Our house is in a hooroar, with the back kitchen all ripped to pieces for a face-lifting job, and we can't even find our way to the refrigerator without a compass. But I guess the dust will settle eventually.
-E. B. White, Letters of E. B. White, 446.
***
I must find some opportunities to work the word hooroar into my conversation. Perhaps when I have failed to read yet another critical work memo, I could casually remark that my email inbox is in a hooroar? Pretty sure I've also come across some hooroarific databases...
Showing posts with label WHITE. Show all posts
Showing posts with label WHITE. Show all posts
Monday, September 13, 2010
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Dear Diary
When I was young and full of beans, I used to keep a diary, only I called it a "journal" to make it sound more impressive. I wrote in it so steadily and over so many years that it is eight inches thick and contains probably the world's finest collection of callow and insipid remarks.
-E. B. White, Letters of E. B. White, 445.
-E. B. White, Letters of E. B. White, 445.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Something Come Down the Chimley
A beautiful red setter called Brownie, who had been asleep in the playroom armchair, woke up at the sound of Mrs. O'Callaghan scampering, and began to bark in a hysterical falsetto.
"Mr. White, Mr. White, there's something come down the chimley!"
"What sort of thing?"
"Like a banshee!"
Brownie, who had recognized the scamperer and decided that a game was to be played, continued to bark and to romp with Mrs. O'Callaghan, which caused them to carry on their conversation in shouts.
"Is it a jackdaw?"
The jackdaws had built in all the chimneys at Burkestown, after first filling them with twigs, so that it was impossible to have a fire in the house after the hatching season, and young daws in the fireplaces were fairly common objects. The tolerant creatures had respected the kitchen chimney, however, and it was still possible to have hot meals. When Mr. White asked if it were a jackdaw, he had suffered a momentary qualm that perhaps this tolerance might be at an end, and that they would have to live on cold ham in future.
"No."
"Is it a cat?"
Some cats had also taken to the chimneys at Burkestown, in the lower parts which were free of twigs, and had gone wild there. They came out at night like Harpies, to raid the dairy and the pantry, but vanished up the chimney if anyone opened the door. Nobody knew what to do about them, as they were smokeproof. It was an interesting example of synechthry.
Mrs. O'Callaghan denied the cats. Her lodger's scientific attitude had calmed her, so that she no longer wanted to recite the rosary for the time being. She was ready to take a defensive interest in what had come down, and even to repel Brownie if she could. Mr. White, always the practical Englishman, was taking control of the situation, as he generally did, and she was willing that he should do so. Her life was made up of baffling situations—for instance, although it was August, her husband was still doing the previous year's ploughing—and her usual reaction was to ignore them as much as possible. When Mr. White had insisted on putting up a Windcharger to make some electric light for them, for instance, Mrs. O'Callaghan had refused to learn how to put on the brake, on the principle that if she did not know how to do it then she could not be blamed if it broke because she had not.
She shouted hopefully, like somebody playing a card and wondering what would be played on top of it: "It be's more like a feather mop."
He knew it could not be a mop because he had swept the chimney in the room above, which was dog-legged, and, besides, the kitchen range had three dampers. He opened the door for Brownie, who rushed out under the impression that she was going for a walk, and closed it again resourcefully, so that the unnatural silence smote upon the ear.
"What do you think it is?"
Just like going to the Docther, thought Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Does it hurt here?" "Where do yez feel the pain, Ma'am?" She folded her long fingers together and gave a candid opinion.
"It might be the Archangel Michael."
-T. H. White, The Elephant and the Kangaroo, 11-12.
"Mr. White, Mr. White, there's something come down the chimley!"
"What sort of thing?"
"Like a banshee!"
Brownie, who had recognized the scamperer and decided that a game was to be played, continued to bark and to romp with Mrs. O'Callaghan, which caused them to carry on their conversation in shouts.
"Is it a jackdaw?"
The jackdaws had built in all the chimneys at Burkestown, after first filling them with twigs, so that it was impossible to have a fire in the house after the hatching season, and young daws in the fireplaces were fairly common objects. The tolerant creatures had respected the kitchen chimney, however, and it was still possible to have hot meals. When Mr. White asked if it were a jackdaw, he had suffered a momentary qualm that perhaps this tolerance might be at an end, and that they would have to live on cold ham in future.
"No."
"Is it a cat?"
Some cats had also taken to the chimneys at Burkestown, in the lower parts which were free of twigs, and had gone wild there. They came out at night like Harpies, to raid the dairy and the pantry, but vanished up the chimney if anyone opened the door. Nobody knew what to do about them, as they were smokeproof. It was an interesting example of synechthry.
Mrs. O'Callaghan denied the cats. Her lodger's scientific attitude had calmed her, so that she no longer wanted to recite the rosary for the time being. She was ready to take a defensive interest in what had come down, and even to repel Brownie if she could. Mr. White, always the practical Englishman, was taking control of the situation, as he generally did, and she was willing that he should do so. Her life was made up of baffling situations—for instance, although it was August, her husband was still doing the previous year's ploughing—and her usual reaction was to ignore them as much as possible. When Mr. White had insisted on putting up a Windcharger to make some electric light for them, for instance, Mrs. O'Callaghan had refused to learn how to put on the brake, on the principle that if she did not know how to do it then she could not be blamed if it broke because she had not.
She shouted hopefully, like somebody playing a card and wondering what would be played on top of it: "It be's more like a feather mop."
He knew it could not be a mop because he had swept the chimney in the room above, which was dog-legged, and, besides, the kitchen range had three dampers. He opened the door for Brownie, who rushed out under the impression that she was going for a walk, and closed it again resourcefully, so that the unnatural silence smote upon the ear.
"What do you think it is?"
Just like going to the Docther, thought Mrs. O'Callaghan. "Does it hurt here?" "Where do yez feel the pain, Ma'am?" She folded her long fingers together and gave a candid opinion.
"It might be the Archangel Michael."
-T. H. White, The Elephant and the Kangaroo, 11-12.
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