My Uncle Matthew had four magnificent bloodhounds, with which he used to hunt his children.
In The Pursuit of Love, the character of Uncle Matthew stands in for Mitford’s own father, Lord Redesdale, a loon of the highest order, who did indeed conduct horse and hounds fox hunts, his children taking on the role of fox.
“Nah, we didn’t get picked either. The crummy mutt recited from ‘Hamlet’ when he was supposed to yodel, and he yodeled when he was supposed to recite from ‘Hamlet’.”
This is Dosh, a Cloverian hutkeeper. The mystery of O’Tan’s Gate begins on the high cobbled road before the bound timber gate of Blossom Castle where she is found delirious, her clothes tattered,one antenna broken, and with a blissful smile on her lips as she mumbles, “Random rain riddles … random rain riddles.”
Brought to you by Bekka of Thorns at https://bekkaofthorns.com. That’s Bekka of Thorns, available now, but not at your local grocers.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your:
a. teammates.
b. hair.
c. teammates’ hair.
d. raven.
e. all of the above except a, b, c, and d.
f. howitzer.
Charles rarely emerges from the lower pantry, and on those occasions when he does, the staff bolts pell mell in every possible direction. Charles has that sort of an effect on sentient creatures of any stripe. Stone cold fact.
Last Tuesday, so I’m told, Charles emerged, and the staff bolted, all save Buddy, the footman’s harbor dog. Time passed. The staff dared to creep back after Mills, the butler, observed through his binoculars and commented on the closing of the lower pantry door.
They buried the paws, the lone remnants of Buddy. The footman wept and vowed revenge. On the following day, they gathered most of the footman’s body parts and buried them next to Buddy while Frida, the cook, worked on the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle. The parlor maid played the harmonium.
All right, I’ll admit it. It’s splendid to be rich and Charles. I like it in the lower pantry despite my random blackouts. It’s the anger, you see. The anger, I tell you.
This glade may be found in the Eastern Foothills of the Orrun Mountains far from the bramble bower hedge home of Bekka (Bekka of Thorns at http://www.wildchildpublishing.com). Blue-skinned roaming tailors graze their flooce flocks on grasses such as these.
You may see such disfigurements far and wide over California – and in some such places, where only meadows and forests are visible – not a living creature, not a house, no stick or stone, or remnant of a ruin, and not a sound, not even a whisper to disturb the sabbath stillness – you will find it hard to believe that there stood at one time a fiercely-flourishing little city, of two thousand or three thousand souls, with its newspaper, fire company, brass band, volunteer militia, bank, hotels, noisy Fourth of July processions and speeches, gambling hells crammed with tobacco smoke, profanity, and rough-bearded men of all nations and colors, with tables heaped with gold dust sufficient for the revenues of a German principality – streets crowded and rife with business, – town lots worth four hundred dollars a front foot – labor, laughter, music, dancing, swearing, fighting, shooting, stabbing – a bloody inquest and a man for breakfast every morning – everything that delights and adorns existence – all the appointments and appurtenances of a thriving and prosperous young city, – and now nothing is left of it all but a lifeless, homeless solitude.
All right, all you 9th grade English teachers of yore, diagram this!
“You know you shouldn’t have teased me about my ax collection, dear.”
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
