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The Bowen Street House
October 31, 2019 jamesbarton3 2 Comments
This Week's Prompt:98. Hideous old house on steep city hillside—Bowen St.—beckons in the night—black windows—horror unnam'd—cold touch and voice—the welcome of the dead.
The Prior Research:Rhode Island Ghosts
Bowen Street was a bit nicer than I rememberd. The old pot hole was fixed—the bigger one, not the little ones—and the fences weren't as rusty. Uncle Rodney had been a bit of a nutter towards the end. There were three locks, and a keypad. I remember when I was fifteen him showing off his security room—I'm still not sure if it's legal to have that many security cameras peering out in all directions from your house. I'm sure it isn't healthy to stare at monitors all night.
It was a stroke that got him.
Opening up the house, even with the keys and the passcodes, felt like breaking into some giant vault. There was a layer of dust covering everything inisde, and that was before I started going through the locked doors. Most of them were double locked, and the windows had bars on the inside. I don't know what Uncle Rodney was worried about—he was just generally nervous it seemed—but he had made one amazing cage.
It really shouldn't go to waste, I thought. It was his life's work. And I admit, I didn't feel like sleeping any time soon. The layers of dust made the air heavy, and I didn't have time to clean. One night, with some beers, seeing what the old man was looking at all night. I'll toss it out tomorrow, I thought.
The house clicked to life at eight o'clock exactly. Camera's whirred to life, screens flickered, lights shone down. And that was the visible parts. Webs of motion sensors were spontaneously woven over the yard, and I'm pretty sure the fence gained life electric. And I sat, drinking from a can, watching the screens. Trying to figure out what had made Uncle Rodney so afraid.
There was a bobcat that walked across the street, right up to the gate. I held my breath as it looked at the fence. It reached out a paw—I stared intently as it considered the jump.
And then, suddenly, it ran off. Scapered back where it came. I glanced across the screens, following the little angry furball until it got to a side walk and went down the street.
I mean, at that point, I kinda thought it lived across the street. There was another house there, although I didn't give it much attention before. I mean, it was barely a house.
The roof was intact, and the doors, and the—I frowned as I looked at the windows. I guess the lights were off? They were completely dark—actually, zooming closer, it looked like the blinds were closed? No, not even that. They were tinted black. I sat back a bit. Was this whole neighborhood paranoid? I zoomed the camera back out, taking in the crumbling wreck. The porch had fallen in, the door looked worn and someone had stolen the door knocker, and–
There was beeping on one of the motion sensors. I frowned, and looked over at the other camera. My heart stopped for a moment as I saw a pale shape—some kid in a grey hoodie or with a blanket around their back—squeezing at the gate. I couldn't quite make out what he was…I mean the gate was high voltage, maybe he had wire cutters or something.
I had dialed two digits before he was gone. I looked up as the phone rang, and saw him slip across and into the old house, turning back for only a second. I thought he looked into the camera.
"Mr. Barthet?" The voice came through on the other end after a minute of silence. "I don't know how often we have to answer these calls before it becomes a crime, Mr. Barthet."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, blinking. "This is the first time I've called."
"Don't tell me your memory's going to, Rodney." The officer sighed. "So what was it this time? Some rave across the street that no one else can here?"
"I'm—I'm not Rodney." I said slowly. "My names Roger Barthet."
"Oh. Well. I'm sorry for your loss Roger." The voice said slowly. "Uh, well, alright—Your uncle had a habit of reporting on the old house. Don't lose to much sleep over it. The place is condemned, should be bulldozed any day now. No one living there but some rats."
"But I saw–"
"Probably some teen hiding there for a few days or something, you know how kids are." the officer continued. "If he mucked up your fence too much, that might be something, but, well, we aren't going out in the middle of the night to chase a kid down in a ghost house."
And that was it. He told me to get some sleep, see if I felt better in the morning. I sighed, hung up, and went to bed. It rained that night, helped me sleep some.
Not that I woke up feeling any better. If anything, it felt like someone had reached down my throat and dropped a bunch of needles in my stomach. I kinda staggered around most of the day. Took a walk down to the river, did some exploring.
The house across the street was definitely abandoned looking. I mean, the porch was rotting and missing all its paint—it had turned a weird grey brown of dead trees. A bunch of small live ones were growing in the yard. The old fence was pointy and green-black—I can't quite tell with those old iron fences that have like, the tips you know?–and broken in a few places. The only really intact bits were the windows, which during the day seemed all the more strange. Seriously, why does an abandoned building have tinted windows?
I couldn't get it out of my head, walking down the riverside. Someone definitely still used that house for…for something, I don't know what. Maybe it was just a teen sex and drugs den or something. No wonder Uncle Rodney had cameras pointed at, must have been convinced they were going to try and rush his place in the night. I'm surprised I didn't find a bigger gun-locker in the house. Yeah, I still hadn't figured out how to get rid of that, I'm pretty sure Rhode Island's strict about that sort of thing.
I didn't go to bed that night. I stayed tuned in—the guy I called over said it'd be costly pulling out the all the wires, and he needed to check the house more, so I had a few more days. And I knew what I saw. If I could just see it again—If I could catch that kid—I think it was a kid. That thing in the night, I'd be able to sleep. I spent the afternoon after the work practicing the shutter function on the camera—a quick photo with a click. And so I waited. And waited. I waited as cars passed by, as drunk teenagers stumbled across the side walk, I wait until three in the morning, eyes fixed to the screens, staring out in all directions from this house.
I was almost falling asleep, despite the caffeinated heartbeat. And then I saw it. My finger moved before I did, clicking rapidly on camera six, the one facing the house. There it was—some pale ship leaning against the black windows.
It was pointing at the camera.
No. It was pointing at me. It held up a finger, a thin spidery finger, and curled it back and forth. Closer it said. Closer.
The police weren't pleased to hear from me again. I swear I heard them mutter something about running in the family. But I know what I saw. And I brought the photos. Didn't do a ton of good—they looked like photoshop or something. I don't know. But they agreed, at least, to send someone over. Show me around the other house. Show me no one lived there.
"See, doors not even locked." Officer Jones said, pushing the rotten wooden door open with one hand. "No one leaves doors open down here. Alright, lets look around, see if there's any sign of a squatter."
I grumbled at that—that wasn't a squatter last night. But whatever. They didn't believe me, that's fine. They'd see. He clicked his flashlight on—the house was dark with the tinted windows, but not as empty dark as it was at night.
"Now, we'll go quick. This place isn't exactly hospitable."
The wallpaper was peeling. There was almost half an inch of dust on the entire floor—hell, the carpet on the second floor seemed to be more dust then carpet. There weren't any dishes, and only a few bits of silver ware. Most were to busted to be used. The walls upstairs had several gouges– "Twenty years ago someone looted all the copper they could," Officer Jones explained—and most of the light bulbs had been smashed on the ground. There was a bathtub, stained and moldy. A bed. A few picture frames, although there had been more before. You could still see the marks on the wall were they used to be.
There was a chair by the window, where the figure had stood. I walked right up to the tinted window and squinted out—my house was nothing but a shadow from here, an inky blob you could barely call a home.
"Right, see? Nothing's here." Officer Jones said, gesturing around. "Nothing but cold damp floor boards, and broken things."
I frowned and looked around. There was nothing but some broken things, some mold, and some dust. Why wasn't there more? An old house like this, why not—why wasn't there any graffiti? Why was no one living in this abandoned but…but stable house? Why hadn't they for…who knows how long? What was keeping them out?
"Right. Nothing." I said, as we walked out. What was beckoning me to stay, even in daylight hours?
I stared out the window. No need for cameras this time. I could see that blasted house. I had seen something before. I know it, I know the cameras don't lie. I'd locked all the doors, I turned on all the sensors. I had a hundred eyes wide open to see it again.
It was so small—behind the tinted windows, a breeze. It pushed gently against the door, pushing it open and outward. I stood and watched as the door opened, the trees rustled. It didn't speak—it didn't even seem..there. But the door slammed against the house wall. No breeze moved anywhere else. It slammed again. And I felt it's eyes staring up into mine.
The police didn't even give me a minute to explain. There was shouting, and a frustrated "then just stay inside!". But I couldn't. There was something there. Something in the house, that was watching me, that wanted something from me—or was offering something. I couldn't tell. So I went out, into the night. I crossed the street, and went through the door.
This story is a bit rushed, but I like the pacing and I think the general idea of security and observation leading to paranoia. That both houses are in a way haunted. That's all for this Halloween–apologies for the delay, but things have been hectic.
Next week, we visit another very famous New England town. See you then!
Rhode Island Ghosts
October 23, 2019 January 14, 2020 jamesbarton3 3 Comments
This Week's Prompt: 98. Hideous old house on steep city hillside—Bowen St.—beckons in the night—black windows—horror unnam'd—cold touch and voice—the welcome of the dead.
The Resulting Story: The Bowen Street House
This prompt was tricky—the experience of research in this case was very similar to a much earlier attempt to track down a specific name. A brief internet survey for a haunted Bowen Street turned up a restaurant in Texas—here we have a rather polite ghost, who turns the lights off at around midnight when she wishes to be alone. Fittingly, the article doesn't record any particularly nasty acts of violence or misery inflicted upon Mrs. Bowen or her family. The timeline isn't quite right either, so I began my search elsewhere.
There is another Bowen Street, that seemed more likely—Bowen Street, Providence Rhode Island. As the home I first consulted my existing material on Rhode Island—which included a number of haunted places that I will go over in a moment—but found nothing on Bowen Street. Internet searches again revealed nothing on the street, except a ghost tour and a number of apartments. I did, however, find another haunted building and the Lovecraft story that this prompt is based on. And that is the ominously named Shunned House, on the Benefit Street.
The plot of the Shunned House is a plot based on obsession with a strange and unfortunate house. The narrator and his uncle attempt to discern the nature of the century old curse, bringing with them some exceptional weaponry and scientific equipment. When they spend the night there, however, they are visited by strange lights, ghastly faces, masses of mold, and other bizarre sights. I will not spoil the final twist of the story, but it is an unusual ghost story in that it lacks the blood, pale visions.
It is possible that our prompt instead served as the basis of The Unnameable or The House in the Mist. Either way, we are back among the lands of the dead, and the Shunned House begins us in a rather strange position. We can find one of the historic sources of the Shunned House with the Stephen Harris House. The House was constructed over the graveyard of French Huguenots in the eighteenth century, a sure recipe for a haunting.
The actual Shunned House—the Stephen Harris House in reality—has a similar origin. It is built atop a Hugenot graveyard. A wealthy merchant, Stephen Harris, and his wife built the house, and afterwards became horribly cursed. Ships began to sink, children died, and other tragedies. The legend goes on to say that Mrs. Harris eventually went mad, no doubt in part with grief. Most famously, when she was confined to the attic, she was heard shrieking in French—a language she didn't know. The house stayed in the family, falling into decay and decrepitude as the house failed to sell. By the 1920s, the street had become a slum with the haunted and crumbling house on the hill.
https://farm3.staticflickr.com/2568/3828989872_011ef0d4e7_z.jpg
This is of course not the only haunted house in Rhode Island. As I've alluded to before, all places are haunted in the end. One along the ghost regards a Mr. Jackson. He was traveling with one Captain William Carter in the winter 1741, intending to take some furs to Boston. The captain murdered Mr. Jackson for his furs, and stuffed his body beneath the ice at Pettaquamscutt Cove. The body was eventually discovered by an eel fisher, and the good captain was brought to trial for it.
However, Mr. Jackson was not at rest. Nearby indigenous settlements were so harassed by the ghost, the village was moved to avoid him. The roads nearby then reported Mr. Jackson's presence up until the mid 1930s—well into Lovecraft's day.
More haunted locales, however, are also common. There is the story of the Ramtail Factory. A dispute between the owners and the night watchmen over pay resulted in the night watchmen threatening that to get the keys, they would have to take them from a dead man. Shortly after, the owners found the factory locked—and breaking in, found the watchman dead inside, hanging from the pull rope of the bell. The bell rang out every night at midnight from that day forward. Removing the rope would not stop it—and removing the bell lead to stranger mischief, such as running the factory at full speed or turning the mill stone backwards against the water.
Smith's Castle, courtesy of the Wikimedia Commons
A house in Wickford, built by one Richard Smith in 1639 was reportedly more haunted then could be believed. Smith's Castle, as it is sometimes known, has a long history. Among these many ghosts were a group of indigenous people—the exact nation is not recorded—who had been captured by the settlers. In a fit of drunken cruelty, one of the settlers cut the head off a captive, sending it tumbling into a clock. Another was tarred and feathered before dying. The house had further misfortune, being the site of a suicide later on and a number of other tragedies—a mass grave for forty soldiers is nearby, and one of the owners was beheaded and placed on a pike after King Phillips War.
A strange marker of the dead, attributed to indigenous people, are scrub pines. Each scrub pine that rises, according to local folklore, represents an unnecessary death. One farmer swore to remove each and every one of these pines that grew up in his field every year—and was warned against it by the living. Pushing on, despite the miraculous growth of some pines over night, the farmer met his end when one of the pines collapsed and fell on him.
A number of places in Providence have specific hauntings, but I've yet to locate sources for all of them in folklore—the best list I found was here. As always, a haunted place is often the site of violence or death. Murders, abuse, and others result in restless dead seeking redress. Cruelty calls to the dead. In our prompt we have a second layer of the dead—one that separates it from a number of these stories. For, from Mr. Jackson to the night watchmen, most ghosts want their domain vacated. They drive people out. But here we have the dead beckoning inward. The dead welcoming, if invisible. The dead are calling.
And nameless—and I think this is key as well to the horror at play here. Most ghost stories remember the name of the ghost. Names are sometimes repeated, represented, or changed but almost all are remembered. The dead here are not only nameless but numerous—perhaps recalling the Huguenots at the Shunned House, who are known as a mass but forgotten as individuals. If anything, the strange beckoning dark reminds me of another house. A house…well. I have spoken on that house.
I think for this story, weaving the weighted, overgrown and ancient house with the image of new life from the scrub pines might be the most fascinating route. The manifestation of ghosts and others in new life and new knowledge is a form of a horror we haven't done yet—at least not exactly. Plant life in particular—or in the case of the Shunned House, fungus—has a clear connection to the dead. The underworld is often connected with cycles of seasons and other patterns. Persephone and Hades, as an archetypal story, connects food and vegetation with the land of the dead as does the Maya Hero Twin story.
The other bit of lore I find fascinating about the Shunned House, connecting it to a similar collapsed manor story we wrote, is the notion that the haunted house is trapped here, in this family. The curse cannot be gotten rid of, because no one will buy the land and there is nowhere else to go. Roots laid too deep to be entirely removed from the family line.
What haunted houses have you heard of or visited? What ghostly shapes have you seen, beckoning from the windows?
Bourgaize, Eidola Jean. Supernatural Folklore of Rhode Island. University of Rhode Island, 1956.
George and the Generous Tree
October 16, 2019 October 15, 2019 jamesbarton3 1 Comment
This Week's Prompt:97. Blind fear of a certain woodland hollow where streams writhe among crooked roots, and where on a buried altar terrible sacrifices have occur'd—Phosphorescence of dead trees. Ground bubbles.
The Prior Research: Growing On Trees
The river had turned bright. The three farmers it touched stared in disbelief as the flickering water ran along its way, occasionally lurching to a halt. Grass around it had started dying.
"So. This. This is it right?" Johnson said, looking at everyone. "This is proof that God hates us, right?"
"Johnson!" George said.
"Bad harvest, bunch of rats break into the granary, and now there's glowing star water killing everything." Johnson said, waving at the water. "I want you to tell me, in the short time I still have land to stand on, how this is not proof positive this year is cursed."
"Strings of bad luck happen." George said, scratching his head. "I mean, long string but…"
"Maybe it will pass?" Gwyn said, stroking his considerable beard. "Came sudden, might be gone suddenly too. Things work like that sometimes."
"I'm going to get what I can stored up." Johnson said, shaking his head. "Water like that—that's fairy nonsense or worse. Give it a week, and everything's gonna be sludge and rot."
So the three parted. Gwyn put old nets down from his time by the coast, hoping to catch the muck and keep it from his fields. Johnson went to accounting their belonings, in case the worst happened. He sent a letter down the road, to his brother in Alberdam. But George. George followed the river.
The river had its roots in the woods. Most things do. George knew pigs once lived in the woods, he figured cattle did too. So he followed the river back, through rotted roots and muddy land. He walked ahead, seeing what he might find among shivering trees and bald pines. For as the river wound its way down, the trees turned pale. The ground became soft and pallid. And animals made such dreadful sounds.
At the end of the river, George found it. Over the spring, a great tree with a glimmering brass trunk. No fruit sprang from the tree. No leaves. It's roots, manifold and black, dripped luminescent sap into the river. Each drop sizzled as it touched the spring.
George was not a terribly wise man. But he knew clearly something about this was wrong. He rushed home and returned to that shuddering, sickly tree with an axe. Raising it high, he struck it hard—and it rang out like a bell in protest.
"Stop, stop, what are you doing?" A voice came down from the empty branches. "What are you doing, cutting me down with crude tool of yours?"
George was startled by the voice, but persisted. It again rang out like a bell, higher pitched this time. His axe blade looked a tad worse for the strike, but the bark had bent in.
"Stop that, stop that what are you—"
"You are spreading poison into our lands." George said, reading a third swing. "I cannot lose it."
"Wait wait! How much is it worth, this land?" The tree said, vibrating and shifting its bark about. George stopped his axe just before it. "Perhaps we could trade."
"And what could you offer, tree?" George said, resting his ax for a moment. "While I catch my breath."
"Oh many things, many wondrous things. But perhaps most simply gold." And as it spoke, an apple of shining gold grew from it's branch, bending down in front of George. "Leave me be, and gold I can give every day."
George took the gold, a small snap as it broke from the brass branch.
"Every day, gold like this?"
"Every day." The tree's voice said. George was a simple man. And while speaking trees were strange, far stranger existed in the wood. So he returned home without another blow.
And so he continued for sometime—about two months, coming to collect the gold, and letting his fields fall fallow. He never revealed the source of the apples he brought—in fact, when possible, he hid his travels down to the town to buy goods and food from distant farms. George was a simple man, but even he knew not to flaunt his gold.
Still he paused when he saw the carts outside Johnsons farm, the children swining legs from the seat.
"Nothing to be done. Lands cursed." Johnson said, shaking his head when George asked leaning on the fence. "I mean, the grain that lived was inedible. But we'll manage, we'll manage. Probably won't get much for the acres, but it'll be something before the bank gets it."
George nodded solemnly, and went for his axe. He hadn't meant to ruin Johnson too. So out into the forest he went again, passed the twisting trees and mewling animals. The woods was quieter, the trees all had left shed broken coats of bark on the ground. The exposed insides were full of holes. Some times sap bubbled out of these, as the ground became muddy near the great tree. Its roots now dug deep into the ground.
"What now, little one? I gave you your gold for the—" the tree spoke, before George's axe struck. A dull groan resonated through out the woods, the dying noises growing low and loud. The tree shrieked in it's crown of twisting branches.
"What in the sweet—what do you want? More gold, is that it?" The tree shrieked. George saw his blow had left a large dent in the side. "I can provide more gold! Stop with that ax!"
"Gold will not help now." George said, striking again and leaving a heavy cut. "Johnson already lost his farm. Gwyn will lose his. Gold can't help that."
"Are you—" A scream cut off the tree as the third blow struck, sluggish glowing sap leaking from its side. "Buy the farm yourself, you ingrate!" It bellowed. "You have piles of gold! Give some and buy his land, if you care so much! Its not like you need to worry about farming while I'm here!"
George paused, resting his axe on his shoulder, and stroking his chin. He had not considered that. Hiding his wealth had seemed so…vital. But it wouldn't matter if Johnson and Gwyn were driven out already. The farms were just land then. He shrugged and left the tree with it's new wound, heading back to his farm.
And so it came to past that George and his family were alone in the farmlands. The fields did not grow properly there—they grew in small tufts and strange colors that year. Johnson and Gwyn had both long gone—George made no effort to maintain their fields. There was little to maintain, as the ground turned gray and then pale yellow. It was swampish and bubbling, the forest slowly sinking from George's view.
"Its not natural." His wife said as she looked out. "Its getting closer to town now—that poor boy, he drank some of it and…"
George nodded, staring out into the woods. The river was like moonlight now—cracks and springs up sprang up on the farmland. It wasn't natural. But few things were in he woods now.
He had gone hunting once, and found not a single living thing. No birds sang, no deer ran. He saw a pale shape moving in the trees. He thought it was a cat, but it had too many eyes. Too many legs. Or he thought as much.
The shivering trees—the ones that were pale and tall and thin like grain, but stung to touch—had grown where grain once rain. The land was sick. Perhaps it was always sick, George thought as he walked through the silent and shivering woods. There was no wind, but the trees still bowed and swayed as he passed. And at last, he found the tree.
He had seen it daily, growing bigger and bigger. It's roots were as wide around as a saucer. Its branches were knotted like a boat's strings, and thicker then rope. A web of shimmering shapes made up its top. Two great cuts were on its side.
"Have you come again with your ax, George?" The voice said solemenly. "Have I not been true and good to you?"
"The land is dying." George said. A bit of regret remained on his voice. "You have been true and kind, but the land is dying."
"It has always been dying." The tree said. "It was dying a year past when we first met. What has changed? Have I not given you gifts, to stay your ax?"
"The land is dying faster now. Down in the town people are dying."
"People are always dying, George. Dying is the way of things." The tree said, unmoved.
George shook his head, having no more of the trees words. He took his ax and struck the tree's trunk—and again it resounded like a gong. But the bark did not budge.
The ax swung again. The tree was unmoved.
The ax swung. The tree shook with laughter.
"George, I have been good to you." The tree spoke. "And you have been good to me—so I tell you this. If you wish to quarrel with me, leave now. For I have grown too deep to be overturned by an ax or flame. The time for such has passed. Run now, and I will not pursue you for scaring me so."
George stared as the tree's branches unfolded—revealing glimmering fruit, brilliant like stars. He dropped the ax into the gray mud. And soon he too left the land by the river. So the rotting tree came to consume the land along the great river. Nothing wholesome remains in that woods.
While this might need one or two more editing passes–and could certainly be improved by more character interaction–I'm actually rather proud of this one. I think the basic idea of a parasitic but wealth producing tree growing monstrous and uncontrollable when allowed to flourish by human greed is a decent enough idea. Giving more character to George would be the first addition–at the moment he's rather blank as a person, except a bit greedy and a bit simple.
Next time we return to a particular haunted house and the cold touch of the dead!
Growing On Trees
October 9, 2019 October 16, 2019 jamesbarton3 2 Comments
This Weeks Prompt: 97. Blind fear of a certain woodland hollow where streams writhe among crooked roots, and where on a buried altar terrible sacrifices have occur'd—Phosphorescence of dead trees. Ground bubbles.
The Resulting Story:George and the Generous Tree
Today, Mr. Lovecraft brings us to another familiar locale—one that might border those strange and poisonous worms we discussed last time. Here we have a forest, marred by some recent and unnatural tragedy—one that makes people avoid it out of fear of the poison it seems to breath. Perhaps Mr. Lovecraft meant to conjure the image of Satanic witch gatherings or folk druids or, in the colonial folklore, those wild places where Satan's minions gathered. And there is something of that folklore here, contrasted with the more scientific terms of phosphorescence.
A Basque story, which involves a conspiracy among the sons and daughters of Heaven to murder a maid in the woods, makes mention of the Evil One's arrival. He comes with the great beating of wings, and a foul smell spreads in the air. Poison falls into the rivers and trees begin to die at his arrival, even for a moment. This association, with poisoning of the land and monsters of Hell—such as the devil, but also more common ones like worms and dragons—is common in folklore. The presence of evil plagues the land itself, laying it to waste by merely existing.
Another set of stories comes to mind for this tale, however. That is the folktale of the Demon Tree. This tale type has a number of variations, which we will discuss, but in a way taps into the notion Lovecraft presents of an ancient sort of worship. The basic premise of the Demon Tree story is a man comes across a tree that is possessed by a demon. He goes to cut it down—only when he goes to strike it, the tree speaks and begs he stay his hand in exchange for wealth or power. The man obliges, only to return later seeking more gold and power under threat of the axe. How the story proceeds from there is the source of a number of variants.
A Slavic version, for instance, has the man ascend the ranks from cottager to mayor to lord to lord lieutenant, each time growing hungrier and hungrier for more power. At last, he demands the tree—specifically a lime tree in this case—make him the king. The tree however, begs he wish for something else or rescind the wish. It reveals that while all the other posts are assigned by men, the post of emperor is of course divinely appointed and thus cannot be given over by a tree spirit. The man insists—and the tree warns him that all he has asked for now will be lost, since he has reached too far in his hubris.
Another instance, however, has the man worry about his worship of the tree for gold. In this case, he had first come to the tree as its worshipers were sitting in his field and preventing his grass from growing. He goes to chop it down, but is offered gold to let it stay. What moves him to reconsider, however, is the sudden spike in deaths at his manor—household staff and family members begin suddenly dying. Eventually, he consults the Sanehedrin—the tribunal of the Jewish people. They advise he cut down the tree, sell whatever he bought with its gold, and all will be well. Sure enough, after doing so, his crops produce a great yield and he finds gold beneath the trees roots!
An instance of this story occurs in China—although the story is from a Persian text—with a Sufi finding people worshiping the tree. This tree is unlike any other—it is a direct descendant of the trees in Eden, it is vibrant and young while still venerable, and it is so wise and holy it can speak! The Sufi reproves the people for worshiping it, and goes to chop down the tree as a false god. The tree offers him gold every day in exchange, and wins the Sufi's patience. One day, however, the tree stops paying. The Sufi returns and says that now that there is no reason to keep it alive, he will kill it. The tree reveals in turn that this is a lesson—that what brings good can bring harm, and that one should take the good and bad in life without lashing out crudely. It thus survives the tale, as one of the rare holy speaking trees.
Another story placed in China, but originating from Arabia, concerns a tree. At the 'far end of China' live a group of rather unwise people. A farmer has planted a tree in the mountains, and it has grown so magnificent that the people have started worshiping it as the Israelites worshiped the Golden Calve. The devil sends a jinn to possess the tree and speak from it. A wandering Sufi comes across this situation, and like before, sets about to destroy the tree before being paid off. The tree eventually ceases paying, however, and the Sufi returns anew. This time, however, he finds the Devil less afraid—before he came for righteous intentions, now he comes out of greed.
A tale from Burma tells of another possessed tree—in this case, a man after death becomes a tree spirit and goes to a tree to inhabit it. Once he arrives, however, he finds its already inhabited. The two spirits decide that who ever comes and worships them first will have the tree. The man went and appeared to a friend, asking him to come and worship the tree so he would win. In exchange the man would make him rich. The friend agreed, and the man won—but forgot his promise. The friend thus brought an axe and nearly cut down the tree. The man then promised quickly to make him rich, by turning into a horse and winning races for him. However, the horse only wins the first race—the friend loses everything on the second and third. Next the man turns into an elephant to be sold—but again, things go amiss. The elephant begins to shrink, slowly turning into less worthy animals before vanishing. This gets the friend imprisoned by his customer. When he is finally free, he goes and chops the tree down—only for the spirit to have long abandon it.
Other forest spirits to avoid, however, can come to us from the Slavic regions. There we find the Jezinkas, a group of forest spirits that tormented shepherds. Taking the form of young maidens, these spirits would come up to shepherds and other travelers offering an apple. Those who ate it fell asleep and awoke to find their eyes stolen—kept in a pile in the lair of the sisters. Eventually a young man came and resisted the offerings of the Jezinkas, extorting from them the eyes of his elder. Two of the spirits died in the river for refusing to find the proper eyes, but the youngest survived—albiet fleeing to some other haunt.
The Wood Lady is another such spirit, although her danger is difference. She danced with a young girl in the forest, distracting her from her work but entertaining her all the same until the sun went down. The young girl's mother was enraged that she hadn't finished her spinning—until, after the third day, she revealed the Wood Lady's presence. The Wood Lady had sent her home with a gift this time. The basket she gave appeared to be leaves, until she got home and found them gold. We learn then from the Mother that it is fortunate the girl met her, and not one of her brothers—wood ladies are not kind to young boys, and dance them to death when they met them.
I feel there is some subtext there, but I'll leave it be.
All of these stories, however, play with the notion of the woods as a place of both temptation and dread. It is a source of things—we can consider, for instance, that both worms and the trees effect the production of the world around them. While I've focused on trees here, instead of the woods as a whole, I think the presence of an unnatural or strange tree—especially one possessed in the way the demon trees are—is a good source for the strange and haunted nature of the landscape. The bargaining for power provides some tensions and conflict—the benefit of the individual vs the community, especially if the trees gifts are not as innocent as they seem.
I think we have an excellent source of a story about greed, community, and bargaining. I think the basics are rather straightforward and somewhat satisfying with this story—but how the specifics take shape Oddly, the stories I found remind me of a more recent and somewhat noxious child's story, the Giving Tree. I do wonder if Shel Silverstien had heard one of these tales when writing that one. It does somewhat remind me of the Lime Tree in the Slavic tales, albeit with no comeuppance.
Kushelevsky, Rella. Medieval and Oral Variants of the 'Tree Demon' Tale Type (AU 1168B): Literacy and Orality in the Study of Folklore. Taylor Francis LTD. Folklore, Vol. 124, No. 2, August 103.
Monteiro, Mariana. Legends and Popular Tales of the Basque People. New York, New York. F.A. Stokes 1891.
Wratislaw, Albert Henry. Sixty Folk-Tales From Exclusively Slavonic Sources. London. E. Stock,1889.
Lights Away
October 3, 2019 jamesbarton3 1 Comment
This Weeks Prompt: 96. Unknown fires seen across the hills at night.
The Prior Research:The Hills Are Alive
I told Ron to stay away from the hills that night. I told him, I warned him that there was something not right up there. But he didn't listen. I guess I didn't really listen.
It was the fifth or sixth time I'd seen those lights. C'mon, he said, there's gotta be a party or something out there. We have to go see, they've done it every few months.
I said no.
They were fucking creepy rave lights. I mean. They weren't strobing, so maybe they weren't like as bad as they could be. Maybe just colored headlights behind the hills or something, I don't—I didn't know. So Ron went off with out me.
Ron was the third to go missing—and you know, one's an oddity, two's a coincidence, three's a pattern. The lights were gone that night. And the night after that. I even went out to the hill—took me two tries to work up the nerve, but I went out behind that old hill to see if there was anything back there.
Nothing. A bit of a damp spot. That was it.
The cops stopped—well, I thought they stopped—looking after about a month. Nothing. It was a stir, they even printed him on milk cartons. I didn't even know they still sold milk in cartons…what? Oh right. Next.
Well, I—I kinda assumed he'd run away upstate or something. Or met some folks at a party, drank something wrong, and was now in a shallow ditch missing a kidney. I keep going back to the hills, look around for any trace. Tire tracks from the head lights, or even just…just something he'd dropped maybe.
Nope. Yeah, nothing. All he left was a pen. Small gel pen he gave me in class that day. He left clothes and stuff in his house, but nothing on the hill. Not even like a busted button or bit of string. That's when I started getting—okay, yeah, getting a bit weird.
His parents let me borrow one of his jackets. I mean. They didn't stop me. I started going out from the hill. I've got—I've got this map of the area, and I figured he'd have to have left something right? It'd been weeks, and nothing but still. People can't just vanish into the ground. He had to have left something.
So I went out. I started going for walks, walks pretty late. I'd just…just walk to the nearest spot from the hill. Where he might have wandered off. There was a tree, I found a campsite near a tree. It was a big one, looked kinda like a two tiered umbrella. I got excited, I found stuff. You know. People stuff.
But that was a boyscout camp that had forgot to clean up after itself.
I tried the other direction, and found some litter about two miles out. I started marking all these little places on my map, so I didn't double take. And, about three days ago, I noticed it. There's a mile around the hill, in all directions, where there's no one. Or nothing.
Like. There's the old abandoned mill, and some of weird red silo building in the wood. But those are a mile and a half out. There's Mr. Ottar's farm. But again. Mile out, and right on the mile, stops. There's no litter over the mile line. Perfectly clean, perfectly kept grass.
People lost toys in the woods. Things died on the road that past by. The old railroads even gave it a wide breadth.
That's weird right? I don't know. I mean. No one ever talked about it. I know on Halloween, kids went to the old Gretch home, to see ghosts. I went once, just got a scare from Ron and a big dog. I mean, not Ron's dog…never found out who's dog that was actually. You'd think a big one like that would make a lot of noise, but maybe he's well trained.
Anyway. There's other weird places. Again, woods is full of 'oh I saw a gorilla out there' or 'oh my dead grandpa visited me' or 'once I heard a woman screaming at midnight'. And, and alright. Fine. Cool. But the hill? There's nothing.
I asked Mr. Ottar about it. He said some teens were setting off fireworks out there—had been since he moved to town in the fifties. Which, obviously, is impossible. But I kept at it, and he said he'd never found anything out there—never looked too hard, said it was a pretty boring spot. But he'd seen people out there, and lights, and heard music, so he knew what it was.
But no one's been there. No one's been out behind the hills, and Mr. Ottar said they'd been around since he moved—and that was in the fifties. And that's not his memory! I checked, I went to the city hall and checked and he's been there since 1952.
I checked. I checked twice. I asked everyone I met, as normally as I could, if they'd ever been to a party out in the hills. A few asked if I was hosting one, and mentioned it seemed like a boring place. A few mentioned the freaky lights.
The lights hadn't come back yet.
That I—Okay, it took me a bit to start trying to map the lights. I knew that, like, that nothing came within a mile of the place. That there were lights since 1952. But not constantly? And the disappearances. The disappearances were connected with the lights. I don't remember them happening before. I don't remember a bunch of high schoolers vanishing but like.
Would I have noticed?
Could I have noticed?
I mean, I was ten. I didn't notice you were there, did I? Ten years old, high school kids like. They can just go to college, like a dog going to a farm. How long—I mean, someone would have noticed? They noticed this time. They checked. We aren't a big enough town for someone to go missing every few months and no one notice, we're not like fucking New York or something.
But I went on with it. I marked and plotted the dissapperances and the lights. I asked about the lights, if people had seen them. A few had driving, one or two had walking late at night. A few saw a big dog around there, but that seemed…probably wrong. I mean. A big dog would have made noise, and there weren't any tracks up there. Nothing left of a dog.
Anyway. I got something like a pattern. Finally. I had a few days to figure this out. What to bring, who to tell, where to wait. I mean. I said I was going out stargazing for a project, and my parents just sort of shrugged.
I heard music. I heard a thumping, thudding music. I thought it was some party down the road, but as I started down the path, no. It was from the hills.
Lights shinging soft but bright over the hill—blue, green, yellow, orange. They were so much…more than before. Much warmer. Much more inviting. I mean. I was heading there anyway. It didn't matter much.
But still.
It was different, having a beat to walk to. I mean sometimes I listened to music when I went out, but paranoia kept me on edge. What if something snuck up on me? What if whatever it was caught me? Bouncing along to a beat was something different.
I got to the mile mark. The grass was so green, and there was something…sweet in the air. It smelled like strawberries. It—I could see people over there. Waiting.
I was holding Ron's coat still. I saw him there. It had been ages. He was right there. There were dozens of people there. It was such a …it was so alive. So full. There were so many…so many things.
I almost made it across. I almost stepped over the other side.
Just. I was. So close.
And then. I was here. I was in a room. This is a room right? I was in a white room, with a white light, a red chair, and a small table. Someone came by, gave me some water, and left. Then you asked about Ron. I don't think you came into the room—I'd remember that I think. But you're in the room now.
I ended up rewriting this story from scratch 3 times, and I'm still not entirely satisfied. I don't think I ever reached a satisfactory idea of what it was about, except the vague notion of people being lured off by a fire. Which…I think my best work is a bit more than that.
Next time, we go into forests plagued with strange and dangerous things!


text:
Kim Toffoletti
Associate Professor of Sociology, Deakin University
Dr Kim Toffoletti is Associate Professor of Sociology in the School of Humanities and Social Sciences at Deakin University.
Her research is interdisciplinary, drawing on gender studies, sociology, visual and media culture. She has published widely in the areas of sport sociology, gender and popular culture.
Her latest book is Women Sport Fans: Identification, Representation, Participation (2017, Routledge). She is also the co-editor of Sport and Its Female Fans (2012, Routledge) and New Sporting Femininities: Embodied Politics in Postfeminist Times (forthcoming, Palgrave)
Monash University, PhD in Women's Studies and Visual Culture
@ktoffa
kim.toffoletti@deakin.edu.au
Joined July 11, 2014

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


String orchestra for children ages 7-17 in the Glendale, Pasadena area.
Musicians aged 8-18 from throughout Los Angeles County meet saturdays in West Hollywood for orchestra, chamber music and theory. Founded in 1936, they are sponsored by the California Junior Symphony Association.
[Arizona] Offering young talented musicians in the western Valley of the Sun (Phoenix AZ metro area) an opportunity for a year of intensive orchestra training and exciting musical performances.
Information about the summer programs offered for children and young musicians.
(Los Angeles, CA, area) Classical string ensembles for weddings/parties; string instruction for students, amateurs, and young professionals; contact and group information, calendar.
Six orchestras that range in expertise from the recent beginner to the semi-professional, playing in a chamber music style.
Toronto, Canada: Concert calendar, ticket purchase information, group information.
Supporting 125,000 young musicians in 1,800 youth orchestras around the UK. Includes information about activities and events.
Fort Collins: includes rehearsal, concert, and audition information.


text:
Home » Islandora Repository » ...
Collection: University of California, Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive
https://archive.org/details/cbpf_000126
Permalink: https://californiarevealed.org/islandora/object/cavpp%3A25944
Documents the first 18 months of the continuing migrant labor strikes against grape growers in California's San Joaquin Valley. Describes events leading up to the strikes and the development of small unions in the area.
Gilbert, Dick
Haney, John
Pearce, Richard
Strikes and lockouts--Vineyard laborers--California--San Joaquin Valley
Documentaries and factual works
2 Reels of 2
Copyrighted. Rights are owned by California Newsreel. Copyright Holder has given Institution permission to provide access to the digitized work online. Transmission or reproduction of materials protected by copyright beyond that allowed by fair use requires the written permission of the copyright owner. In addition, the reproduction of some materials may be restricted by terms of gift or purchase agreements, donor restrictions, privacy and publicity rights, licensing and trademarks. Works not in the public domain cannot be commercially exploited without permission of the copyright owner. Responsibility for any use rests exclusively with the user.
Country of Creation
University of California, Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive
Source Call Number
Source Institution Contact Information
120 Oxford Street, #2250, Berkeley, CA, 94720, US, Telephone: 510-643-2196, email: bampfa@berkeley.edu, http://bampfa.org/


Laszlo Puczko is the Group Managing Partner at RLA Resource for Leisure Assets. Mr. Puzcko has worked as a travel and tourism expert in the health, wellness, medical services and spa arena for over 20 years. Mr. Puczko founded The Tourism Observatory for Health, Wellness and Spa (2012), which serves as global intelligence for the health travel industry. Mr. Puczko has participated in more than a hundred projects in various fields: research, planning, product development, experience mapping and design, impact assessment and marketing. Mr. Puczko was the lead for the first ever Health Tourism Study for the UN World Tourism Organisation & European Travel Commission (out in Q3 2015). He was a lead consultant on the "Medical Tourism and Wellness Tourism: Where do Spas Fit?" study for the Global Spa Summit. Over the past years, Mr. Puczko has honed his expertise in product development, experience mapping and design, impact assessment and marketing. He graduated as an economist specialized in tourism in Budapest (Hungary) and following his interests in culture, arts and experiences, he also graduated from Art & Design Management of the Hungarian University of Applied Arts. Supporting his academic rigor in business and teaching Mr. Puczko completed his PhD in 2000. Mr. Puczko has become a Certified Management Consultant (CMC) in 2003. Between 2006 and 2014 he was the president of the Association of Tourism Consultants (Hungary) and was manager at KPMG Travel, Leisure and Tourism (Europe and Middle-East EA) between 2001 and 2004. Mr. Puczko is an internationally known and acknowledged expert. Mr. Puczko is a frequent presenter at international professional and academic conferences addressing such topics as performance benchmarks, competitive product development, the role of travel in well being and product conceptualization. Mr. Puczko is a trainer of marketing and product development at both location and destination levels. He is the (co-)author of numerous specialized books (e.g.: Health, Tourism and Hospitality: Spas, Wellness and Medical Travel or The Impacts of Tourism) and articles in professional journals.
Please visit www.resourcesforleisureassets.com for more information.


Generally, a pleasant stay. However, parking was a bit inconvenient to drive up so many levels before reaching car park and also certain part of car ramp was narrow. In addition, it would be good and more convenient if occupants are provided with more than 1 set of access cards and keys.
It's a good place in town area but the shopping malls mostly empty.
Owner is very friendly and acceded to our request for extension because our flight had been changed from 8pm to 10pm. Apartment is in good condition and comfortable for 4. Transport wise, Times Square is below getting a taxi wouldn't be much problem but however we rent a car from Hertz (which is also downstairs at Times Square) for better convenience sake.. Food wise, couple of road stalls available. Shopping wise, not much to shop as majority of TS is not taken up, hence not open fully.. Night life we have a couple of pubs below, for chill purpose. I would definitely book this apartment again if I were to come to penang again.
It was a splendid stay and money well spent. Wife love the place and ask to bring our parents along on next stay. Add in wifi services and it will be a dream come true..
It is good to provide groceries stall at ground floor of service apartment so easier to get bacis groceries like liquid detergent, simple foods, mineral water/soft drink and etc.
It was definitely a stay that was unexpected as the condo was furnished with a full kitchen, cable TV, and most importantly centrally located with shopping malls within walking distances and close proximity to places of interest. We love the condo and when I next go back to Penang, I will be staying here!
It was a spacious, clean and comfortable stay. My kids enjoyed the pool.
As this is a private own condo, you have to pay a deposit of RM300 in cash which has not been mention during booking. There were no towel , thooth brush, thooth paste & soap provided in all toilets, the only available amenities were shower gel & shampoo. Beside the above everything was up to our satisfactory.


Spread Spectrum Modulation, PLL Lock Time, Frequency, Period, Pulse Width, Skew, Tpd, Rise/Fall Time, Time Interval Error and more.
Measurement table in figure 1 (see back) represents each channel. Therefore, both channels may operate alone or simultaneously.
Memory can be read while measurements are taken, enabling continuous operation.
Full year, full service warranty for upgrades and/or repairs as needed.


The Kelpies in Falkirk are two beautiful horse-head sculptures at The Helix Ecopark in Central Scotland. They make a fantastic day trip from our Edinburgh hotel, located just an hour's drive away.
These enormous stainless-steel structures are a truly awesome sight! They are the largest equine sculptures on the planet, towering 30 metres above the ground and weighing in at 300 tonnes each. 928 individual metal plates were used to create the stunning monument, which was built on site over just 90 days in 2013.
The Kelpies are one of Central Scotland's must-see attractions. You won't fail to spot them as you drive from Edinburgh to Stirling on the M9 … they are hard to miss! However, we highly recommend a closer look. There's nothing quite like the experience of standing beneath these imposing structures and looking into the eyes of the legendary creatures.
There is a fascinating Visitor Centre on site with exhibitions and information, tour guides, a café and agift shop. Plus, you get an amazing view of the Kelpies whatever the weather. The Kelpies are accessible 24 hours a day, but check the website for tours and Visitor Centre opening times.
So, what is a kelpie anyway? Kelpie is the name given to a mythical aquatic beast in Scottish Folklore. These shape-shifting creatures are said to have the power and strength of 100 horses and can be found in the deepest waters of Scotland's lochs. The Loch Ness monster is the most famous of all, but there are many such legends all over the land.
Tales of the kelpies became the inspiration behind sculptor Andy Scott's vision. The creatures' horse-like form is a nod to Scotland's close relationship with horses through history. Their might, strength and shape-shifting qualities reflect the enduring and transformational aspect of Scotland's landscapes over time.
Edinburgh is the perfect base for a holiday in Central Scotland. There is so much to see within the city, in addition to many fantastic day trips within an hour's drive. Our budget hotel in Edinburgh city centre is ideally situated near Waverley Station, so you can easily reach Falkirk by train in about 30 minutes. The Kelpies and the nearby Falkirk Wheel are just two of the many stunning attractions you can visit on a stay with us. For help with booking accommodation in Edinburgh near Falkirk, check out our special offers or contact our team today.


Over the years, this sister caf� to the Crissy Field Center has grown less and less inferior and infinitely more popular - with the Golden Gate Bridge just beyond its approach. They serve the usual soup, sandwiches, baked goods, juices, and espresso. A few indoor tables. Using a two-group La Marzocco GB/5 machine, they serve a correctly-sized espresso in a short paper cup with a decent layer of light-to-medium-brown crema and a rather potent aroma. It has a richer, pungent flavor of richer spices and tobacco suspended in a decent body. This place originally overextracted their shots a bit, but that (and their espresso) has since improved with shorter pours in recent years. The weekday baristas here are generally better than the ones on weekends. Strangely, an electric car burst into flames here in Jan. '07, and repairs for the extensive water damage from putting out the fire closed the Hut for most of 2007. But it reopened with an over-the-top "green" theme in its bookstore and the caf�. This change included a switch from Mr. Espresso beans (they once served a custom blend, and the staff seemed to know Luigi Di Ruocco there) to more prominently 'cause' coffee in Equator Estate Coffee and replacement of their former three-group Mr. Espresso Rancilio with its current machine (and charging just an extra nickel). Surprisingly unlike most examples of Equator in the area, this is a major exception - they finally stumbled across a retailer who has managed to showcase their coffee (most examples are almost universally disappointments). Whether if this is by freak accident or through deliberate intent remains to be seen (Equator has a poor track record of managing the end results from their resellers). But for now, appreciate this oddity of a caf� as one of the better examples of good espresso in the city.


Mitigation of approximately 25% of sites 12-Ca-234 and 12-Ca-236 to be destroyed by the widening of U.S. 24/35 near Logansport, Indiana, identified a light to moderate multicomponent lithic scatter. Occupation at the sites ranged from the Middle/ Late Archaic through the Late Woodland. Excavation data suggests that the two sites were used as short term, small group camp sites. Information on seasonality and subsistence practices are not available because of either poor preservation or a general lack of organic material at either site. Lithic analysis suggests little initial reduction and more finishing and refinishing of tools.
Mitigation of site 12-Ca-237 has been limited to the Phase II testing and subsequent shovel testing. Because excavation data from 12-Ca-234 and 12-Ca-236 had become redundant, and given the similarity of these three sites, it appeared unlikely that excavation at 12-Ca-237 would yield any new, significant data. Additionally, the site appears to be more substantially eroded than previously reported.
No other known sites of this type have been excavated in the Upper Wabash. It is hoped that this project will serve as a catalyst for the excavation of similar sites throughout the region to flesh out the archaeological record of the Upper Wabash.


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text:
Next was November; he full grosse and fat
As fed with lard, and that right well might scenic;
For he had been a fatting hogs of late,
That yet his browes with sweat did reek and steem,
And yet the season was full sharp and breem;
In planting eeke he took no small delight:
Whereon he rode, not easie was to deeme;
For it a dreadful Centaure was in sight,
The seed of Saturne and fair Nais, Chiron hight.
What an uproar there is in the old forests and woods when the November winds lift up their mighty voices, and the huge trees clashing together, like the fabled giants battling with knotted clubs against the invisible assailant, whose blows they feel but cannot see struck, so wage war on one another! On every hand we hear the crash and fall of mighty branches, and sometime a large tree torn up by the roots comes down, quick as an avalanche, levelling all it falls upon, where it lies with its blackening leaves above the crushed underwood like some huge mammoth that has perished. The sky is low and gloomy and leaden-coloured, and a disheartening shadow seems to fall on everything around. We see swine rooting in the desolate cornfields, among the black and rotten stubble, while the geese come draggled and dirty from the muddy pond, which is half-choked up with fallen leaves.
On the cold naked hedge a few ears, which the birds have long since emptied, hang like funeral-wreaths over the departed harvest. The rain raineth every day on the heps and haws and autumn-berries, and beats the brown seed-vessels of the dead-flowers into the earth, while the decayed leaves come rolling up to make a covering for their graves. In some low-lying dank corner a few blackened bean-sheaves, that never ripened, are left to rot; and if you walk near them, you see the white mould creeping along the gaping pods. There is a deathly smell from slimy water-flags and rotting sedge beside the stagnant meres, and at every step your footprint is filled up with the black oozing of the saturated soil the moment it is made. You see deserted sheds in the fields where the cattle sheltered, rent and blown in; and if you enter one to avoid the down-pouring torrent, the dull gray November sky is seen through the gaping thatch, even in the puddle on the floor where the water has lodged. The morsel of hay in the corner you would fain sit down upon is mouldy, and as you look at the beam which spans across, you fancy some one must have hanged himself on it, and hurry out again into the pouring rain.
November is the pioneer of Winter, who comes, with his sharp winds and keen frosts, to cut down every bladed and leafy bit of green that is standing up, so as to make more room for the coming snow-flakes to fall on the level waste, and form a great bed for Winter to sleep upon. He blows all the decaying leaves into dreary hollows, to fill them up, so that when Winter is out on the long dark nights, or half-blinded with the great feathery flakes, he may not fall into them. If a living flower still stands above its dead companions, it bends its head like a mourner over a grave, and seems calling on our mother-earth to be let in. The swollen streams roar and hurry along, as if they were eager to bury themselves in the great rivers, for they have no flowers to mirror, no singing of birds to tempt them to linger among the pebbles and listen, no green bending sprays to toss to and fro, and play with on their way, and they seem to make a deep complaining as they rush along between the high brimming banks.
The few cattle that are out, stand head to head, as if each tried to warm the other with its breath, or turned round to shut out the gloomy prospect that surrounds them, laying down their ears at every whistle of the wind through the naked hedges. Even the clouds, when they break up, have a ragged and vagrant look, and appear to wander homeless about the sky, for there is no golden fire in the far west now for them to gather about, and sun themselves in its warmth: they seem to move along in doubt and fear, as if trying to find the blue sky they have lost. The woodman returns home at night with his head bent down, feeling there is nothing cheerful to look round upon, while his dog keeps close behind, seeming to avail himself of the little shelter his master affords from the wind, while they move on together. The pleasantest thing we see is the bundle of fagots he carries on his shoulders, as it reminds us of home-the crackling fire, the clean-swept hearth, and the cozy-looking kettle, that sits ' singing a quiet tune,' on the hob. We pity the poor fellow with the bundle under his arm, who stands looking up at the guide-post where three roads meet, and hope he has not far to go on such a stormy and moonless night.
But amid all these images of desolation, which strike the eye more vividly through missing the richly-coloured foliage that threw such beauty over the two preceding months, November has still its berries which the early frosts have ripened to perfection. Turn the eye wheresoever we may, during our walks, heps and haws abound on the hawthorn-hedges, and where the wild-roses of summer hang swaying in the wind. The bramble-berries, which cottage-children love to gather, besmearing their pretty faces with the fruit, have now their choicest flavour, and melt in the mouth when eaten, looking like beautiful ornaments carved in jet as they rock in the autunn winds. Many a poor village-housewife brings a smile to the children's faces as she places her blackberry pie or pudding on the table, for it is a fruit that requires but little sugar, and is a cheap luxury added to the usual scanty meal.
Then there are the sloes and bullaces, almost always to be found in old hedges, which at this season have a misty blue bloom on them, equal to any that we see on the grape. These the country-people gather and keep sound through all the long winter, and they are equal in flavour to the finest damsons our orchards can produce. Though many varieties of plum-trees have been brought to England at different times, yet it is to the sloe and bullace we are indebted for our serviceable plums, as these shrubs are indigenous, and have been brought to perfection by cultivation through many centuries. The dewberry bears so close a resemblance to the blackberry when ripe, that it is not easy to distinguish the difference. When in flower, it is as beautiful as the blossoms of the wild-rose, the fruit has also a blue bloom on it like the plum, which is never found on the blackberry; the divisions of the berry are also larger, and not so numerous. Often, is seen growing among the ling, the pretty cloudberry, only just overtopping the heather, for it is seldom more than a foot high, and its fruit is of a splendid orange colour when ripe, though rather too acid to please every taste. But of all the little berry-bearing beauties, none beat the bilberry when in bloom, for it is then covered with rosy-coloured wax-like flowers, which few of our choice green-house plants excel, and for which we marvel it has not been more cultivated.
Birds are partial to this berry, which bears a grape-like bloom, and game fed upon it is said to be as superior in flavour as mutton, fed on pastures abounding in wild-thyme, is to that fattened only or grass. But I the fairy of our shrubs-which may rank with the harvest-mouse among animals, and the humming-birds among the feathered race-is the tiny cranberry, which you must bend the back to find, as it only grows three or four inches high. Whether our 1 grandmother had some secret art of preserving these delicious berries, which is now lost-or the fruit has deteriorated in flavour-we cannot tell, but somehow we fancy that cranberries have not the delicious taste now which they had in our boyish days.
The most wonderful plant that bears berries, is the butcher's broom, which may be seen covered with fruit as large as cherries, in the very depth of winter. Both flower and berry grow out of the very middle of the leaf, and it would make a pleasant change in our Christmas decoration, as it is an evergreen, and quite as beautiful as the holly. The black berries of the privet remain on the branches all winter long, and are found there when the sprays are covered with the fresh green leaves of spring. These berries are much harder than our heps and haws; and retain their fulness when all the other hedge-fruits are withered and tasteless, though the birds generally seem to leave them till the last, as if they only ate them when nothing else could be got. They make a grand show with their large clusters amid the nakedness of winter, though almost failing to attract the eye now if seen beside the wild-cornel or dogwood-berries. Autumn has nothing more beautiful than the wild-cornel, with its deep-purple berries hanging on rich red-coloured branches, and surrounded with golden, green, and crimson foliage, as if all the richest hues of autumn were massed together to beautify it, and wreath the black purple of the berries.
Another tree, which scarcely arrests the eye in summer, now makes a splendid show, for the seed-vessels appear like roses, the capsules separating like the petals of the Queen of Flowers, for such is the appearance of the spindle-tree. The woody nightshade, whose purple petals and deep golden anthers enriched the hedge-row a few weeks ago, is now covered with clusters of scarlet berries, not unlike our red garden currants; while both the foliage and berries of the guelderrose seem kindled into a red blaze. But the bird-cherry is the chameleon of shrubs in autumn, its bunches of rich-looking fruit changing from a beautiful green to a rich red, and then to the colour of the darkest of black-heart cherries, and looking equally as luscious to the eye, though it would be dangerous to eat so many as we might of the real cherries without harm. Beside all these, and many other beautiful berries, we have now the ferns all ablaze with beauty-vegetable relics of an old world-and many of them as pleasing to the eye as our choicest flowers. Where is there a grander sight than a long moorland covered with bracken at the close of autumn?-the foliage of the trees is not to be compared with that outspread land of crimson and gold. And there is such a forest smell about it too-that real country aroma, which we get a sniff of in villages where they have only wood-fires-for there is nothing else to compare with the smell of fern where it covers long leagues of wild moorland.
Many little animals are busy, during the autumn, in laying up stores for winter; for though some of them sleep away the greater portion of the cold season, a change in the weather often causes them to awaken, when they have recourse to the pro-vision they have saved; and as soon as the mild warm weather is again succeeded by cold, they coil themselves up, and sleep again. The hibernation of the squirrel is shorter than that of any of our winter-sleeping animals, for he is up and away as soon as he is awakened by a mild atmosphere, and as he has generally more than one larder, enjoys himself until slumber again overtakes him; for we can imagine, from his active habits, that he is not likely to remain in his nest while there is a glimpse of warm sunshine to play in.
The hedge-hog is a sound sleeper, and stores up no provision, though its hibernation is sometimes broken during a very mild winter, when it may at times be found in the night, searching for food under the sheltered hedges. The pretty dormouse coils itself up like a ball of twine in its winter-nest, curling the tail around the head to the other side of its back, as if tying itself together before going to sleep. Should it awake, there is store of food at hand, which it holds in its forepaws like the squirrel, while sitting up to munch an acorn, hep, or haw, or whatever is stored up, and it is a great hoarder of various kinds of seeds. But few of these torpid animals store their granaries better than the long-tailed field-mouse; considering its smallness, the quantity of corn that has been found in a single nest is amazing. Even if we reckon it to have carried from the harvest-field a full ripe ear at a time, it must have made many journeys to accumulate so much food. Nothing seems to come amiss to it, for if there has been no cornfield at hand, its hoard has been found to consist of nuts, and acorns, gathered from the neighbouring wood, which has sometimes been five or six hundred yards from its nest.
Above five hundred nuts and acorns have been taken out of its storehouse; and as it can hardly be supposed that so small an animal could carry more than one at a time, we have proof of its industry in the hoard it must have laboured so hard to get together. One might suppose that, early in autumn, when the weather is fine, these little animals would give themselves up to enjoyment, instead of carrying the many loads they do to their nests, did we not find proof to the contrary. The ant lays up no store at all, though it has so often supplied an image of industry in poetry. It is not only one of the sleepiest of insects in winter, but when applied as chloroform, soon steeps the senses in forgetfulness. The ancient Greeks were acquainted with its drowsy properties, and availed themselves of it.
Some naturalists say that the hibernating animals we have glanced at, spread out their provisions in the sun to dry and ripen before carrying them into their nests. That this may be the case, we can hardly doubt, having seen ears of corn, nuts, acorns, and seeds, about the roots of trees, at a considerable distance from the spots where they were grown, and in such positions as they could not have fallen into, even had they been shaken down by the wind. The foresight of these hibernating mammals is proved through their laying up provision against the time they may awaken, long weeks before they retire to their winter-sleep. Nor is it less wonderful to note the going out and coming in of the migrating birds in autumn; for though all our songsters that are migratory have long since gone, we now hear the screaming of coming flocks in the still night-the clamour of voices high overhead, which is some-times startling in the star-lighted silence. Most of our aquatic birds land in the night, though long strings of wild-geese are often seen forming a V-like figure in the air, as they wing their way to our fenny and marshy lands in the daytime. If flying low enough, the leader of the van, forming the point of V or A, who seems to cleave the air, to make a passage for his followers, will be seen after a time to fall into the rear, when another bird takes his place, until he in time also falls back, as if through fatigue; nor can there be any doubt that the leader, who first pierces the air, through which the whole flock passes, has to exert himself more than his followers.
Though the heron may now and then be seen, standing as motionless as if sculptured in marble, at some bend of a river or stream, it is now rather a scarce bird, for there are not more than four or five heronries in England, in which they build and breed close together like rooks. The heron shifts from place to place in search of food, but, like several other of our birds, is not migratory, though it may be seen in some parts of our island at this season, where it rarely appears during any other portion of the year. It flies very high, and in dull weather may often be heard, while on the wing, far beyond the reach of the eye. At first there appears something strange and mysterious in birds coming over to winter with us, and migrating again at the first appearance of spring, and never, or very rarely, staying to breed with us. One of our celebrated naturalists argues that the sun is the great moving-power; that they are again forced northward in spring by the same impulse which brings back again our summer singing-birds; 'all seeking again those spots where they first saw the light, there to rear their young;' and that a failure of temperature and food causes them to follow the sun in autumn.
Some think that from the time a bird remains with us, a calculation might be made as to the distance it goes after leaving our shores; that, because some remain a month or so longer with us than others, they do not fly so far away as those which migrate earlier. But the rapidity of the flight of a bird, and its power of remaining on the wing, are objects of consideration; and though the swallow is among the last to leave us, it would fly treble the distance in a few hours than many other birds that leave us earlier, and have neither its strength nor stretch of wing to carry them a great distance. As to the time of departure or arrival of our passenger-birds, that must always depend upon the state of the season at the point of departure; for, as we have before remarked, they can know nothing of the backwardness or forwardness of the autumn or spring in the countries they visit, no more than they can tell before they arrive here whether our April is green, or has had all its buds bitten off by a killing frost, such as we well remember to have seen.
Take the dates of the departures and arrivals of our birds from the calendars of some of the most celebrated English naturalists, and they will be found to vary at times a month or more in different years, especially the arrivals. A summer abounding in insect-food will cause birds to leave us earlier, after a forward spring, because their young were sooner hatched, and are stronger and better able to accompany their parents than they would have been had they left the shell later, and been pinched while fed by the parent-birds, through a scarcity of food. The sky-lark, which has long been silent, may now be heard in open sunny places; and we find, from a note made four years ago, that we heard it singing on the clowns in Surrey in December.
The poetry of home, which we carry with us unconsciously whithersoever we go, was never more beautifully illustrated than in the poor emigrant's sky-lark, which he carried with him when he left this country for America. Crowds of English settlers used to collect round his hut to hear it sing, and one of them offered. all he had in the world-his horse and cart-for the bird, but the owner refused to part with it. We are indebted to the Rev. J. G. Wood for this anecdote, which shews how the hearts of the rudest class of men are touched at times by some trifle which, brings back again home with all its old boughs rustling before the ' inward eye.' No matter in what form it appears, but anything which causes us to turn to nature with an affectionate feeling, elevates both mind and heart, inspires love, and makes us better, for we can hardly do so without catching some glimpse of the Great Creator, which carries the mind far beyond the objects that surround us, to the thoughts of those 'higher destinies which the soul is heir to, and may be ours if we do not sell our godlike birthright.
By the end of this month our gardens look desolate. The few chrysanthemums that have survived have a draggled and dirty look after the frost and rain, and nothing out of doors, excepting the evergreens, remind us of the green flush of departed summer. There is the tapping of rain on our windows, and the roaring of the wind through the long dark nights. The country-roads are soft, and we stick in the mire at every step if we traverse those rutted lanes, which were so delightful to walk along only a few short weeks ago. Even the heart of a brave man beats quicker, who, after passing a treeless and houseless moor, hears the rattling of the bones and irons of the murderer on the gibbet-post, as he turns to enter the high (lark wood, which, when he has groped through, still leaves him a long league from the solitary toll-gate-the only habitable spot he will pass before reaching home. For now, in the solemn language of the Holy Bible, we have many a day of darkness and of gloominess, of clouds and of thick darkness, even very dark, and no brightness in it, for the land is darkened.'
November was styled by the ancient Saxons Wint-monat, or the wind-month, from the gales of wind which are so prevalent at this season of the year, obliging our Scandinavian ancestors to lay up their keels on shore, and refrain from exposing themselves on the ocean till the advent of more genial weather in the ensuing year. It bore also the name of Blot-monath, or the bloody-month, from the circumstance of its being customary then to slaughter great numbers of cattle, to be salted for winter use. The epithet had possibly also reference to the sacrificial rites practised at this time.
CHARACTERISTICS OF NOVEMBER
On the 22nd of this month, the sun enters the sign of Sagittarius or The Archer, an emblem said to express the growing predominance of cold which now shoots into the substance of the earth, and suspends the vegetative powers of nature. The average temperature of the British Islands for the middle of November is about 43° . On the 1st of the month, the sun rises in the latitude of London at 7:11, and sets at 4.49.
November is generally regarded as the gloomiest month of the year, and it is perhaps true that less enjoyment is derivable in it from external objects than in any other of the twelve divisions of the calendar. It is popularly regarded as the month of blue devils and suicides. Leaden skies, choking fogs-more especially in London-and torrents of rain, combined frequently with heavy gusts of wind, which shake down the last remaining leaves from the trees, are phenomena of normal occurrence in November, and certainly by no means conducive to buoyancy and cheerfulness of spirits. Summer and autumn, with their exhilarating influences, have fairly departed, and winter, in its gloomiest phases, is approaching, whilst the hilarity and joyousness of the Christmas-season are still far off. The negative character of November, as exemplified in a foggy day of that month in London, is very happily depicted in the following lines, by the prince of modern humorists, Thomas Hood
No sun-no moon!
No morn-no noon
No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day-
No sky-no earthly view
No distance looking blue
No road-no street-no "t' other side the way"---
No end to any row
No indications where the crescents go-
No top to any steeple
No recognitions of familiar people-
No courtesies for showing 'em-
No knowing 'em!
No travelling at all-no locomotion,
No inkling of the way-no notion
"No go"-by land or ocean
No mail-no post
No news from any foreign coast-
No park-no ring no afternoon gentility-
No company-no nobility
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease-
No comfortable feel in any member
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,


text:
Caratteristiche tecniche
È un terzino destro.

Carriera
Cresciuto nelle giovanili del , nel 2011 viene acquistato dal . Ha esordito in prima squadra il 9 dicembre 2013 in occasione del match di Coppa di Francia perso 1-0 contro il .

Statistiche

Presenze e reti nei club
Statistiche aggiornate al 28 aprile 2018.

Palmarès

Club

Competizioni nazionali

Strasburgo: 2018-2019

Collegamenti esterni

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
Demise - drugi album studyjny amerykańskiej grupy muzycznej Nachtmystium. Wydawnictwo ukazało się w lutym 2004 roku nakładem wytwórni muzycznych Battle Kommand Records i Autopsy Kitchen Records.

Lista utworów
Opracowano na podstawie materiału źródłowego.
 "Intro" (Luedke) - 1:34
 "Solitary Voyage" (Azentrius, Aamonael) - 7:01
 "Scorpio Incarnate" (Azentrius, Aamonael) - 5:00
 "Ashes to Ashes" (Azentrius, Aamonael) - 6:06
 "The Glorious Moment" (Azentrius, Aamonael) - 5:11
 "Rise and Fall" (Azentrius, Aamonael) - 9:49
 "Transmission Postmortem (Outro)" (A.R., Azentrius, S.M.J.) - 8:23

Twórcy
Opracowano na podstawie materiału źródłowego.
 Azentrius - oprawa graficzna, wokal prowadzący, gitara rytmiczna, gitara prowadząca, miksowanie, aranżacje, muzyka
 Chris Black - gitara basowa (utwory 2, 3, 6), miksowanie, inżynieria dźwięku
 Gazulmaug - gitara basowa (utwory 3, 4)
 Wargoat Obscurum - perkusja
 Aamonael - aranżacje, muzyka
 Shaun Mackey - mastering
 Volkh  - okładka

Wydania

Przypisy

Linki zewnętrzne
 Okładka

Albumy Nachtmystium
Albumy muzyczne wydane w roku 2004