Guide W. H. Hudson and The Great Dog-Superstition

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Toon meer Toon minder. Recensie s Well I am a huge fan of this series.


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A long awaited fourth instalment from Lurcher Worzel and a continuation of his life story. The books are written from Worzel's viewpoint and in his language and this as with all the others is hilarious, honest, and real. I particularly like the beautiful photo sections in the middle of this book of Worzel himself. It makes me feel like I really know him! This edition of Worzel's life follows the same format month by month and carries a variety of adventures.

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These include an exciting encounter with a fish pond, a black bird, which Worzel concludes has a death wish, plus a new arrival just when Worzel has hoping for a quiet life! The usual Mum and very long-suffering Dad, two offspring and five cats all feature and included are poems, letters and advice from Worzel in his own infallible way. Words of wisdom that only a Lurcher could write! Truly worth a read, along with the other three previous books in the series. For the quite very actual amazing love of Worzel Wooface is a fabumazing addition to your library.

The eagerly-awaited fourth instalment from Worzel, the literary Lurcher is funny, touching, honest and very real. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this book all about life, love and Lurchers Dogs Monthly. I have only one but I could not live without a cat. He completed it, polished the furniture, softened the angles, and gave the place mystery.

He was the last bibelot, the supreme touch! These pussies had their own physician, M. I was also the physician for the cats of M. Paul de Kock. His property at Lilas was surrounded by a wall and within the enclosure pussies roamed at their leisure.

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His neighbours were familiar with his weakness and whenever they found a stray cat, they carried it to him. They did not even take the trouble to ring the bell at the gate. The cat was tossed over the wall to join the vast family already there.

W. H. Hudson and the Great Dog-Superstition

Aside from Mime, who committed suicide on account of certain alterations, he owned Fasolt and Fafner, who during their and his lifetime, dined at his table. From the names we would gather that these became twenty-five before the year was out. This list, you will observe, is not short. Indeed a history of the French felinophiles might serve as the literary history of France. The weather was cold and the sick lady Mrs.

Poe had the dreadful chills that accompany the hectic fever of consumption. The wonderful cat seemed conscious of her great usefulness.

Green Mansions

Poe died in January Lafcadio Hearn, it may well be imagined, was a felinophile. Mark Twain completely capitulated to grimalkin; cats, indeed, it would seem were one of the necessities of life to him. Twain even mentions cats in his early lecture on Artemus Ward.

Two or three nights we prowled the country far and wide, and never once were accosted by a dog. It is a great privilege to visit such a land. Clemens wrote several stories about cats and he was once photographed with a kitten. Naturally there were always cats in his home Like George Borrow, Samuel Butler, and George Moore he specialized in the domestic variety and I have been told that when he played billiards, his cat frequently watched him from one corner of the table.

One day Tom, asleep on the coat, was forgotten when the fuse was lit, and when the explosion followed he rose in the air with the shower of rock. This cat once playfully challenged the dignity of Joe Cannon. She reserved this caress for her mistress almost exclusively, making a rare exception in favour of her master, but for nobody else save once, memorably for Mr.

Henry James. It was very rapid, very endearing, and had a touch of condescension about it which was characteristic of her attitude towards man and beast. Howells has made a very personal study of a cat named Jim who lived at Kittery Point. Not only has every house in Kittery its cat, but every house seems to have its half-dozen cats, large, little, old, and young; of divers colours, tending mostly to a dark tortoise-shell. They do not like raw fish; they say it plainly, and they prefer to have the bones taken out for them, though they do not insist upon that point.

He had on a silver collar, engraved with his name and surname, which offered itself for introduction like a visiting card. He was made at home, and freely invited to our best not only in fish, but in chicken, for which he showed a nice taste, and in sweet-corn, for which he revealed a most surprising fondness when it was cut from the cob for him.

Green Mansions by W. H. Hudson

After he had breakfasted or supped he gracefully suggested that he was thirsty by climbing to the table where the water-pitcher stood and stretching his fine feline head towards it. When he had lapped up his saucer of water, he marched into the parlour, and riveted the chains upon our fondness by taking the best chair and going to sleep in it in attitudes of Egyptian, of Assyrian majesty.

His arts were few or none; he rather disdained to practise any; he completed our conquest by maintaining himself simply a fascinating presence. Thomas A. Janvier was a great ailurophile. Tabbies and silvers insinuate themselves smilingly into the pages of many of his books. In he owned a great maltese called Babylon and Mrs.

Stedman a long-haired blue called Kelpie. Sarah Orne Jewett is a cat-lover and the old gentlewomen of her books usually are felinophiles too. Mary E. Wilkins is devoted to puss and she has written several stories about him. Willy was eventually discovered in the cellar where the spinster herself had unwittingly locked him up. I think Miss Repplier must love cats with a fervour equal to her adoration of the eighteenth century English essayists.

At least they share an equal importance in her books. Her study of a kitten, her portraits of Agrippina, Claudius Nero, and Lux are among the treasures of felinature, and yet Miss Repplier seems always a little afraid that she loves her cats more than they love her. Cats appear somewhere in nearly all the books of Edgar Saltus, which is but fitting in the works of a son of the French diabolists, but the only story he has written which directly concerns puss is about a girl,.

Indeed wherever he goes, which to be sure is next to nowhere, for Saltus is a recluse, the cats he meets receive more attention from him than men. When he departed this life I did not care to do as many men do when their partners die, take a second. This essay is a masterpiece of sympathetic prose and one of the best cat portraits that has been given to us by a literary man.

Calvin, it seems, walked one day a full-grown cat into the home of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Stowe moved to Florida, Calvin was entrusted to the Warner family of which he was a beloved member until his death eight years later. He was large, but he had nothing of the fat grossness of the celebrated Angora family; though powerful, he was exquisitely proportioned, and as graceful in every movement as a young leopard. In his finely formed head you saw something of his aristocratic character; the ears were small and cleanly cut, there was a tinge of pink in the nostrils, his face was handsome, and the expression of his countenance exceedingly intelligent—I should call it even a sweet expression if the term were not inconsistent with his look of alertness and sagacity.

And yet he was not a gross gourmand; he would eat bread if he saw me eating it, and thought he was not being imposed on. There was a furnace register in a retired room, where he used to go when he wished to be alone, that he always opened when he desired more heat; but never shut it, any more than he shut the door after himself. We understood each other perfectly, but we never made any fuss about it; when I spoke his name and snapped my fingers, he came to me; when I returned home at night, he was pretty sure to be waiting for me near the gate, and would rise and saunter along the walk, as if his being there was purely accidental,—so shy was he commonly of showing feeling.

There was one thing he never did,—he never rushed through an open doorway. He never forgot his dignity. If he had asked to have the door opened, and was eager to go out, he always went out deliberately; I can see him now, standing on the sill, looking about at the sky as if he was thinking whether it were worth while to take an umbrella, until he was near having his tail shut in.


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