from my Commonplace Book to yours...
along the same themes as my previous entries...
~ h o m e ~ a · m a g i c a l · l i f e ~ a u t u m n ~
I present to you...
a collection of bookish extracts to warm your soul ♥
May these delight you as much as they did me!
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What Beatrix loved more than anything else were tiny cottages with crooked roofs, their stone-flagged floors brightened by rag rugs, the ceilings hung with braids of onions and fragrant herbs, the rooms furnished with old-fashioned oak sideboards and grandfather clocks and chairs with woven rush seats. Farmhouses with no pretensions to grandeur, with mullioned windows and thick walls and narrow passages turning and twisting every which way...Homes that made her want to reach for her pencil and draw.
Perhaps it was her artist's heart that coveted the warm glow of firelight reflected from copper-bottomed pans, or her artist's soul that longed for shafts of dusty sunlight falling through windows bright with blooming flowers. She sketched these whenever she could, and in a way, these sketches of cozy rooms and sunlit windows and comfortable furniture, peopled with cats and mice and little dogs, substituted for a home of her own and a family that didn't sulk and glower at her. But Beatrix knew that she could never be entirely happy until she lived in her own house, a real house, exactly the right house. It was worth the world to her.
It was a pretty October morning, cool and crisp, with the fragrance of autumn. The golden trees seemed to shimmer against the blue sky and the blackberry briars along the lane were covered with red and yellow leaves, making brave patches of color in the sunshine.
But she could make Hill Top into her own domain, a house of her own, with everything in it just as she wanted it. The house would be the house of her dreams, the house where she belonged, where she could imagine herself leading the kind of life that would make her, at last, content. And all around her would lie her own land, fold and fallow, garden and green meadows and pretty patches of the woods.
~ the above extracts are taken from The Tale of Hill Top Farm
by Susan Witting Albert ~
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Loaves of fig and pepper bread, of course. But there was also lasagna cooked in miniature pumpkins, and pumpkin-seed brittle. Roasted red pepper soup, and spiced caramel potato cakes. Corn muffins and brown sugar popcorn balls and a dozen cupcakes, each with a different frosting, because what was first frost without frosting? Pear beer and clove ginger ale in dark bottles sat in the icy beverage tub. They ate well into the afternoon, and the more they ate, the more food there seemed to be. Pretzel buns and cranberry cheese and walnuts appearing, just when they thought they'd tasted everything...
The family brought out lanterns and halogen heaters when it got dark, and put them all around the garden. They lit candles on the table, all while the apple tree shook and blossoms continued to fall. When the petals hit the flames of the candles, they hissed and popped into ash, leaving behind a scent that was so beautiful and sweet that it smelled like both yesterday and tomorrow.
There was a discernable chill in the air now, and wet leaves were everywhere- in yards, in the sidewalks, in the street, stuck on cars. It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.
~ the above extracts are taken from First Frost
by Sarah Addison Allen ~
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It was important to Caroline to do things right, to do whatever she did to the best of her ability. She saw beauty in ordinary little things and took pleasure in it. She took pleasure in a well-made cake, a smoothly ironed napkin, a pretty blouse, laundered and pressed; she liked to see the garden well dug, the rich soil brown and gravid; she loved her flowers. When you are young, you are too busy with yourself- so Caroline thought- you haven't time for ordinary little things, but when you leave youth behind, your eyes open and you see magic and mystery all around you: magic in the flight of a bird, the shape of a leaf, the bold arch of a bridge against the sky, footsteps at night and a voice calling in the darkness; the moment in a theatre before the curtain rises, the wind in the trees, or (in winter) an apple branch clothed with pure white snow and icicles hanging from a stone and sparkling with rainbow colors.
~ the above extract is taken from Vittoria Cottage
by D. E. Stevenson ~
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But day by day there are slight changes, subtle alterations in shape, in the mood of the season, it is as though everything is slipping and sliding very gradually downhill, like some great high hayrick sinking softly into itself as it dries. The year has turned and it is autumn, though we do not fully acknowledge it.
There is a smell in the air, the smell of autumn, a yeasty, damp, fruity smell, carrying a hint of smoke and a hint, too, of decay. It fills me with nostalgia, but I do not know for what. It is a smell I love, for this is and has always been my favorite season. They said that as I grew older I should recoil from it, the winding down of another year, the descent towards winter, the end of summer pleasures, that I would begin to shift my affections towards spring, when all is looking forward, all is blossoming and greening and sprouting up. But I do not do so. Spring so often promises what in the end it never pays, spring can cheat and lie and disappoint. You can sit at the window and wait for spring many a weary day...
But I have never been let down by autumn, to me it is always beautiful, always rich, it always gives in heaping measure, and sometimes it can stretch on into November, fading, but so gently, so slowly, like a very old person whose dying is protracted but peacefully, in calmness...
And I love the wild days of autumn, the west winds that rock the apple tree and bring down the leaves and fruit and nuts in showers, and the rain after the days of summer dryness. I love the mists and the first frosts that make the ground crisp and whiten the foliage of the winter vegetables....
Soon, perhaps over one wild night, the last of the leaves on our magic apple tree will be sent swirling away, and on the bare branches there will hang here and there, the last few, shriveling fruits, and finally, those, too, will thud to the ground and burst open and rot gradually into the soil, or else be taken away by birds, getting hungrier, now that the cold has come, and on that morning, whenever it comes, the autumn will be over.
~ the above extracts are taken from The Magic Apple Tree: A Country Year
by Susan Hill ~
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It was a fine autumn. The blackberries were ripe, and the nuts were ready, and the mice of Brambly Hedge were very busy. Every morning, they went out into the fields to gather seeds, berries, and roots, which they took back to the Store Stump and carefully stowed away for the winter ahead. The Store Stump was warm inside and smelled deliciously of bramble jelly and rising bread, and it was already nearly full of food.
Primrose found the tiny front door and went inside. It was very cozy. There was a thistledown carpet on the floor and the neatly-woven grass walls were covered with books and pictures. The two elderly harvest mice who had lived in the house were very glad to have a visitor. They sat Primrose down, gave her a slice of cake and handed her their album of family portraits to look at.
Primrose was nearly asleep by the time they got home. Lady Woodmouse carried her up to her little room and took off her wet clothes. A clean nightie was warming by the fire and a mug of hot acorn coffee had been placed by the bed.
~ the above extracts are taken from Autumn Story (Brambly Hedge)
by Jill Barklem ~
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I will be doing a Part 2 to this post tomorrow...
so be sure to come back for that!