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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October was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry-trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields stunned themselves in aftermaths...
Anne reveled in the world of color about her...
'Oh, Marilla,' she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, 'I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it? Look at these maple branches. Don't they give you a thrill- several thrills? I'm going to decorate my room with them.'
It was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school- a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain- amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth of silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many-stemmed woods to run crisply through. The Birch Path was a canopy of yellow and the ferns were sear and brown all along it.
It was nearly dark, for the dull November twilight had fallen around Green Gables, and the only light in the kitchen came from the dancing red flames in the stove.
~ the above extracts were taken from Anne of Green Gables
by Lucy Maud Montgomery ~
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On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors.
~ the above extract was taken from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
by J.K. Rowling ~
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But Sally did not want to be set free for anything, for it was living itself that she enjoyed. She liked lighting a real fire of logs and fir cones, and toasting bread on an old-fashioned toaster. And she liked the lovely curve of an old staircase and the fun of running up and down it. And she vastly preferred writing a letter and walking with it to the post to using the telephone and hearing with horror her voice committing itself to things she would never have dreamed of doing if she'd had the time to think. 'It's my stupid brain,' she said to herself. 'I like the leisurely things and taking my time about them. That's partly why I like children so much, I think. They're never in a hurry to get on to something else.'
It was wonderful driving home with the last glow of the sunset lingering in the west and the hedges black and mysterious on either side. There were lights in the cottage windows, and sometimes they had forgotten to draw the curtains, and one saw the flicker of firelight, the bright heads of children sitting round a table munching their 'cooked tea', a man reading a paper with a pipe in his mouth, or a woman with a head bent over her darning. This, too, was new to Caroline, used to the years of blackout. It was lovely and most magical, like turning the pages of a storybook, each fresh window a fresh story.
She did not find the waiting irksome, for she had been born one of those fortunate people who are never in a hurry and never restless. She had never felt restless in her life. In all that she did, in all that she saw, she was aware of a deep upspringing wonder, as though she did it or saw it for the first time. She was blessed with a mind neither retrospective nor anxious; the past and the future did not pull her two ways with remorse or dread, and the lovely freshness of each new made moment was apparent to her focused vision.
~ the above extracts were taken from Pilgrim's Inn
by Elizabeth Goudge ~
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Yes, in spite of all, I am in love with life. There is more beauty than we can measure in this old world of ours. There is surely more beauty than we can measure in a single night.
There is a kind of enchantment about a tranquil blue morning. I feel as if something wonderful might happen at any minute; and on the other hand, the day itself is a wonderful happening.
We would do well in a world like ours, to go back to the simple thankfulness for the things that make a family life possible. I am thankful for the things we still have, despite the atom bomb. The terrible ingenuity of man may wipe us out in time to come. But now, on Thanksgiving, we still have the November sun, and the clear deep blue of the sky, and the white glory of the stars, and the loving-kindness of friends, just as our forefathers had. If only we can preserve the real things- the love of man and woman, the peace of an evening by the fire, the sweetness of music, and the gay sound of children's voices- we shall not have to hear the sound of the world disintegrating into chaos.
This year I cannot bear to see the leaves go. Early in the morning when I cross the frosty grass to let the spaniels out, I smell the leaves. I never noticed before how sweet they smell on autumn mornings. It's the kind of odor that quickens the heart, a clean, bright-bladed smell.
The house was warm and inviting when we got home, and smelled of bayberry and burning apple wood. And white moonlight began to sift through the windows. This time of year has much comfort in it, when all is said and done.
The earth keeps her seasons. Sun and wind and rain are vouchsafed humanity. Nothing can take away the security we have in the earth herself. And no mad dictators can lift their iron gloves and wipe off that delicate lilac color above the dark hill. The earth endures, her strength restores us.
I took a last look at the sky above the great maples. The sky and the maples and the darkness made the house seem very small. The house belongs to us, and we are allowed to work on the earth around it. The earth is bigger, the sky and stars and moon and sun are too big to belong to man.
Thankful I was for the enduring things, and that I, such a small finite creature, have been allowed to recognize the beauty of the world in my small and finite way.
~ the above extracts were taken from The Book of Stillmeadow
by Gladys Taber ~
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It was a perfect fall day, and there was no better place to take it all in than from the porch of the B&B. The sky was bright blue, the only bit of white coming from the waxing crescent moon, the crickets were singing, and the deep pink roses that lined the front of the house were still blooming, filling the air with their rich scent.
I gazed at the silvery moon peeking over the tips of the trees visible through the open window in the tower room of the attic. The cold night wind made the apartment pretty chilly, but it was nice where I was bundled up by the antique stove.
Our street was a lovely old one. Tall maples lined both sides. Houses sat far back from the road, which provided plenty of room for kids to ride their bikes in looping figure eights. Birds and squirrels flew and scurried about in abundance, and the unique scents of the changing seasons always seemed to fill the air. The overall effect was friendly and relaxing. In short, it was the perfect street to amble along, taking your time to chat with your neighbors.
~ the above extracts were taken from In the Company of Witches
by Auralee Wallace ~