Overlap of two seasons . . . .

. . . . as blustery autumn greets a late summer blossom . . . .
















To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
Ecclesiates 3:1-2

Another Country Pathway . . . . . .

. . . . . . which I have enjoyed wandering along on many occasions, and hope to continue to do so for some time yet . . . . This is the little country lane that our cottage is on in the deep woods where the deer and the bears roam . . . . and many other forest creatures as well, but no antelope . . . sorry . . . :-)

When we walk through the lane or the woods Dream always has a sharp eye out for woodland creatures, and especially those noisy squirrels. See her eye in this picture. She had spotted one in the treetops. There was one rather uppity squirrel who even gathered up enough courage to throw pinecones at her as she sniffed under his tree. This particular picture was taken a couple of years ago. Never fear though, I have many stored and the digital camera is always handy with which to take more.

If I remember correctly, all three of these pictures were taken in 2003.

Now, this photo to the right is of Dream actually squirrel hunting. Squirrel hunting in the 'lap of luxury' you might say. :-) She is inside, laying on the top of the back of the couch (Basenjis are very catlike and want to be up high on any furniture that they are allowed on), which is in front of the big picture window in the cottage, the woodstove is throwing out a lovely warmth, but just to make sure Dream doesn't get chilled I have wrapped an afghan around the little darling. I had placed the one antler, that a buck had dropped under a maple tree near the cottage, on top of some of the firewood on the front verhandah as bait for any squirrels happening by. She had TV to watch from this direction too . . . . and if her tummy grumbled I was nearby with her food dish. I must confess to having spoiled her . . . . perhaps just a bit . . . . :-)

A Country Pathway

I come upon it suddenly, alone -
A little pathway winding in the weeds
That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,
I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way,
Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,
I take the path that leads me as it may -
Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,
Is startled by my step as on I fare -
A garter-snake across the dusty trail
Glances and - is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos
And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,
Like blossoms of lorn primroses blowing loose
When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips - dwindles - broadens then, and lifts
Itself astride a cross-road dubiously,
And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts
Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile
Out of the public highway, still I go,
My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file,
Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went
At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars,
And was not found again, though Heaven lent
His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night.
O years of nights as vain! - Stars never rise
But well might miss their glitter in the light
Of tears in mother-eyes!

So - on, with quickened breaths, I follow still -
My avant-courier must be obeyed!
Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will,
Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide
Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile,
And stumbles down again, the other side,
To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead
I see it running, while the clover-stalks
Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said -
"You dog our country-walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick! -
We will not suffer tamely what you do,
And warn you at your peril, - for we'll sic
Our bumblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance, -
The more determined on my wayward quest,
As some bright memory a moment dawns
A morning in my breast -

Sending a thrill that hurries me along
In faulty similes of childish skips,
Enthused with lithe contortions of a song
Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth -
Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands,
Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth,
Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a bowlder - wades a slough -
Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags,
Goes gayly dancing o'er a deep bayou
On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool
Upon a bridge the stream itself has made,
With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool
That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse,
With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where
A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise,
Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook -
The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed -
Swings pivoting about, with wary look
Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again
To where the pathway enters a realm
Of lordly woodland, under soverign reign
Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles
The almost whispered warble from the hedge,
And takes a locust's rasping voice and files
The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my sombre way
Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom
Of his own shadows - till the perfect day
Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space,
Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled,
And where the valley's dint in Nature's face
Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled,
I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams,
Where, like a gem in costly setting held,
The old log cabin gleams.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on
Adown your valley-way, and run before
Among the roses crowding up the lawn
And thronging at the door, -

And carry up the echo there that shall
Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay
The household out to greet the prodigal
That wanders home to-day.

- James Whitcomb Riley
from Riley Farm-Rhymes

My Profile Picture

As for some 'strange' reason, Blogger, does not wish to have my profile picture up where it would be 'normal' to have it, I am putting it up here . . . . in the midst of my blog . . . . . and if Blogger 'objects' to that . . . . well . . . . maybe I won't have a blog come tomorrow. Who knows? This is, after all, the 'mysterious' Internet isn't it?!

So, here it is folks . . . . . another Heather Donaldson original work of art. She's my daughter btw . . . . . a very talented artist . . . . might I add. Consider the ruined jeans in my hands there and the little 'tee hee' peeking out from behind the laundry basket . . . . bet you'll never guess 'who' the culprit was that did the nasty deed?! Yes, she did it! and we kept her instead of sending her packing back to her breeder! Were we 'crazy?' There are those that think so!! One thing about it, life at Wine Brook Cottage can never be thought of as 'boring' . . . . not when you can be expected to rescue items of clothing from the jaws of a 'savage' jungle beast at a moment's notice.

By the looks of things here, this posting 'and' picture just might be accepted by Blogger and allowed to be published. So, here goes . . . .

Ain't she sweet?!

This is a picture of a photograph I took of my Basenji, Dream, a few years back which I redid as a black and white photo, and the flowers are some of the last blooms here at Wine Brook Cottage that Heather picked to bring inside. The flowers are Phlox and Musk Mallow with a Jerusalem Artichoke. The Phlox have the most wonderful perfume. How I wish I could box that up for the long winter ahead.

What an Artist!!

Earlier this morning I received an email from a Basenji friend who lives in the southern state of Texas and this is what the email contained. I wanted to share it with everyone here. This is an absolutely gorgeous photograph!!

God spilled the paint ......

The east side of the Carrizo plain, in the Temblor Range, about 50 miles due west of Bakersfield, California. Don't know who took the photo, but it is definitely a breathtaking photo. Nothing man can do could ever equal the glory of God's creations.

Don't be fooled by the far away green . . . .

. . . . . . count your own blessings each and every day . . . . . .

The grass is always greener in the other fellow's yard,
The little row, we have to hoe, seems awful hard,
If we all could wear green glasses now it wouldn't be so hard
To see how green the grass is, in our own back yard!

The missing Moaning Myrtle

I tried twice to get the picture of Moaning Myrtle uploaded with the last posting but it didn't happen, so will try again. You know the old saying . . . . If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. :-)

Betta . . . . plus two

Back in July of this year we had a new member join our household . . . . . . Simon, the Siamese Fighting Fish . . . . . or Betta, as they are commonly called. Simon is burgundy in colour and enjoys his grub, which means that if he eats too much and starts to put on pounds then I'll have to sit in the rocking chair beside the stand upon which his home . . . . bowl . . . . resides and chase him 'round and 'round with my pencil. {gg} However, as food control is already in my hands I don't foresee that happening and can no doubt save my pencil for keeping track of how many rows I've knit instead. This is Simon . . . . . . . at home in his bowl . . . . . . Well now, I must say that we really enjoy having Simon around. He doesn't eat you out of house and home, he doesn't cause much ruckus, nor does he require mucking out (which, after having horses for fifteen years, got to be a 'pain' at times . . . . especially during those bitterly cold winter days when sitting and doing handwork by the fire was much more appealing), no fences to mend or hay to get in, no grooming . . . . . . . Okay, enough of that list . . . . . I'm sure you get the point. Simon is a fairly 'low-maintance' type of pet, he is very pretty and calming to watch . . . . . Which led me to think that 'maybe' I should have another Betta . . . . . . in another colour . . . . . so yesterday Bill Bo Baggins came home with me and took up residence on the shawlcovered top of my Mom's old treadle machine. With a brick chimney separating Bill Bo and Simon they can't see each other so I shouldn't have to be concerned about any sibling wars in my sitting room. {g} Meet the new kid on the block . . . . . . or around the chimney . . . . . .














Isn't he a gorgeous, deep blue?! Very, very beautiful I think but really a wimp. He spends most of the day hiding behind his flowering plant. Maybe he's just wanting some time to get more used to us here before he ventures out into the 'far reaches' of his bowl. Bill Bo is also a bit shy about eating in front of us. He leaves the piece of food floating until we not around, then he eats. Not at all like his brother, Simon, who is so eager for grub that he'll bite the hand that feeds him if it doesn't have any food to offer. Interesting that a little fish such as these two would seem to have such different personalities . . . . . . . if one can say that fish do have personalities.

While I was visiting the pet store where I purchased Bill Bo Baggins yesterday, Heather was along and also make a purchase of her own. As the store had recently received a new shipment of Bettas we had a number to choose from, and after looking 'round Heather said she wanted 'this deep blue coloured one.' Momma here had already made her choice known to the store owner before that so it was . . . . . . . 'Sorry, he's spoken for. You'll have to choose another one.' Another walk around and this uniquely coloured Betta was decided upon. Meet Moaning Mrytle . . . . . . the Appaloosa Betta, whose mostly silvery body is dotted with some spots like an Appaloosa horse, yet has the most gorgeous green fins with blue-purple tips. This guy is a strutter . . . . or he would be if he walked . . . . . . maybe having been given a female name has caused him to develop an attitude already in life. {gg}

A quote for today . . . .

Thomas Edison said, "When you see everything that happens in the world of science and in the working of the universe, you cannot deny that there is a 'Captain on the bridge' ."