time away; or else supplies

Her place a moment, while she sudden flits

To pick the scanty meal. The appointed time

With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young,

Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,

Their brittle bondage break, and come to light,

A helpless family, demanding food

With constant clamour: O what passions then,

What melting sentiments of kindly care,

On the new parents seize! Away they fly

Affectionate, and undesiring bear

The most delicious morsel to their young;

Which equally distributed, again

The search begins. Even so a gentle pair,

By fortune sunk, but form'd of generous mould,

And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast,

In some lone cot amid the distant woods,

Sustain'd alone by providential Heaven,

Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train,

Check their own appetites, and give them all.

Nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love,

By the great Father of the Spring inspired,

Gives instant courage to the fearful race,

And to the simple art. With stealthy wing,

Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,

Amid a neighbouring bush they silent drop,

And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive

The unfeeling schoolboy. Hence, around the head

Of wandering swain, the white-wing'd plover wheels

Her sounding flight, and then directly on

In long excursion skims the level lawn,

To tempt him from her nest. The wild-duck, hence,

O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste

The heath-hen flutters, pious fraud! to lead

The hot pursuing spaniel far astray.

Be not the Muse ashamed, here to bemoan

Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant Man

Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage

From liberty confined, and boundless air.

Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,

Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost;

Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes,

Which, clear and vigorous, warbles from the beech.

O then, ye friends of love and love-taught song,

Spare the soft tribes, this barbarous art forbear;

If on your bosom innocence can win,

Music engage, or piety persuade.

But let not chief the nightingale lament

Her ruin'd care too delicately framed

To brook the harsh confinement of the cage.

Oft when, returning with her loaded bill,

The astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest,

By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns

Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls;

Her pinions ruffle, and low-drooping scarce

Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade;

Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings

Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough,

Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall

Takes up again her lamentable strain

Of winding woe; till, wide around, the woods

Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.

But now the feather'd youth their former bounds,

Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings,

Demand the free possession of the sky:

This one glad office more, and then dissolves

Parental love at once, now needless grown.

Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.

Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild,

When nought but balm is breathing through the woods,

With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes

Visit the spacious heavens, and look abroad

On Nature's common, far as they can see,

Or wing, their range and pasture. O'er the boughs

Dancing about, still at the giddy verge

Their resolution fails; their pinions still,

In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void

Trembling refuse: till down before them fly

The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command,

Or push them off. The surging air receives

Its plumy burden; and their self-taught wings

Winnow the waving element. On ground

Alighted, bolder up again they lead,

Farther and farther on, the lengthening flight;

Till vanish'd every fear, and every power

Roused into life and action, light in air

The acquitted parents see their soaring race,

And once rejoicing never know them more.

High from the summit of a craggy cliff,

Hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frowns

On utmost Kilda's shore, whose lonely race

Resign the setting sun to Indian worlds,

The royal eagle draws his vigorous young,

Strong-pounced, and ardent with paternal fire.

Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own,

He drives them from his fort, the towering seat,

For ages, of his empire; which, in peace,

Unstain'd he holds, while many a league to sea

He wings his course, and preys in distant isles.

Should I my steps turn to the rural seat,

Whose lofty elms, and venerable oaks,

Invite the rook, who high amid the boughs,

In early Spring, his airy city builds,

And ceaseless caws amusive; there, well-pleased,

I might the various polity survey

Of the mix'd household kind. The careful hen

Calls all her chirping family around,

Fed and defended by the fearless cock;

Whose breast with ardour flames, as on he walks,

Graceful, and crows defiance. In the pond,

The finely checker'd duck, before her train,

Rows garrulous. The stately-sailing swan

Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale;

And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet

Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle,

Protective of his young. The turkey nigh,

Loud-threatening, reddens; while the peacock spreads

His every-colour'd glory to the sun,

And swims in radiant majesty along.

O'er the whole homely scene, the cooing dove

Flies thick in amorous chase, and wanton rolls

The glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck.

While thus the gentle tenants of the shade

Indulge their purer loves, the rougher world

Of brutes, below, rush furious into flame,

And fierce desire. Through all his lusty veins

The bull, deep-scorch'd, the raging passion feels.

Of pasture sick, and negligent of food,

Scarce seen, he wades among the yellow broom,

While o'er his ample sides the rambling spray

Luxuriant shoot; or through the mazy wood

Dejected wanders, nor the inticing bud

Crops, though it presses on his careless sense.

And oft, in jealous madening fancy wrapt,

He seeks the fight; and, idly-butting, feigns

His rival gored in every knotty trunk.

Him should he meet, the bellowing war begins:

Their eyes flash fury; to the hollow'd earth,

Whence the sand flies, they mutter bloody deeds,

And groaning deep, the impetuous battle mix:

While the fair heifer, balmy-breathing, near,

Stands kindling up their rage. The trembling steed,

With this hot impulse seized in every nerve,

Nor heeds the rein, nor hears the sounding thong;

Blows are not felt; but tossing high his head,

And by the well-known joy to distant plains

Attracted strong, all wild he bursts away;

O'er rocks, and woods, and craggy mountains flies;

And, neighing, on the aërial summit takes

The exciting gale; then, steep-descending, cleaves

The headlong torrents foaming down the hills,

E'en where the madness of the straiten'd stream

Turns in black eddies round: such is the force

With which his frantic heart and sinews swell.

Nor undelighted by the boundless Spring

Are the broad monsters of the foaming deep:

From the deep ooze and gelid cavern roused,

They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy.

Dire were the strain, and dissonant to sing

The cruel raptures of the savage kind:

How by this flame their native wrath sublimed,

They roam, amid the fury of their heart,

The far-resounding waste in fiercer bands,

And growl their horrid loves. But this the theme

I sing, enraptured, to the British Fair,

Forbids, and leads me to the mountain-brow,

Where sits the shepherd on the grassy turf,

Inhaling, healthful, the descending sun.

Around him feeds his many-bleating flock,

Of various cadence; and his sportive lambs,

This way and that convolved, in friskful glee,

Their frolics play. And now the sprightly race

Invites them forth; when swift, the signal given,

They start away, and sweep the massy mound

That runs around the hill; the rampart once

Of iron war, in ancient barbarous times,

When disunited Britain ever bled,

Lost in eternal broil: ere yet she grew

To this deep-laid indissoluble state,

Where Wealth and Commerce lift their golden heads;

And o'er our labours, Liberty and Law,

Impartial, watch; the wonder of a world!

What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say,

That, in a powerful language, felt, not heard,

Instructs the fowls of Heaven; and through their breast

These arts of love diffuses? What, but God?

Inspiring God! who boundless Spirit all,

And unremitting Energy, pervades,

Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole.

He ceaseless works alone; and yet alone

Seems not to work: with such perfection framed

Is this complex stupendous scheme of things.

But, though conceal'd, to every purer eye

The informing Author in his works appears:

Chief, lovely Spring, in thee, and thy soft scenes,

The Smiling God is seen; while water, earth,

And air attest his bounty; which exalts

The brute creation to this finer thought,

And annual melts their undesigning hearts

Profusely thus in tenderness and joy.

Still let my song a nobler note assume,

And sing the infusive force of Spring on man;

When heaven and earth, as if contending, vie

To raise his being, and serene his soul.

Can he forbear to join the general smile

Of Nature? Can fierce passions vex his breast,

While every gale is peace, and every grove

Is melody? hence! from the bounteous walks

Of flowing Spring, ye sordid sons of earth,

Hard, and unfeeling of another's woe;

Or only lavish to yourselves; away!

But come, ye generous minds, in whose wide thought,

Of all his works, creative Bounty burns

With warmest beam; and on your open front

And liberal eye, sits, from his dark retreat

Inviting modest Want. Nor, till invoked,

Can restless goodness wait: your active search

Leaves no cold wintry corner unexplored;

Like silent-working Heaven, surprising oft

The lonely heart with unexpected good.

For you the roving spirit of the wind

Blows Spring abroad; for you the teeming clouds

Descend in gladsome plenty o'er the world;

And the sun sheds his kindest rays for you,

Ye flower of human race! in these green days,

Reviving Sickness lifts her languid head;

Life flows afresh; and young-eyed Health exalts

The whole creation round. Contentment walks

The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss

Spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings

To purchase. Pure serenity apace

Induces thought, and contemplation still.

By swift degrees the love of Nature works,

And warms the bosom; till at last sublimed

To rapture, and enthusiastic heat,

We feel the present Deity, and taste

The joy of God to see a happy world!

These are the sacred feelings of thy heart,

Thy heart inform'd by reason's purer ray,

O Lyttelton, the friend! thy passions thus

And meditations vary, as at large,

Courting the Muse, through Hagley Park thou stray'st;

The British Tempé! there along the dale,

With woods o'erhung, and shagg'd with mossy rocks,

Whence on each hand the gushing waters play,

And down the rough cascade white-dashing fall,

Or gleam in lengthened vista through the trees,

You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade

Of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts

Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand,

And pensive listen to the various voice

Of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds,

The hollow-whispering breeze, the plaint of rills,

That, purling down amid the twisted roots

Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake

On the soothed ear. From these abstracted oft,

You wander through the philosophic world;

Where in bright train continual wonders rise,

Or to the curious or the pious eye.

And oft, conducted by historic truth,

You tread the long extent of backward time:

Planning, with warm benevolence of mind,

And honest zeal unwarp'd by party-rage,

Britannia's weal; how from the venal gulf

To raise her virtue, and her arts revive.

Or, turning thence thy view, these graver thougths

The Muses charm: while, with sure taste refined,

You draw the inspiring breath of ancient song;

Till nobly rises, emulous, thy own.

Perhaps thy loved Lucinda shares thy walk,

With soul to thine attuned. Then Nature all

Wears to the lover's eye a look of love;

And all the tumult of a guilty world,

Tost by ungenerous passions, sinks away.

The tender heart is animated peace;

And as it pours its copious treasures forth,

In varied converse, softening every theme,

You, frequent-pausing, turn, and from her eyes,

Where meeken'd sense, and amiable grace,

And lively sweetness dwell, enraptured, drink

That nameless spirit of ethereal joy,

Unutterable happiness! which love,

Alone, bestows, and on a favour'd few.

Meantime you gain the height, from whose fair brow

The bursting prospect spreads immense around:

And snatch'd o'er hill and dale, and wood and lawn,

And verdant field, and darkening heath between,

And villages embosom'd soft in trees,

And spiry towns by surging columns mark'd

Of household smoke, your eye excursive roams:

Wide-stretching from the hall, in whose kind haunt

The Hospitable Genius lingers still,

To where the broken landscape, by degrees,

Ascending, roughens into rigid hills;

O'er which the Cambrian mountains, like far clouds

That skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise.

Flush'd by the spirit of the genial year,

Now from the virgin's cheek a fresher bloom

Shoots, less and less, the live carnation round;

Her lips blush deeper sweets; she breathes of youth;

The shining moisture swells into her eyes,

In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves,

With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize

Her veins, and all her yielding soul is love.

From the keen gaze her lover turns away,

Full of the dear ecstatic power, and sick

With sighing languishment. Ah then, ye fair!

Be greatly cautious of your sliding hearts:

Dare not the infectious sigh; the pleading look,

Down-cast and low, in meek submission dress'd,

But full of guile. Let not the fervent tongue,

Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth,

Gain on your purposed will. Nor in the bower,

Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch,

While Evening draws her crimson curtains round,

Trust your soft minutes with betraying Man.

And let the aspiring youth beware of love,

Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late,

When on his heart the torrent-softness pours;

Then wisdom prostrate lies, and fading fame

Dissolves in air away; while the fond soul,

Wrapp'd in gay visions of unreal bliss,

Still paints the illusive form; the kindling grace;

The inticing smile; the modest-seeming eye,

Beneath whose beauteous beams, belying Heaven,

Lurk searchless cunning, cruelty, and death:

And still false-warbling in his cheated ear,

Her siren voice, enchanting, draws him on

To guileful shores, and meads of fatal joy.

E'en present, in the very lap of love

Inglorious laid; while music flows around,

Perfumes, and oils, and wine, and wanton hours;

Amid the roses fierce Repentance rears

Her snaky crest: a quick returning pang

Shoots through the conscious heart; where honour still,

And great design, against the oppressive load

Of luxury, by fits, impatient heave.

But absent, what fantastic woes, aroused,

Rage in each thought, by restless musing fed,

Chill the warm cheek, and blast the bloom of life?

Neglected fortune flies; and sliding swift,

Prone into ruin fall his scorn'd affairs.

'Tis nought but gloom around: the darken'd sun

Loses his light. The rosy-bosom'd Spring

To weeping fancy pines; and yon bright arch,

Contracted, bends into a dusky vault.

All Nature fades extinct: and she alone,

Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,

Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.

Books are but formal dulness, tedious friends;

And sad amid the social band he sits,

Lonely, and unattentive. From his tongue

The unfinish'd period falls: while borne away

On swelling thought, his wafted spirit flies

To the vain bosom of his distant fair;

And leaves the semblance of a lover, fix'd

In melancholy site, with head declined,

And love-dejected eyes. Sudden he starts,

Shook from his tender trance, and restless runs

To glimmering shades, and sympathetic glooms;

Where the dun umbrage o'er the falling stream,

Romantic, hangs; there through the pensive dusk

Strays, in heart-thrilling meditation lost,

Indulging all to love: or on the bank

Thrown, amid drooping lilies, swells the breeze

With sighs unceasing, and the brook with tears.

Thus in soft anguish he consumes the day,

Nor quits his deep retirement, till the Moon

Peeps through the chambers of the fleecy east,

Enlightened by degrees, and in her train

Leads on the gentle Hours; then forth he walks,

Beneath the trembling languish of her beam,

With soften'd soul, and woos the bird of eve

To mingle woes with his: or, while the world

And all the sons of Care lie hush'd in sleep,

Associates with the midnight shadows drear;

And, sighing to the lonely taper, pours

His idly-tortured heart into the page,

Meant for the moving messenger of love;

Where rapture burns on rapture, every line

With rising frenzy fired. But if on bed

Delirious flung, sleep from his pillow flies.

All night he tosses, nor the balmy power

In any posture finds; till the grey Morn

Lifts her pale lustre on the paler wretch,

Exanimate by love: and then perhaps

Exhausted Nature sinks a while to rest,

Still interrupted by distractèd dreams,

That o'er the sick imagination rise,

And in black colours paint the mimic scene.

Oft with the enchantress of his soul he talks;

Sometimes in crowds distress'd; or if retired

To secret winding flower-enwoven bowers,

Far from the dull impertinence of Man,

Just as he, credulous, his endless cares

Begins to lose in blind oblivious love,

Snatch'd from her yielded hand, he knows not how,

Through forests huge, and long untravel'd heaths

With desolation brown, he wanders waste,

In night and tempest wrapp'd: or shrinks aghast,

Back, from the bending precipice; or wades

The turbid stream below, and strives to reach

The farther shore; where succourless, and sad,

She with extended arms his aid implores;

But strives in vain; borne by the outrageous flood

To distance down, he rides the ridgy wave,

Or whelm'd beneath the boiling eddy sinks.

These are the charming agonies of love,

Whose misery delights. But through the heart

Should jealousy its venom once diffuse,

'Tis then delightful misery no more,

But agony unmix'd incessant gall,

Coroding every thought, and blasting all

Love's paradise. Ye fairy prospects, then,

Ye beds of roses, and ye bowers of joy,

Farewell! ye gleamings of departed peace,

Shine out your last! the yellow-tinging plague

Internal vision taints, and in a night

Of livid gloom imagination wraps.

Ah then! instead of love-enliven'd cheeks,

Of sunny features, and of ardent eyes

With flowing rapture bright, dark looks succeed

Suffused and glaring with untender fire;

A clouded aspect, and a burning cheek,

Where the whole poison'd soul, malignant, sits,

And frightens love away. Ten thousand fears

Invented wild, ten thousand frantic views

Of horrid rivals, hanging on the charms

For which he melts in fondness, eat him up

With fervent anguish, and consuming rage.

In vain reproaches lend their idle aid,

Deceitful pride, and resolution frail,

Giving false peace a moment. Fancy pours,

Afresh, her beauties on his busy thought,

Her first endearments twining round the soul,

With all the witchcraft of ensnaring love.

Straight the fierce storm involves his mind anew

Flames through the nerves, and boils along the veins;

While anxious doubt distracts the tortured heart

For e'en the sad assurance of his fears

Were ease to what he feels. Thus the warm youth

Whom love deludes into his thorny wilds,

Through flowery tempting paths, or leads a life

Of fever'd rapture or of cruel care;

His brightest aims extinguish'd all, and all

His lively moments running down to waste.

But happy they! the happiest of their kind!

Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend.

'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws,

Unnatural oft and foreign to the mind,

That binds their peace, but harmony itself,

Attuning all their passions into love;

Where friendship full-exerts her softest power,

Perfect esteem enliven'd by desire

Ineffable, and sympathy of soul;

Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will,

With boundless confidence: for nought but love

Can answer love, and render bliss secure.

Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent

To bless himself, from sordid parents buys

The loathing virgin, in eternal care,

Well-merited, consume his nights and days:

Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love

Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel;

Let eastern tyrants, from the light of Heaven,

Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd

Of a mere lifeless, violated form:

While those whom love cements in holy faith,

And equal transport, free as Nature live,

Disdaining fear. What is the world to them,

Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all?

Who in each other clasp whatever fair

High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish;

Something than beauty dearer, should they look

Or on the mind, or mind-illumined face;

Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love,

The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.

Meantime a smiling offspring rises round,

And mingles both their graces. By degrees,

The human blossom blows; and every day,

Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm,

The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom.

Then infant reason grows apace, and calls

For the kind hand of an assiduous care.

Delightful task! to rear the tender thought,

To teach the young idea how to shoot,

To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,

To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix

The generous purpose in the glowing breast.

Oh, speak the joy! ye, whom the sudden tear

Surprises often, while you look around,

And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss,

All various Nature pressing on the heart:

An elegant sufficiency, content,

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books,

Ease and alternate labour, useful life,

Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven!

These are the matchless joys of virtuous love;

And thus their moments fly. The Seasons thus,

As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,

Still find them happy; and consenting Spring

Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads:

Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;

When after the long vernal day of life,

Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells

With many a proof of recollected love,

Together down they sink in social sleep;

Together freed, their gentle spirits fly

To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.

Let It Snow!

2013-02-14T11:46:00.001-05:00

I’m not a winter kind of girl, because I love warm weather, but my idea of a perfect snowy afternoon would be sitting in front of a lovely fireplace surrounded by cats and books. That is how I spent many snowy afternoons while I was growing up, especially on Sundays.

While the roast beef and potatoes for Sunday dinner were baking in the oven, my parents and I would sit in front of our living room fireplace and read and glance up and watch the snow falling outside on the back lawn. My father would read his magazines: Time, U.S. News and World Report (nothing like a little light reading), while my mother would read biographies and I would read my favorite children’s books, usually old-fashioned books I discovered at my parents favorite used bookstore in Morristown, NJ: Understood Betsy, Caddie Woodlawn, Pippi Longstocking (couldn't avoid her, my mother was Swedish), the Melendy series by Elizabeth Enright, the Amy and Laura books by Marilyn Sachs, and many others.

The cats would be purring on the couch, the wonderful scent of food would fill the air, and all would be peaceful. Sometimes we wouldn’t have roast beef, but would roast steaks in the fireplace, and toast marshmallows in the fireplace for dessert.

I long for those innocent, bygone days sitting in front of the fireplace with my parents. My father is long-gone, and my mother is in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. Today I live in a cramped two-room apartment, and I long for the day I will live in a home with a fireplace again.

Written for Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop:

Friday Feature and Follow!

2013-02-07T23:19:00.000-05:00

It's time for the Book Blogger Feature and Follow!

This week's question is:

Q: Happy Mardi Gras! If they were throwing the HOTTEST books off of a Mardi Gras float — what would you do to have them throw to you…?

A. I'd dance for them. I am the world's worst dancer, but maybe they would feel sorry for me and how uncoordinated I am and toss me some books!

#LastPrintIssue

2013-01-14T14:32:00.002-05:00

An era in publishing has come to an end. Newsweek has published the last print issue of the magazine. Newsweek will continue in digital form, but it won't be the same.

I'm sure that it was a sad day at the magazine. Many people lost their jobs in the transition.

The cover photo is a vintage photograph of Newsweek's old midtown New York headquarters. The title of the issue is ironic: #LastPrintIssue. It is so obviously a jab at the Twitterization of news.

When I was growing up, my family did not subscribe to Newsweek, but to their main competitor, Time. However, occasionally I would read issues and always enjoyed it.

Apparently after Newsweek merged with The Daily Beast the magazine started producing some controversial covers, probably in a vain attempt to sell enough issues to keep afloat. But in the days of the Internet, it is very difficult and not cost effective to publish a print magazine. Newsweek reportedly suffered a staggering $40 million per year.

The history of Newsweek:

Merry Christmas!

2012-12-24T14:15:00.004-05:00

For the holidays, I will give you the gift of two magnificent renditions of "O Holy Night". The first one is by the legendary Italian tenor Luciano Pavarotti, and the second one is by the famous Swedish tenor Jussi Bjorling:

Friday Blog Hops!

2012-12-21T00:41:00.002-05:00

This week's Book Blogger Hop by Crazy-for-Books is being hosted by Tea Time With Marce.

This week's question:

What Book were you determined to read this year but didn't?

Oh, wow, there are quite a few. My bookshelves are bulging with my TBR books and my Kindle is packed with unread books!Two books that I have downloaded but not yet read are City of Women and The Chaperone.

Both of these books are currently full price in the bookstores, but I paid $2.99 for each of them on Kindle Daily Deals! City of Women was a Kindle Daily Deal and I found out about it with 10 minutes to before the deal expired. I was so happy to get it at that price. However, I haven't read it yet.

At the Friday Feature and Follow, hosted by Parajunkee's View and Alison Can Read, the question is:

What have you learned from book blogging that you didn’t know before about the publishing industry?

I must admit that I knew nothing about Advanced Reading Copies and that I could get free books to read before they were published. I was vaguely aware that big time book reviewers from places like The New York Times must get books ahead of time, but I didn't know that bloggers could get them!

I also knew nothing about book publishing conferences such as Book Expo America, which I attended last year!

9 Things That Bring Me Joy

2012-12-20T11:28:00.001-05:00

List the top 9 things that bring you joy.

1. Reading – I can’t live without reading. What I'm reading now:

2. Writing – this includes making lists.

3. Taking photos of and writing about interesting places and things.

4. Eating a really good dinner that I didn’t cook – I don’t like cooking. I love going out to eat.

(Anne Taintor)

5. Having a totally clean home - this is a big accomplishment for me, because it’s such a rare occurrence. It's a miracle!

6. Visiting a nice place we haven’t been to before. It doesn’t have to be fancy; it just has to be different.

7. Summer – especially in a really beautiful place like Cape May, New Jersey. I love warm weather and the beautiful Jersey shore.

View from the very top of the Cape May Lighthouse, taken by me this past summer:

Yes, I climbed all 199 steps!

8. Shopping – this is bad. I especially like antique shops and Home Goods.

(Anne Taintor)

9. Being with my husband. Even while shopping in Home Goods and he whines “Are we done yet?”, I still love him.

Written for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.

Blogger Day of Silence for Sandy Hook

2012-12-18T11:36:00.000-05:00

To donate go to http://www.newtownyouthandfamilyservices.org/.

Feature and Follow Friday

2012-12-13T23:12:00.000-05:00

This blog hop is hosted every week by Parajunkee's View and Alison Can Read.

This week's question:

What is the last book that made you cry? Tell us about the scene…

The last book that made me cry is The Light Between Oceans by M.L. Stedman. Not one scene, but the whole book.

This book is about a lighthouse keeper and his wife on a remote Australian island. The wife has suffered through miscarriages and stillbirths and longs for a baby.

One day a boat washes up on the shore with a dead man and a living baby. The wife begs her husband to keep the baby . . . and this changes both of their lives forever. A heartbreaking novel about the repercussions of the choices we make.

Book Review: Dearie by Bob Spitz

2012-11-30T09:49:00.000-05:00

Title: Dearie: The Remarkable Life of Julia Child
Author: Bob Spitz
Genre: Biography
Format: Hardcover
Year Published: 2012
Source: This book is part of my personal collection
Rating: 4.5/5

Dearie: The Remarkable Life of Julia Child is Bob Spitz’s long but entertaining biography of the woman who transformed the American culinary landscape, in addition to being an important figure in television history.

Julia McWilliams Child was an entertaining character. She didn’t become famous until she was around 50 years ago, but she led an interesting life well before then. Born in Pasadena, California, into wealth and privilege, she attended Smith College, but she still had no idea of what she wanted to do. She had no interest in being a mere housewife and country club matron. Julia was never one to go unnoticed – she was about six feet three inches tall and had a unique, warbling voice, and a great sense of humor. Julia was an original.

Julia had an adventurous spirit and decided during WWII to go to Washington, DC, to work for the government and eventually joined an intelligence agency and went overseas. In Ceylon, she met Paul Child. They eventually married, and theirs was a lifelong and devoted love affair.

Paul was in the foreign service, and they eventually settled in Paris. Julia’s first taste of French cooking changed her life, and she went on to attend the famous cooking school Le Cordon Bleu.

She eventually published Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which was a cookbook geared towards Americans to learn how to cook gourmet French food. The book was so popular that she ended up on television to promote the book and was such a success – partly because of unique persona – that she ended up hosting “The French Chef” and various other television programs, most of them on fledgling PBS. More than anyone else, she is responsible for the success of PBS!

The American public immediately fell in love with Julia. If you are not familiar with Julia Child, let me present to you one of her most famous moments: Julia Child and the Chicken Sisters!

Dearie is a very affectionate look at Julia’s life. The author admits in the acknowledgments that he had a powerful crush on her when he met her even though she was around 80 at the time! That said, he doesn’t hesitate to mention some of Julia’s less admirable traits. Fortunately, most people really liked Julia.

The book definitely could have been shorter. Sometimes the author rambles on a bit, but he is also very funny at times. Despite the length of the book (over 500 pages!), the book is very entertaining and an enjoyable read.

You can buy Dearie by Bob Spitz by clicking below.

Black Friday -- From the Other Side

2012-11-22T02:00:00.000-05:00

I used to work in retail and Black Fridays were like a death hole of shopping.

None of the workers in my store could enjoy Thanksgiving because we were approaching the next day with fear and loathing. We had to show up on our scheduled work day before Thanksgiving and also our scheduled hours on Black Friday, or we wouldn't get our holiday pay for Thanksgiving. In other words, if we didn’t show up on Black Friday we lost TWO days pay. That was our incentive to show up.

My first Black Friday was by far the worst. We didn't open until 6 a.m. but they opened the store 20 minutes earlier without warning (while we were still opening registers) and the lines were long by 6 a.m. The lines snaked down the aisle and around the escalator.

The customers were difficult but it was MANAGEMENT that made us miserable. I quickly decided that retail management intelligence must be an oxymoron. Of course they weren't the ones who had to ring the customers up and deal with their anger when they continually changed the rules.

Our store manager – from here on known as THE GENIUS - knew that there were MORNING coupons for $10 off a $10 purchase. Can you imagine such havoc such a coupon caused? FREE STUFF! Now I know that was an idiotic corporate decision, not the store manager's fault, but she still somehow managed to make it even worse.

There was only supposed to be one coupon per customer. Guess what? THE GENIUS decided the customers could have as many of these free stuff coupons as they wanted! These customers must have bought dozens of newspapers for the coupons! Of course it was a MORNING sale but the "morning" went from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m.

THE GENIUS also decided that our 9.99 store brand towels could be included in this promotion. So for every one of these towels the customer brought to us, we had to manually change the price to 10.00 (easy, but time-consuming). THE GENIUS also decided that we were supposed to ring up each towel (while changing the price and scanning their accompanying coupon) SEPARATELY (in separate transactions). Some of these people had 25 towels and the line was HUNDREDS of customers long. This was incredibly time-consuming. After a few minutes of this I just decided "to hell with it!" and rang up all of a customer's towels TOGETHER and scanned all of their coupons all on the same transaction. What difference did it make anyway? They were getting them FREE! The managers never said a word to me afterward.

The merchandising manager had decided that there was only going to be ONE stock person -- for the whole store -- from 6 a.m. until 2 p.m. He not only had to put stuff out on the floor but take customer-bought stuff down to customer pick-up - stuff in housewares, bedding and china can be VERY heavy.

Customers wanted their items sent down to customer pick up but there was NO ONE to do it. We had to call the stock kid over the radio but the poor kid - an excellent worker BTW - was completely overwhelmed by having to do this for the ENTIRE store - I felt so bad for him. The paid-for stuff sat by our registers for hours and we kept tripping over it. Finally customers started STEALING stuff out of those bags (for which others had already paid.) I finally called my extremely lazy department manager and told him this. That finally got his lazy ass in gear and he started taking some of this stuff to customer pick-up even though it was BENEATH him (and he made sure that I knew this).

But even worse than Black Friday was the NEXT day, Saturday. Word had spread that there was FREE STUFF! and there were even more customers waiting to get in! The same sales were on Saturday morning but now THE GENIUS decided that customers could only use THREE of the coupons (remember that there was only supposed to be one per customer to begin with). Many of the customers in line had been there the day before and had come back armed with fresh coupons. When they find out that they could only use THREE that day instead of as many as they wanted, havoc ensued. There was nearly a riot.

Customers started screaming at us and refusing to leave, management started screaming at us because the lines came to a complete standstill, and it was a nightmare. Remember this is at 6 a.m. I'm cranky and tired and struggling with PMS – you don’t want to mess with me when I have PMS! I'm trying so HARD not to start sobbing. I was always very good with customer service but this was just too much!

One customer was reeking of heavy perfume. Because of my exhaustion and lack of sleep, this triggered my allergies (I'm allergic to perfume, wool, dust, etc.). I started sneezing uncontrollably and feeling even more wretched. Finally at 7:30 I had had ENOUGH. PMS combined with a fierce headache combined with miserable allergies drove me over the edge. Fortunately by this time more salespeople had showed up. I called a manager over and told them I felt sick and was going home. I had to call my mother to pick me up and I went home and went to bed for the rest of the day. I really felt terrible and did not feel the least bit guilty.

When I came in the next day (Sunday) all of the towels were gone -- and so were the customers -- no more free stuff! The funniest thing though is that later some customers tried to return some of the free towels and thought we were going to give them money back!

Fortunately the next year things were better organized. The morning coupons were changed to $10 for a $25 purchase. Still incredibly busy but nothing like that first year. The biggest problem is that you can't use a morning coupon on morning specials -- the customers just LOVED that *insert sarcasm*.

I also had a better department manager who wasn't so frigging lazy as the first one. He was actually nice, although he was later fired for stealing from the store - he had a gambling problem.

So my favorite time of year to NOT be working in retail anymore is Black Friday. I so enjoy sleeping late, and not dealing with crazy management and customers. I plan to sleep late and then sit in my chair and read books all day.

The sad thing is that I really enjoyed helping customers under normal circumstances. Sometimes I really miss it -- but not enough to work evenings, weekends, holidays, and be available 24/7 during the Christmas season.

The sad thing is that retailers don't really give a fig anymore about customer service -- I was continuously told that I was TOO helpful and spent TOO MUCH TIME with the customers. The stores only care about sales and SELLING CREDIT CARDS.

I could tell you stories . . .

Written for and linked to

Book Review: Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn

2012-11-18T10:28:00.001-05:00

Title: Gone Girl

Author: Gillian Flynn

Genre: Fiction/Mystery/Crime

Format: Hardcover

Year published: 2012

Source: This book is part of my personal collection

Rating: 3.5/5

Nick and Amy Dunne seem to have the perfect marriage. They are bright, very attractive, and talented writers. Amy is the daughter of well-known psychiatrists who have created a series of children’s books called “Amazing Amy”, based upon their own daughter. But on their fifth anniversary Amy disappears from their Missouri home she shares with Nick, leaving behind signs of a struggle.

As the media turn up to report the story of the missing beautiful "amazing" blonde wife, Nick’s problematic behavior comes under increasing scrutiny. He doesn’t seem to be the grieving husband that everyone wants him to be. As public suspicions turn towards Nick, a closer look reveals the unraveling seams of the seemingly "perfect" marriage.

Both had lost their jobs in New York and had moved back to Nick’s hometown in Missouri. Amy was unhappy with the move. Nick was having an affair with another woman. Was this motive enough to want to harm Amy? Has Nick murdered her? Or is there any other reason for her disappearance?

This very popular novel is interesting in that alternate chapters are “written” by Nick and Amy. I found this a little confusing at first, since Nick’s chapters are at first written in the present and Amy’s chapters, are told in the past tense, by necessity, from sections of her diary.

There are several major characters in the book: Nick, Amy, Nick’s sister Go, Amy’s parents, Nick's senile father, Nick’s selfish mistress, and several other key characters. As the story goes along, however, it becomes increasingly clear that none of the main characters are very likable, except perhaps Nick’s sister, Go, who is a not a fully fleshed out character. As a matter of fact, most of the characters are pretty loathsome, and one of them is a certifiable psychopath.

Flynn does have an amazing imagination, and is able to tell a great story for the most part. However, the book is quite graphic, and anyone squeamish about strong language and sex scenes should not read this book.

The ending, which I shall not give away here, has been controversial. Some readers have not found it satisfactory, partially because not everything is resolved in a tidy little way. It may be somewhat realistic, however, noting the strange, twisted relationships that these people have. I find myself ambivalent about the ambivalent ending!

Leave A Light On For Me

2012-11-15T09:08:00.000-05:00

The last several weeks have been difficult in the New Jersey and New York area as we recover from the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy.

After two major storms last year, Hurricane Irene and the weird Snowtober storm, I learned my lesson and made sure that I did not have too many perishables in the refrigerator. Because of several power outages, we lost a lot of food last year and since we have a very limited budget it was gut-wrenchingly expensive to replace, not to mention that we had to out several times. My husband and I live in a tiny apartment so a generator is not an option.

On Monday, the night of the storm, the lights stayed on for longer than we had hoped. But then the lights started flickering and finally around 9 p.m. the lights went off and we were plunged into total darkness. Since the lights did not come back until Friday, we mostly subsisted on granola bars and dry cereal out of the box, washed down with water. The internet service flickered on and off, and occasionally I was able to check out the internet on my smartphone, for which I was very thankful that I received earlier this year. Only occasionally could we make calls, however, since the phone service was sketchy.

Most of the businesses around us were closed due to lack of power. After a day or so, we started venturing out to see what our area looked like. We live in North Jersey, not near the shore.

In the town of Nutley, we saw this:

The area we live in had many downed wires and trees, but that was about it. However, the beautiful Jersey shore suffered heartbreakingly extensive damage. Many homes, cars, and businesses were totally destroyed. The Jersey shore’s topography changed dramatically. It has become a different place now.

Many of the areas suffered not only those damages, but there were many gas leaks in the area and even now, more than two weeks later, many residents have not been able to return to their ruined homes to check the damage. Many towns will never be the same.

Some residents on Long Island and Staten are STILL without power, more than two weeks later.

I got tired of trying to read books by flashlight, so I finally gave up. Taking showers by flashlight, however, is pretty interesting!

My husband and I were lucky, because food can be replaced. On Friday, we got our electricity back; the thing that made me smile most was having electricity and light! Light for the lamps and the television! It felt so luxurious. Once we saw on television what had happened, we were heartbroken. That night we watched the “Concert for Sandy” and luxuriated in the light.

Linking up with:

It's Monday! What Are You Reading?

2012-10-22T00:58:00.001-04:00

This weekly blog hop is hosted by Sheila at Book Journey.

This past week I was reading:

1. Dearie, a biography of Julia Child, by Bob Spitz.

2. The Light Between the Oceans, a novel by M.L. Stedman.

3. Plenty of People magazines (read my post of October 16th for more about that).

Have a great week!

Book Review: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks by Rebecca Skloot

2012-10-17T12:32:00.002-04:00

Title: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

Author: Rebecca Skloot

Genre: Non Fiction

Format: Paperback

Year published: 2010

Source: This book is part of my personal collection

Rating: 5/5

Henrietta Lacks was a poor African-American woman who died in 1951 at the age of 31 from cervical cancer. She was treated at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, where it was discovered that she had an amazingly aggressive tumor and was in agonizing pain. While she lay dying, some of her cells, both healthy and diseased, were extracted from her for further use in research. This was done without her knowledge or permission, or the knowledge of her family. This was actually common procedure at the time. At the time, permission was not required.

Cells from other patients had not worked. Most cells will divide for a certain number of times and then die. But for some reason, Henrietta’s cells were amazingly vital and survived. Her cells were dubbed “HeLa”. HeLa cells were the first human cell line to prove successful in vitro, in test tubes or Petri dishes , which has had profound impact on medical research. For example, Jonas Salk used HeLa cells to test the first polio vaccine. They have also been used in cancer and AIDS research. HeLa cells were dubbed “immortal” because they could be divided an infinite number of times. They still exist, in various forms, today.

Henrietta’s family knew nothing about the HeLa cells until many years later. Here is where the story gets even more complicated: the original doctor, George Gey, seems to have had no bad motives. He was completely dedicated to medicine, and simply wanted the cells for further research. Gey freely donated the cells to other researchers. However, it was other companies who obtained HeLa cells who made money off of products invented because of the cells. Henrietta was forgotten or unknown to most of the scientists and researchers. While some corporations made millions, Henrietta’s family, while proud that her cells have helped countless others, have remained poor.

The whole idea of medical ethics is enormously complicated. Was racism involved? Was it because Henrietta was poor and black? Or was it simply in the interest of science and medicine? What about the companies who benefitted financially from the research? Are cells still harvested today without permission? The answers are not as simple as they may seem.

This book studies medical ethics, family history, racism, and poverty. Author Rebecca Skloot does a fine job in researching and setting forth her arguments. This book was obviously a real labor of love and she is passionately devoted to the subject. Skloot became so involved with the family that she set up a foundation to help them: The Henrietta Lacks Foundation.

If I have any quibbles about this book, it is that it is a bit too long. I did make my husband read the book. It is not at all the sort of book he usually reads, but he is a scientist and he found it fascinating.

I also highly recommend this book. It is not light reading, but it is undeniably intriguing and important.

Henrietta's cells have helped many scientists and researchers develop new ways of dealing with disease. In this way, Henrietta Lacks has become truly immortal.

***************************

October's Bright Blue Weather

2012-10-16T14:10:00.002-04:00

It's October and I love this weather! I'm always sad to see summer go, but I do love the fall! It is beautiful outside, and the trees are slowly being more colorful.

I've been very busy this month: I've been cleaning out a huge storage unit and my husband and I have been fighting over what to keep and what gets donated or thrown out. It is our own version of "Storage Wars". Yuuuuup!

I have literally thousands of books in storage, and now many of them are being donated to Goodwill. It is always wrenching to give up good books, but I can't afford to keep wasting my money on a storage unit and we only have a two-room apartment. Besides, I have a Kindle now and don't need so many physical books! It's time to clean out.

My husband doesn't have books to donate, but he is obsessed with tools and computer supplies, especially cable cords. He literally has dozens of them, and he needs to give them up! But he has as hard a time giving them up as I have in giving up books.

I'm also catching up on magazine reading! I have many, many magazines:

These are only a few of the magazines I've been hoarding (yes, now it's like an episode of "Hoarders". They're also in the bathroom, the bedroom, and hidden in boxes.

Why do I have so many magazines? My mother-in-law subscribes to People (a true guilty pleasure -- it's like chocolate), and gives me her copies after she finishes reading them. I also live near a dollar store that has pretty current issues of good magazines for only a dollar!

Anyway, I'm reading magazines constantly and then recycling them. I really love magazines, especially decorating, gossip, and writing magazines.

I've also been reading books and am busy writing reviews. I am also writing a book that I want to published next year.

I also changed my template -- yes, again. When I saw this free template on bTemplates, Swedish Greys, I couldn't resist. My mother was born in Sweden and I grew up around Swedish things. The designer is Swedish. The template is adapted from WordPress.

I hope to move to WordPress.org next year, and I will be able to use the WordPress version of this template when I do so. I really do love Blogger, but I'm afraid I will eventually have to move to the self-hosted WordPress.org so that I can truly "own" my blogs.

Freedom of Choice

2012-09-24T18:37:00.001-04:00

I thought that this commercial was a joke at first -- but I guess not!

To Autumn by John Keats

2012-09-22T01:00:00.000-04:00

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
        To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
        For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
        Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
        Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
    Among the river sallows, borne aloft
        Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
    The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
        And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Allison Is Walking On Sunshine!

2012-09-18T21:56:00.003-04:00

Allison is one of the most notorious cases on one of my favorite shows, Intervention. Allison liked to suck on computer duster, which is very, very dangerous. She's Walking On Sunshine! She's lying in graveyards! She's fighting with Jeff, the famous interventionist!

This video is a tribute to Allison, complete with Amy Winehouse singing "Rehab" in the background.

Unfortunately, Amy didn't make it, but Allison got better and has been featured in at least three episodes of Intervention! She's incredibly lucky that she didn't die. She seems to have a sense of humor about it, too!

Congratulations Allison! Keep Walking on Sunshine!

International Literacy Day

2012-09-08T00:00:00.000-04:00

Today is International Literacy Day! UNESCO has been celebrating International Literacy Day for over 40 years.

This year's theme is Literacy and Peace.

Check out the website to read more about it!

International Literacy Day

Book Review: All That Is Bitter and Sweet by Ashley Judd

2012-08-31T11:14:00.001-04:00

Title: All That Is Bitter and Sweet

Author: Ashley Judd

Genre: Memoir

Format: Kindle

Year published: 2011

Source: I “borrowed” this Kindle book from www.digitallibrarynj.com through my local library

Rating: 4/5

Ashley Judd’s memoir is not your typical movie star autobiography. She actually hardly discusses her movie career at all. It’s mostly about her traumatic childhood and her adult role as a humanitarian.

Judd discusses her extremely dysfunctional childhood (how many memoirs would there be if people had functional childhoods?) Her mother is Naomi Judd and her older sister is Wynonna Judd. Her mother and sister would sometimes leave her alone for days at a time and Ashley had to fend for herself. Sometimes she would live with her father (her parents were divorced) or with other relatives.

Ashley’s childhood was chaotic and unstable and as a child she never felt that her emotional needs were being met. If she tried to voice her feelings, she was not taken seriously. She also suffered from being molested. She felt marginalized and was made to feel that she was unworthy. From a very early age she suffered from undiagnosed depression.

She was a brilliant student at the University of Kentucky, studying French and women’s issues among other things, and became involved in many humanitarian and feminist causes. She realized that she wanted to be an actress. She also wanted to continue her involvement in humanitarian causes, but didn’t know how she could do both. It turns out that her fame as an actress opened many doors to being involved at an international level.

Her feelings of abandonment and abuse stood her in good stead as a humanitarian. Ashley’s work has focused particularly on the way women are treated around the world, especially in Third World countries. These women have no training or education and live on subsistence levels. Many end up working as sexual slaves. The treatment of women has a direct correlation to the AIDS pandemic in many countries.

Ashley has found a real purpose for her life in humanitarian works, but the bad memories stemming from childhood traumas sent Ashley spiraling into a terrible depression and she finally needed to be hospitalized. She got the help she needed, and she is now a happier person.

She is also a profoundly religious person, and has been inspired by her meetings with people such as Desmond Tutu. Ashley went on to graduate school at Harvard and is continuing her fight for the rights of the the poor and voiceless around the world.

You can buy this book by clicking the badge below!

You can also read Ashley's blog.

Book Review: Paris in Love by Eloisa James

2012-08-29T10:45:00.000-04:00

Title: Paris in Love

Author: Eloisa James

Genre: Memoir

Format: Kindle

Year Published: 2012

Source: I “borrowed” this Kindle book from www.digitallibrarynj.com through my local library

Rating: 4/5

Paris is Love is Eloisa James’ account of the year that her family, including her husband and two children, spent in Paris. After she had a bout with cancer, James and her husband took sabbaticals from their American university jobs to live in Paris.

The book is really a collection of essays based on Facebook entries and tweets that James sent during her year abroad. Because of this, the entries are short, more like blog posts. They make perfect light reading at bedtime. I have been reading Gone Girl, but I don’t want to read that before trying to sleep!

Some readers have complained that the book is too much about the author’s reflections of her personal experiences in Paris, but isn’t that what a memoir is supposed to be? This is not a dry account of the family’s days in Paris, nor is it an academic attempt (James and her husband are professors) to understand the French way of life. They are only in Paris for a year, and they are not going to get to know people in any real depth.

It is more an account of the delights of Paris, although James is surprised by the amount of homeless people and how many bad restaurants Paris has to offer. The delightful museums and shops are thoroughly enjoyed by the entire family.

Her children are enrolled in an Italian school in Paris and their attempts to become fluent in both French and Italian, and also adjusting to much harder academic standards, are hilarious. The book is a mostly lighthearted account of an enviable time in their lives.

To order this book, click on the link below! If you have a Kindle, you can have it uploaded immediately!

**************************

Book Review: The Complete Book of the Olympics: 2012 Edition by David Wallechinsky

2012-08-17T01:21:00.000-04:00

Title: The Complete Book of the Olympics: 2012 Edition

Author: David Wallechinsky

Genre: Non-Fiction/Sports

Format: Paperback

Year Published: 2012/new edition published every 4 years

Source: Part of my personal collection
Rating: 5/5

Every four years when the summer Olympics are on, I become completely immersed in gymnastics, swimming, and running. I will find myself at 3 in the morning watching sailing – an event so boring to watch that it helps me fall asleep. I am an Olympics junkie!

This is why I have barely touched my blogs during the last few weeks. I am still in a state of delirious happiness because the U.S. women’s gymnastics team – MY gymnastics team -- won the team gold medal! I am a huge fan and kept telling my husband that if only they would win the team gold medal, my Olympics would be complete. I’ll admit I cried when they won.

Since I still have the Olympics on my brain, I must confess that I have been absolutely ADDICTED to David Wallechinsky’s Olympic books for many years! They come out every four years. There are separate winter and summer Olympic editions. I admit that I prefer the summer Olympics to the winter Olympics (I am a big fan of summer in general), but I always buy the newest edition. The next winter edition will come out in early 2014, but the newest summer edition just came out this summer!

The 2012 edition covers all Summer Olympics events, including discontinued ones, up to the 2008 Beijing games. It is just as fascinating as his other editions. I can peruse this large book for hours.

The book doesn’t just tally up the medal winners. It shows the top 8 finishers in each event, and tells you many interesting little stories along the way. Some of the stories are happy and some are absolutely heartbreaking. You will be amazed when you find yourself reading incredible human interest stories about sports you may not even care about. But you will care about the athletes, no matter what country they are from or what sport they play.

I heartily recommend this book!

Please buy it from Amazon by clicking on this link!

Let's Help Mom Clean House!

2012-08-11T17:00:00.001-04:00

Anne Taintor
In this wonderful 1949 film, Mom gets sick and the house gets to be a real mess. Mom is struck with a blindingly brilliant idea! The house will stay cleaner if everyone in the family picks up their own stuff!

Amazing! And the family agrees. Dad, and Bro, and Sis start to clean up, and even do some redecorating.

This is one of those wonderful Coronet Instructional Films, made from the 1940's to the 1970's. They are available at the Prelinger Archives from The Internet Archives, one of my favorite websites!

O.J. Simpson Recruited By The L.A.P.D.!

2012-08-06T21:35:00.000-04:00

Back in 1967, when O.J. Simpson was a star player at University of Southern California, he started to build his acting career with small parts on television. Ironically, one of his first speaking parts was on Dragnet being recruited by Jack Webb's Sergeant Friday!

He even has a line!