Very few people were allowed into Bragdon Wood. The gate was by InigoJones and was the only entry: a high wall enclosed the Wood, which wasperhaps a quarter of a mile broad and a mile from east to west. If youcame in from the street and went through the College to reach it, thesense of gradual penetration into a holy of holies was very strong.First you went through the Newton quadrangle which is dry and gravelly;florid, but beautiful, Georgian buildings look down upon it. Next youmust enter a cool tunnel-like passage, nearly dark at midday unlesseither the door into Hall should be open on your right or the butteryhatch on your left, giving you a glimpse of indoor daylight falling onpanels, and a whiff of the smell of fresh bread. When you emerged fromthis tunnel you would find yourself in the medieval college: in thecloister of the much smaller quadrangle called Republic. The grass herelooks very green after the aridity of Newton and the very stone of thebuttresses that rise from it gives the impression of being soft andalive. Chapel is not far off: the hoarse, heavy noise of the works of agreat and old clock comes to you from somewhere overhead. You went alongthis cloister, past slabs and urns and busts that commemorate deadBractonians, and then down shallow steps into the full daylight of thequadrangle called Lady Alice. The buildings to your left and right wereseventeenth-century work: humble, almost domestic in character, withdormer windows, mossy and grey-tiled. You were in a sweet, Protestantworld. You found yourself, perhaps, thinking of Bunyan or of Walton'sLives. There were no buildings straight ahead on the fourth side ofLady Alice: only a row of elms and a wall; and here first one becameaware of the sound of running water and the cooing of wood pigeons. Thestreet was so far off by now that there were no other noises. In thewall there was a door. It led you into a covered gallery pierced withnarrow windows on either side. Looking out through these you discoveredthat you were crossing a bridge and the dark brown dimpled Wynd wasflowing under you. Now you were very near your goal. A wicket at the farend of the bridge brought you out on the Fellows' bowling-green, andacross that you saw the high wall of the Wood and through the InigoJones gate you caught a glimpse of sunlit green and deep shadows.
Long after sunrise there came into Jane's sleeping mind a sensationwhich, had she put it into words, would have sung, "Be glad thou sleeperand thy sorrow offcast. I am the gate to all good adventure." And aftershe had waked and found herself lying in pleasant languor with wintermorning sunlight falling across her bed, the mood continued. "He mustlet me stay here now," she thought. Sometime after this Mrs. Maggs camein and lit the fire and brought her breakfast. Jane winced as she sat upin bed for some of the burns had stuck to the strange night-dress(rather too large for her) in which she found herself clad. There was anindefinable difference in Mrs. Maggs' behaviour.
the pendragon adventure epub 14
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Now he was past the road; he was in the belt of trees. Scarcely a minutehad passed since he had left the D.D.'s office and no one had overtakenhim. But yesterday's adventure was happening over again. A tall,stooped, shuffling, creaking figure, humming a tune, barred his way.Mark had never fought. Ancestral impulses lodged in his body--that bodywhich was in so many ways wiser than his mind--directed the blow which heaimed at the head of this senile obstructor. But there was no impact.The shape had suddenly vanished.
When Mr. Bultitude had come to his senses he had found himself in a darkplace full of unfamiliar smells. This did not very greatly surprise ortrouble him. He was inured to mystery. To poke his head into any sparebedroom at St. Anne's, as he sometimes managed to do, was an adventureno less remarkable than that which had now befallen him. And the smellshere were, on the whole, promising. He perceived that food was in theneighbourhood and--more exciting still--a female of his own species. Therewere a great many other animals about too, apparently, but that wasrather irrelevant than alarming. He decided to go and find both thefemale bear and the food. It was then he discovered that walls met himin three directions and bars in the fourth: he could not get out. This,combined with an inarticulate want for the human companionship to whichhe was accustomed, gradually plunged him into depression. Sorrow such asonly animals know--huge seas of disconsolate emotion with not one littleraft of reason to float on--drowned him fathoms deep. In his own fashionhe lifted up his voice and wept.
The Newbery Honor-winning author of Hatchet and Dogsong shares surprising true stories about his relationship with animals, highlighting their compassion, intellect, intuition, and sense of adventure.Gary Paulsen is an adventurer who competed in two Iditarods, survived the Minnesota wilderness, and climbed the Bighorns. None of this would have been possible without his truest companion: his animals. Sled dogs rescued him in Alaska, a sickened poodle guarded his well-being, and a horse led him across a desert. Through his interactions with dogs, horses, birds, and more, Gary has been struck with the belief that animals know more than we may fathom. His understanding and admiration of animals is well known, and in This Side of Wild, which has taken a lifetime to write, he proves the ways in which they have taught him to be a better person.
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