The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said “Bother!” and “O blow!” and also “Hang spring-cleaning!” and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, “Up we go! Up we go!” till at last, pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
“This is fine!” he said to himself. The sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout.
These last few weeks have felt a little like those we experienced at the start of the pandemic – a world of uncharted territory, confusing, muddled and uncertain – as if the world were an egg-timer turned upside down, our eyes transfixed whilst we wait for the sands to settle.
It’s good to know that in times like these, escape to the pages of books is always an option. The opening extract above from Kenneth Graham’s ‘The Wind in the Willows’ is the perfect balm, particularly for a weekend like this, looking out of the window across the rooftops of Bicester the sky above is an endless blue – all will be okay.
Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And ’tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
This week’s fiction is anything but normal – Counterattacks at Thirty, The Savage, Noble Deaths of Babs Dionne, Fair Play and Terry Pratchett’s new collected fictions, A Blink of the Screen all offer something completely original and utterly bizarre. Whilst our non-fiction job-lot takes a closer inspection of things mostly overlooked: the simplicity, but necessity, of bread; the elusive quality of phosphorus; the literary contemporaries and influences of Shakespeare. I promise you that you’ll end up learning something completely new – and maybe even slightly deranged!
As always, if there’s anything you need, just pop by or reply to this email!
From Amber
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