|Inspired by Edith Holden|
|A sunny day amongst the evergreens.|
|Cotton Candy Snow at the front door.|
|The English version - same cover|
|Coyote beside the road on the edge of town.|
|Hoar frost at my front door.|
|We call these "Magic Rowan Berries"|
|Prairie dog on high alert|
|Hoar frost in the neighbour's garden.|
Though nature can be cruel, she will not take without giving in return. Hope walks hand in hand with despair. I met it on the creek bank as well. There stood a grove of young balsam poplars, shedding their coloured leaves and preparing for the death season ahead. But as I looked more closely at the trees, I made a discovery. Beside each dying, falling leaf was a leaf bud, sticky and tightly curled but as complete and perfect a leaf as it will be next May. Surely this is hope - and faith. A tree not yet stripped of this year's leaves, with eight months of fall and winter ahead of it, yet ready and waiting for that first warm week in May.
While I am out poking around in the field I hear a sound far above. I look up. A long, ragged line of geese is plowing purposefully southeast across the heavy sky. I count, surprised at how hard it is to keep up with the moving line. There are ninety-five of them. They disappear into the distance, still calling back ever-fainter farewells to the north.
The butterflies are out today in the hot Indian summer sun, orange and brown velvet ones. Happy. Unaware that, surely, in a few days they will be dead. What does that matter? That will be then. Today the sun is shining. The world is wonderful.
|The Little Free Library Project|
The Indians, in small groups, moved always together, as by some inner self-protective compulsion, like certain birds, with their own particular kind of awareness.
She put the sled-rope under her arms, gave her weight to it, and began to climb. A feeling came over her that there would never be anything better in the world for her than this; to be pulling Jacques on her sled, with the tender, burning sky before her, and on each side, in the dusk, the kindly lights from neighbours’ houses. If the Count should go back with the ships next summer, and her father with him, how could she bear it, she wondered. On a foreign shore, in a foreign city (yes, for her a foreign shore), would not her heart break for just this? For this rock and this winter, this feeling of being in one’s own place, for the soft content of pulling Jacques up Holy Family Hill into paler and paler levels of blue air, like a diver coming up from the deep sea.
|Frontenac: "The Fighting Governor"|
|Jeanne-Le Ber by Bottoni, 1908|
|Mother Juschereau de Saint-Ignace|
|Alice Munro photo credit: Paul Hawthorne/Canadian Press|
|Lucy Maud Montgomery|