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Go glamping without the threat of unpredictable weather and nasty creepy crawlies, and instead crochet your own adorable camping scene that will keep any child entertained for hours and celebrate all that is great about camping. Reminiscent of vintage camping memorabilia, you can create a nostalgic collection of crochet projects encompassing all aspects of outdoor life. With mix and match projects ranging from vintage caravans and ice cream trucks, to tents and teepees with all the camping paraphernalia of sleeping bags, backpacks and a log fire, as well as mountain and forest scenery you can create your own outdoor world. Or why not craft an alternative camping scene with a classic narrow boat, or a wooden lakeside cabin which can open up to reveal immaculately decorated insides. Instructions for playmats will give children a fantastic base for playing, allowing them to create games and stimulate their own imagination.
In Two Months in the Camp of Big Bear, the accounts of Theresa Delaney and Theresa Gowanlock were made to conform to the literary convention of the "Indian captivity narrative." Sarah Carter's scholarly introduction provokes a careful reconsideration of the text.
The Creator sat upon the throne, thinking. Behind him stretched the illimitable continent of heaven, steeped in a glory of light and color; before him rose the black night of Space, like a wall. His mighty bulk towered rugged and mountain-like into the zenith, and His divine head blazed there like a distant sun. At His feet stood three colossal figures, diminished to extinction, almost, by contrast -- archangels -- their heads level with His ankle-bone. When the Creator had finished thinking, He said, "I have thought. Behold!" He lifted His hand, and from it burst a fountain-spray of fire, a million stupendous suns, which clove the blackness and soared, away and away and away, diminishing in magnitude and intensity as they pierced the far frontiers of Space, until at last they were but as diamond nailheads sparkling under the domed vast roof of the universe. At the end of an hour the Grand Council was dismissed. They left the Presence impressed and thoughtful, and retired to a private place, where they might talk with freedom. None of the three seemed to want to begin, though all wanted somebody to do it.
This authoritative catalogue of the Corcoran Gallery of Art's renowned collection of pre-1945 American paintings will greatly enhance scholarly and public understanding of one of the finest and most important collections of historic American art in the world. Composed of more than 600 objects dating from 1740 to 1945.
Take a mining townlet like Woodhouse, with a population of ten thousand people, and three generations behind it. This space of three generations argues a certain well-established society. The old "County" has fled from the sight of so much disembowelled coal, to flourish on mineral rights in regions still idyllic. Remains one great and inaccessible magnate, the local coal owner: three generations old, and clambering on the bottom step of the "County," kicking off the mass below. Rule him out. A well established society in Woodhouse, full of fine shades, ranging from the dark of coal-dust to grit of stone-mason and sawdust of timber-merchant, through the lustre of lard and butter and meat, to the perfume of the chemist and the disinfectant of the doctor, on to the serene gold-tarnish of bank-managers, cashiers for the firm, clergymen and such-like, as far as the automobile refulgence of the general-manager of all the collieries.
"Naulahka" is the name Kipling gave to his home in Brattleboro, Vermont, though the Naulahka of the book title refers to a most precious jeweled necklace. It is also a story he wrote with a co-author, Wolcott Balestier, a Brattleboro man, and Kipling's brother-in-law. Balestier died of typhoid shortly after they began the collaboration, so what remains is mostly Kipling.
The Lost Girl is a novel by D. H. Lawrence, first published in 1920. It was awarded the 1920 James Tait Black Memorial Prize in the fiction category. Lawrence started it shortly after writing Women in Love, and worked on it only sporadically until he completed it in 1920.
THE COUNTRY CHILD by ALISON UTTLEY - Originally published in 1931. CONTENTS I . DARK WOOD . . I1 . WINDYSTONHEA LL . I11 . IDOLS . . . . IV . SCHOO . L . . . V . SERVING-MEN . . V1 . THE CIRCU . S . . V11 . THE SECRE . T . . V111 . TREES . . . . IX . LANTERNLI GHT . . X . MOONLIGH . T . . XI . DECEMBER . . . XI1 . CHRISTMADSA Y . . XI11 . JANUARY . . . XIV . THE EASTERE GG . XV . SPRING . . . . XVI . THE THREE CHAMBERS XVII. THE GARDEN . . XVIII . THE OATCAKME AN . XIX . MOWING-TIME . . XX . THE HARVEST . . XXI . THE WAKE . S . . vii THE COUNTRY CHILD DARK WOOD THE DARK WOOD WAS GREEN AND gold, green where the oak trees stood crowded together with misshapen twisted trunks, red-gold where the great smooth beeches lifted their branching arms to the sky. In between jostled silver birches - olive - tinted fountains which never reached the light-black spruces with little pale candles on each tip, and nut trees smothered to the neck in dense bracken. he bracken was a forest in itself, a curving verdant flood of branches, transparent as water by the path, but thick, heavy, secret a foot or two away, where high ferny crests waved above the softly moving ferns, just as the beech tops flaunted above the rest of the wood. The rabbits which crept quietly in and out reared on their hind legs to see who was going by. They pricked their ears and stood erect, and then dropped silently on soft paws and disappeared into the close ranks of brown stems when they saw the child. . She walked along the rough path, casting fearful glances to right and left. She never ran, even in moments of greatest terror, when things seemed very near, for then They would know she was afraid and dose round her. Gossamer stretched across the way from nut bush to bracken frond, and clung to her cold cheeks. Spilt acorns and beech mast Iay thick on the ground, green and brown patterns in the upside-down red leaves which made a carpet. Heavy rains had swept the soil to the lower 1eveIs of the path, and laid bare the rock in many places. On a sandy patch she saw her own footprint, a little square toe and a horse-shoe where the iron heel had sunk. That was in the morning when all was fresh and fair. It cheered her to see the homely mark, and she stayed a moment to look at it, and replace her foot in it, as Robinson Crusoe might have done, A squirrel, rippling along a leafy bough, peered at her, and then, finding her so still, ran down the tree trunk and along the ground. Her step was strangely silent, and a close observer would have seen that she walked only on the soil between the stones of the footpath, stones of the earth itself, which had worn their way through the thin layer of grass. Her eyes and ears were as alert as those of a small wild animal as she slid through the shades in the depths of the wood...