Celebrate the meaning of home with the warmth and wit of Snoopy and the Peanuts gang.
SEWING! NO ONE could hate it more than Dina Kirk.
This story opens with "There once was a man whose house was very small," and it continues, "It was cluttered with things from wall to wall." With a tiny, cluttered house, giggling children, and a snoring wife, the poor man can't get a good night's sleep. If only, he thinks, I had a big quiet house! He throws off his covers and goes to visit the wise old woman at the edge of the village. Surely she can help him solve his problem. And she does, but not without giving him some very unusual advice. Bring a chicken into your house, she suggests. And when that doesn't work, she has him add a goat, a horse, a cow, and even a sheep. The ending of the story proves, as so many ancient folktales do, that quite often, nonsense makes the best sense of all. Susan Greenstein's bold illustrations white pencil on black surface with watercolor - carry the reader through the warm interiors and peaceful nights of the shtetls of Eastern Europe."
In this, my second collection of poetry, I have widened the net a little to encompass so many different subjects. Many of the poems deal with the horrors of human violence and natural disasters, a theme that has been all too prevalent as I am writing. This collection is dedicated to those who died, were injured or lost loved ones in the various natural disasters and terrorist attacks of the last year. I have included poems with subjects as diverse as Wicca and warfare, love and loss. I hope you enjoy reading them and I hope they make you think just a little on what life is and can be....
Pickering's letter bringing news of my grandfather's death found me at Naples early in October. John Marshall Glenarm had died in June. He had left a will which gave me his property conditionally, Pickering wrote, and it was necessary for me to return immediately to qualify as legatee. It was the merest luck that the letter came to my hands at all, for it had been sent to Constantinople, in care of the consul-general instead of my banker there. It was not Pickering's fault that the consul was a friend of mine who kept track of my wanderings and was able to hurry the executor's letter after me to Italy, where I had gone to meet an English financier who had, I was advised, unlimited money to spend on African railways. I am an engineer, a graduate of an American institution familiarly known as "Tech," and as my funds were running low, I naturally turned to my profession for employment.
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