#Asper Willow

[ramblings-of-a-mad-cat]

Your character backstory of Legacy kinda inspired mine.

Asper Willow (my MC) was considered a squib. And he was heavily mistreated by his pureblood family because of it. One day, at age of 15, at a family gathering in July, after a lot of insults and attacks, he snapped, sending a huge table over the wall, breaking it. His family then, after realizing he is indeed a wizard, started to treat him differently, with more respect, except one member: his brother Rumos Willow. After a chaotic adventure before getting to Hogwarts, Asper gets sorted into Slytherin, mainly for his ambition to become the most powerful wizard of all time, as he sees that the more powerful he is, the more people respect him, and no one will look down on him, ever again. Once he finds out he can see and wield Ancient Magic, oh boy, he will do whatever it takes to harness as much of it as he can: lying, manuplating and backstabing whoever he needs to

Yeah, you can see he is a bit messed up. But I plan him to improve throught the story. I also plan on giving other characters more development. Mainly, Isadora is the main villian, not Ranrok. I have a little twist in my sleeve that may have already been used, but yeah, Ranrok is not the main villian. I actually have a touching scene with him and Asper: Ranrok giving the gauntlent we saw him using, and Asper promising he will return it after he dies

*Rubbing my hands together* Oh, I love me a long inbox message. It's like walking through a wonderland. And I'm sorry, did you say I inspired you? Because this is the part where I melt into a puddle, cartoon style. You are so very kind to say so, my dear anon, even if Tumblr has forced you to sign up. Welcome to the Account Plane!

First of all, the name "Asper Willow" is freaking beautiful, it just rolls off the tongue so nicely and gives an edge that I can dig. And I'm already feeling both pity and fear at how powerful he is with no training and the anger that would fuel that power. Come to think of it, if magic builds up over time without being recognized, is it possible that it could grow stronger? Y'know, like aging a Scotch? Is that why The Fifth Year, and other "late bloomers" are in tune with Ancient Magic? Is that why Obscurials like Credence Barebone are so powerful?

I'm already curious about Rumos. I both dislike him...and also strangely respect him? At least he, unlike the rest of the family, isn't disingenuous. At least he didn't change his behavior or his treatment of Asper for no good reason. It's funny, I've been working on siblings for Peri, and I actually did give him one that he still doesn't get along with called Athena. (Goin' for that Greek theme, oh yeah.) And just hearing that Asper will do anything for more power...oh this is so boss and so scary. I suppose I don't need to ask about whether he harnesses the Ancient Magic at the end or not, but now I am curious about whether he stands with Sebastian or betrays him...

Honestly, the more I think about it, and the more of Akemi Stormborn's Let's Play that I watch...the more I think to myself that this was a wasted opportunity. Politics aside, Ranrok's potential aside...he's just pretty boring, at least in how he's presented in the released game, compared to Isidora. She mirrors The Fifth Year in so many ways and her descent into darkness was very well handled. Can I just say that I love that moment you described between Ranrok and Asper. That is exactly what we should have gotten. Imagine MC and Ranrok discovering an artifact together and the player can choose how to react, with there being an option to immediately say, "Who was it's maker? Do they have any living kin?" And Ranrok just. Stops. And stares at them. Like he doesn't dare believe what he's hearing.

Just. The potential of this game was limitless and I will be forever sad at how it fell so short of that. It's still an enchanting adventure, but I can see the truly breathtaking adventure it might have been, hidden between the lines...

[pupsmailbox]

NATURE ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ abelia. acacius. aciano. aini. alder. alfie. almus. amaryllis. ame. antonio. archer. arthur. ashe. ashley. aspen. asper. aster. aveline. aviv. azalea. basil. belle. benedict. berry. bloom. blossom. bluebell. brook. calix. calla. carli. carline. carly. carolina. carrillo. cassia. cassiopeia. cedar. cherie. chun. cider. cira. cirrus. clover. coral. cordelia. crescent. cynthia. cypress. cyrus. dahlia. daisy. daphne. douglas. dune. echo. eilir. elara. elm. elowen. elyana. enon. erica. ester. everest. everett. evergreen. ewan. fauna. fern. finn. finnley. fleur. floor. flora. florian. florise. flower. flynn. forest. forrest. glen. gracie. gunner. haru. haruhime. haruki. hawthorne. heather. hemlock. honey. hyacinth. ianthe. indigo. ione. ipomea. iris. ivy. jaskier. jasmine. jasper. juniper. kalina. kallie. karolina. karoun. kath. kelda. ken. kingsley. lake. lavae. lavender. leilani. lennox. lente. lief. lilac. lily. linnea. lotus. lucinda. lucky. lucy. maayan. madeline. maggie. magnolia. maple. maren. mari. marian. marigold. mars. mary. maud. mauve. meadow. miles. momo. moss. mossie. mossy. moxie. muna. narcisow. nimbus. noi. oak. oasis. oleander. oybahor. pandora. pearl. pebble. pege. petal. plum. poppy. pınar. quanlian. quill. river. rosa. rosalie. rosalind. rose. roswell. rue. rune. saem. sage. sakura. san. sky. sol. star. story. strider. striker. summit. sunny. sylvia. sylvie. tasnim. terra. thistle. thorn. thorne. tree. udaberri. vasanta. verna. violet. waipuna. wells. westley. willow. wisteria. wisty. wren. yuki. zephyr. ziedonis. zinnia.

PRONOUNS ⌇ amaranth/amaranth. aster/aster. bee/bee. bee/bees. bless/blessed. bloom/bloom. bloss/bloss. bloss/blossomself. bud/bud. camell/camell. camellia/camellia. carnati/carnation. chirp/chirp. ci/cir. cloud/cloud. colum/columbine. columbine/columbine. comfort/comfort. dais/daisy. dawn/dusk. dew/dew. dog/dogwood. dog/wood. ey/em. fe/fer. fer/fern. fern/fern. field/field. fir/fir. fleur/fleur. flor/flor. flor/flora. floral/floral. flori/florid. flow/flower. flower/flower. freesi/freesia. fruit/fruit. fuch/fuchsia. garden/garden. grass/grass. green/green. grow/growth. hawth/hawthorn. hawth/thorn. hi/hits. hib/hibiscus. honey/honey. hy/hys. hya/hyacinth. hyacin/hyacinth. h✦/h✦m. ir/iris. jas/jasmine. jessa/jessamine. jour/ney. laven/lavender. le/leaf. leaf/leaf. leaf/leave. lil/lily. lotu/lotus. lu/luna. mag/magnolia. mar/mar. matcha/matcha. misel/mistletoe. mo/moth. morning/morning. moss/moss. mossy/mossy. narc/narcir. narcissus/narcissus. nature/nature. orch/orchid. pe/peony. peace/peace. peak/peak. per/peri. peri/periwinkle. petal/petal. pi/pix. picnic/picnic. plum/plum. pollen/pollen. pop/poppy. prick/prick. pur/purple. qu/quest. rain/rain. rhod/rhode. ros/rose. rose/rose. sa/sap. sage/sage. sakura/sakura. scent/scent. se/ser. shine/shine. shroom/shroom. sh✦/h✦r. si/strike. smile/smile. soft/soft. sol/solar. spikes/spike. spring/spring. sprout/sprout. star/star. stem/stem. sun/sun. sun/sunrise. sun/sunset. syr/syringa. tea/party. tea/tea. thist/thistle. thorn/thorn. th✦y/th✦m. tul/tulip. vi/vier. vi/viol. wi/wild. win/winkle. wind/wind. wister/wisteria. yucca/yucca. zinni/zinnia. ☀️ . 🌱 . 🌳 . 🌷 . 🌿 . 🍎 . 🍏 . 🍵 . 🐝 . 🐞 . 💐 . 💐.🌷 . 🕷️ . 🦋 . 🦟 .

[systuffs]

premade headmate inspo #01

theme: masc bloomcore!

disclaimer: there is a high chance that headmates formed/introjected/etc will not be the same as written - and that's okay! made for willowers & for existing headmates looking for an identity to latch to. <3

WE ARE ANTI RADQUEER.

names: asper / aspen, basil, cedar, cove, caspian, oliver / ollie, wells, sage, briar, august, florian / florence, elowen, leif species: human / half elf pronouns: he/him, they/them, thon/thons, ve/vem, leaf/leafs, clo/clover, bloom/blooms, warm/warms, spring/springs, sun/suns, soft/softs, wou/woods, co/cozy, bun/buns genders: boyflux, honeyaesic, bloomcoric, strawberrygender, cozylexic, dentrospitine, mittgender, diasongix, comfygender orientation: solian personality: soft-spoken, quirky, knowledgeable, reserved, emotional, empathetic, excitable, mellow, kind, gentle, warm hobbies: botany, gardening, baking, leaf & flower pressing fun fact: will info-dump about different plants & flowers for hours ifg you let them inspo: bloomcore, warmcore, spring vibes & fairies

faceclaim ideas: [ 01 || 02 || 03 ]

[kentnaturaltribrid]

I’d say welcome, but there’s really not much time for speeches and welcomes. Though, bet some of us more than others remember the old days of tales of The Lake of Ophelia and The Great Gates of Stone. It’s the Court of Roses, Rogues, and Thorns among other places. Where magic thrives unseen and later becomes forbidden.

I for one still remember the walls of stony farmlands and small villages along the way. Then of course, there’s the large forests and caves, the fun places where exploring can mean only one thing; A trip to the deepest ruins or to rocks by the river, or to mountains and rivers with Ravens for many more years to come and send messages. Some were simply forgotten places and some, well go beyond the walls of stone and gates of Thorns and Faeseriks. Beyond a time where magic was hassled and broken, beyond a time when all there was that could fix a pact was Desoliction and Desiolevitation. Beyond a time of daggers and swords, back to ruins and Asper as well as Fasaer and Estaeliaer, a time of when there was but little.

Many years passed between then and what we now get to see, many of them still remain lost tales after the verkalian. Many of them remain found once every 13 years, many of them are every few 10,000 years silent. Though, still we live and then it’s never ending.

Many of years and still no end to the Thorns that bring ruins, however there’s many more tales that just happen to fall straight into glory and roses or glory and eventually darkness or those of us who remember then know the tales of the reason for witches and cats, or those for cats being magical. Though still there is not one but many tales of cats and witches, none more reasonable and logical than towers of Kaverlon and the last nights of Rivers. Many forget the basis of the tales of different creatures and tales of not the sword, but the secrets of magic and lost memories.

“You know, Hope is a mistake. If you can’t fix what’s broken, you’ll, uh…you’ll go insane.”

The reason for witches and cats wearing pointed hats as well, most forget. The reason is simply because they’re afraid of what is all consuming power of the Sakllows and of The Forgotten of The swords of Daerkallows and of those who would rather see magic die than have to live with it, those of Gaekaer and the power of Udaer, though long forgotten and long lost are memories of those who wear the hats of pointing for protection, laercation, Maevecation, and Messages, along with the memories of those who burned through the darkness of the night, those who remain after and those who burned the night of October 21st 1709 all the way through October 23rd of 1864. Though, the first is more of a mystery than to go by much of it as a reminder or much as logic. For there is no logic of reasoning in magic, with any sign of crystalline life and light. There is many who forget the second night, without Salem bringing forth a dim but fast light of the night, light of day, and light of fires within the darkest hours of the night along with many different fires of scarlet light and scarlet darkness, scarlet flames of the winter. There in the darkness lay the answers or so we (Willow, Zarllow, etc and the other cats alongside me) thought it would be the next place to go for finding the answers that We’s had set out for long looking for, though the closest thing so far to any answer is right back to Black Cats, which is where we weren’t exactly looking at what we’d ended up finding at first due to traces of them as well and due to those who are ready for the rising with Sith, Caerin, and Vaerin (the three black cats of Vaelic, original Waeseic, and original Raesic, and original Daedric origin.) Though, the Next Time that the set of rising is set for would be around this Halloween that is according to all the ravens and eclipse skies alongside the moon rising of balataera (Basaeric) from this past week or so as it catches up to October and perhaps even November, December, and eventually January and February, there may just be something in the feathers and fur.

[loving-jack-kelly]

willow-free replied to your post “I jolt awake at 3am having just resolved the plotline I couldn’t...”

It's like the moving staircases in Harry Potter except this staircase never moves back to where it'll be useful

yes it is it’s exactly like that and now I’m staring at where I want to go and not quite able to get there

[outofangband]

Flora, Fauna and Environment of Nan Tathren

I’ve been really enjoying my Flora, Fauna and Environment of Arda series and I wanted to do some smaller locations and ecosystems as well as more larger regions that I constantly go back and add more to. These will include both smaller parts of the areas I’ve done and new ones

(I’ll continue to do larger areas too and I’ll take requests for any and this includes the Barad Eithel request I got awhile back, I’m so sorry for the delay!)

Nan Tathren, “valley of willows”, is a vale in mid Beleriand where the River Sirion met its largest and Southernmost tributary, the river Narog. It was South of the gates of Sirion and north of the Havens. The Power of Ulmo was strong here even after Nirnaeth where the area was roamed by orcs. 

In The Book of Lost Tales, it was said that all butterflies came from Nan Tathren and though this was discarded as canon, the flowery meadows of the vale were said to have lots of butterflies. 

The climate was likely warm temperate with little snowfall despite seasonal changes. This was due to the influence of Ulmo who shielded the valley from harsher weather. This meant that there was something of a protective sheen around the vale with some notable differences within its borders to the surrounding regions. 

The trees of Nan Tathren are not close or crowded together and elf, orc or other creature alike can easily wander through the more forested areas. Weeping willows, musk willows, and white willows as well as common and Engler’s beech trees and common ash make up the highest number of trees in the vale

In the meadows grow a wide variety of wildflowers and herbaceous plants that are home and nutrients to the many butterflies of the valley; the Apollo butterfly which feeds on white stonecrop, swallowtails which feed on rue and fennels, female orange tips with common dogwood violet, small tortoiseshell and common nettle, scarce fritillary and honeysuckle, speckled wood with annual meadow grass, dusky meadow brown, silver studded blue and rockrose, mother or pearl blue and woundwort, and green hairstreak with blue vetch, peacock butterfly with willow, dandelions and danewort, poplar admiral with poplar and aspen,  clover and cape broom. 

During the nighttime, moths flutter over the fragrant meadows feeding from their various sources; magpie moth with red current, meadow sweet button with meadowsweet, blood vein and sorrel, barred yellow with dog rose, common marbled carpet with strawberry, 

There are more of course, this is only a small selection! 

Fish are abundant in the crossing of Sirion and Narog. Marbled trout, common minnow, spiny loaches, grayling, asper, and other, stranger creatures that aren’t known to modern earth are in the protection of Ulmo’s power here. As I believe exist throughout Arda (and is supported by Tolkien’s description that ‘all creatures that ever walked the earth and many that did not’) there are species that no longer exist on earth today.  Perhaps Paleoparadoxia find safety in the deep waters where the tributary meets Sirion. 

Larger animals are rare here and usually only pass through, adding to the feeling and description of the vale as desolate but peaceful. Larger mammals do occasionally enter the valley to drink from one of the many clear pools along the river. Roe and fallow deer and elk cross along one or two of the fords, timber wolves shelter under the willows after an unsuccessful hunt, strange okapi like creatures blend into the trees as they sip from the water. 

Smaller mammals do make their home in the valley more permanently as do birds.

Field mice, garden dormouse, flying squirrel, water vole, pine voles Kogaionon, smaller species of gray foxes, Vulpavus, the occasional Rhizosmilodon, tayra, and species of hedgehogs. 

Greenish warbler, willow warbler common firecrest, dusky thrush, black and green woodpeckers, spotted nutcracker, common kingfisher, ural owl, and  marbled teal being some examples of birds along with a few giant swans that take sanctuary in the reeds of the slower sections of the river, 

Spiny newts, brook salamander, midwife toad, agile frog, along with  wood turtle, striped neck terrapin, snake eyed lizard and green meadow snakes. 

[erinaceina]

To keip him skaithless 

Francis/Philippa

Post-canon; mild hurt/comfort; shameless fluff.

______________________________

The cavalcade that drew up in the door-yard of St. Mary’s was a wonder of brisk, military order, harness all in trim, bits and bridles singing out, and pennants crackling in the keen northerly wind. The men-at-arms and the officers of the company moved with seemless vigour and the slim, golden figure at their head seemed untouched either by weariness or by the winter’s chill. Yellow head uncovered in the cold December air, Lymond moved from man to man, touching a shoulder here, a sleeve there, every movement imbued with a relentless, controlled grace that belied the long ride from Edinburgh and the night’s drinking that had gone before. The men responded as they always had, but the figure in the doorway at the head of the outside stair regarded him through narrow brown eyes unclouded by the steamy mists of hero worship, her faded green kirtle bunched in tight fists and the clear, smooth skin of her brow marred by a ferocious scowl.

‘Yunitsa!’ Francis came to her, eagerness lighting his face, breaking through the calm visage of statesman and soldier, and, drawing her close with one arm around her waist, bent to place a kiss on the pursed and frowning lips, a curiously sweet smile curving his own mouth. Philippa Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny leant into the kiss, as pliant as a willow branch, the crushed folds of her kirtle dropping from her lax hands.

Other men of war might have smirked or exchanged ribald jests to see their lord and master greet his wife with such uxorious eagerness. The men of St. Mary’s knew better than to give the slightest sign that they had noticed the couple disappearing through the arched doorway arm in arm, mud-flecked hose and a disreputable kirtle brushing against each other.

The snick of the door closed them off from the outside world, but Philippa didn’t pause, crossing the great hall at a trot and climbing the endless stairs with almost unseemly haste, her hand still entwined with Lymond’s. To the man following her, each stair seemed longer and higher, each turn of the wheel-stair a winding-in of tension like thread caught on a spindle, but his pace did not falter either. Only as they came at last to the great bedchamber at the head of the stairs did they break apart, Philippa moving to the wide windows where the winter sky limned dark hair and set shoulders with a corona of clear, pale light. 

Francis made to pull her into another, deeper embrace, one chilled hand framing her face and tangling in the loose hair. 

He was swiftly repelled by the jab of a sharp finger in the centre of his chest. 

‘Do I appear crazed with lust?’ Philippa enquired in an arctic voice, each of the old, familiar words crackling with frost. ‘Or artless? Or addled? Or excitable?’

‘No.’ Francis let his hands fall to his sides and regarded her cautiously. ‘Not at present. A life quite devoid of carnal lusts, I am afraid.’

‘Then why,’ she demanded with some quite considerable asperity and a second jab of one slender finger at the linen of his quilted jack, lower this time, ‘do you imagine we could make it to bed, much less further, without revealing whatever hideous wound you’ve brought back from Edinburgh this time?’

An expression crossed Lymond’s face that none of the men of St. Mary’s would have recognised, although his brother might have: a potent admixture of relief and chagrin, bordering on sheepishness. ‘Our sovereign lord Henry Darnley was drunk – again – and took exception to my doublet. Or it may have been the simple fact of my existence. Alas for Harry, he lacks both reach and aim, and the back stairs of Holyrood are not as conducive to a swift knifing as one might think. Also,’ he added ruminatively, ‘the wine was rather stronger than he imagined, and I had drunk rather less of it than he thought.’

‘Thank heaven for small mercies!’ Philippa exclaimed waspishly, but her face softened as her hands went to the lacings of his plated jack. ‘Does anyone else know?’

‘It seemed unwise to herald it with the bugle and the chorus of angels.’ He stilled her hand. ‘Philippa, it doesn’t signify. Trust me at least to know that, or else I should have told you.’

Philippa responded only with a sniff, but tears shone in her eyes, and he pressed his forehead against hers with a muffled apology.

‘The problem is,’ she said some minutes later, easing the jack from his shoulders, ‘that you would think anything less than the trials of Job a personal and private matter. And then only on Wednesdays. Oh!’ The shirt beneath the jack was liberally stained with blood and splashed with wine. ‘Oh, Francis, soon all your linen will only be fit for the weasels.’

The fair skin had gone very white and dense lines bracketed Francis’s mouth as she manoeuvred the linen free of his arms, but his voice was melodious and free of strain when he spoke. ‘They shal haue fayre lynnynge bonettes vpon their heades, yunitsa.’

‘If you can persuade a weasel to wear a linen bonnet, you can let Harry Darnley stab you every Sunday and twice on Michaelmas.’ But her hands were gentle indeed as she revealed the long, shallow wound scoring the taut flesh of his belly beneath his ribs, the divot of missing flesh at one end, and the rich, purpurine bruising that clouded its margins, and gentler still as she set to with ewer and salve and fresh bandages.

It was sometime later, both of them ensconced in the warm cocoon of blankets, Francis stripped to a liberal swathing of bandages and shockingly little else, Philippa in her shift and unbound hair, before either spoke again. Philippa’s hand lay over his navel, worrying the frayed edge of the linen, and his head was tucked neatly into the warm, fragrant crook of her shoulder. All artifice stripped away, they lay together, as close as flesh would allow, dark hair and golden mingling in untidy chiaroscuro.

‘If you must get yourself stuck like a suckling pig by our sovereign lord,’ Philippa said at length, ‘at least take your bonnet next time, Francis. I might tend your assorted wounds, but I do draw the line at head colds.’

And even the furious pull of abused muscles could not entirely stifle his laughter.

[lavendermenaceexhibition]

Learn alongside the artists and curator as they listen to the knowledge sharing of land defender, Métis ndow Jenna Vandal. Join us as they share teachings relating to plant life and medicines in the surrounding areas of The Forks, to encourage viewers to connect not only with the public art exhibition, Lavender Menace in The Forks Plaza Skatepark, but to also connect with the land and waters as well. The gifts that Two-Spirit and Indigi-queer beings embody within their homelands is the same medicine that can be found in the plant life below our feet.

Curated by Annie Beach

Audio Recording and Editting by Hassaan Ashraf

Thank you to Graffiti Art Programming inc., The Forks, Vantage Print Shop, Richardson Foundation.

*Transcription of audio in progress*

My name is Jenna Vandal, I’m from the eagle clan, I’m from this land here. My Metis ancestors grew up here and were chased out of here in 1870 by the reign of terror. And now I feel blessed and lucky to be born back on this land and I’m Metis. And I’ve been on a journey of reclaiming plant knowledge for about three years now, and I still have quite a lot to know but I’m excited for a lifetime of learning.

The tour takes place at The Forks historic grounds, where medicine and plants were found and shared at three locations.

1. Outside Canadian Museum of Human Rights, (Israel Asper Way)

2. Center of Oodena Circle

3. Prairie Garden (behind Old Spaghetti Factory)

Jenna: I’m just going to randomly talk about stuff I see, if you want to interject, share your knowledge, ask questions, go ahead.

We have juniper here. We two species of juniper, this one here is creeping juniper so it stays low to the ground. I see the berries aren’t gone, I’ve never eatten the berries and I’ve never used this plant, so I don’t know much about it hahaha.

Kiana: Someone I know ate a juniper berry and said it was strong.

Jenna: Oh yeah.

Alma: You’re supposed to boil it, the whole branch with the berries, that’s what they drink for the heat of the sweat, and use it for sweat lodge, it’s a medicine, itès all medicine!

Jenna: So you know I’m still learning all these plants, I’ve been on this journey for about 3 years. I’ve been into the outdoors my whole life, camping canoe trips but learning the plants is something new to me and I;m really thankful because I think it saved me, for real.

This plant, it’s probably one of the most special plants to me, red willow. You can tell it has these beautiful whtie flowers, I can’t beleive they’re still in bloom, these white berries. I’ve been taught every part of this plant is edible. You can eat the berries, I’ve eaten the leaves when they’re starting to bloom, when they’re little. And they taste quite good, I like them, you can eat them now but I never have. 

This is how I identity them, I feel confident enough after learning for a few years, when I first started just to make sure its red willow, if you do this, this is the only plant I know that does this, if you rip the leaf apart lightly, it hangs by little white threads like that. Thats the red willow then.

This plant has many medicinal uses. It was used before as asperin, properties of asperin. But also as Indigenous people, I’m Metis, I have a lot of Anishinaabe heritage, and my ancestors would use this for traditional tobacco, kinnikinnick.

[takethehighwaytoheaven]

The crysanthemums by John Steinbeck

Warning: This story is NOT mine(No hell) Hope you like it

The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves. It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain did not go together. Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated. Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Fordson. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked. Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirtyfive. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clod-hopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked. She was cutting down the old year's chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy. She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house, with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps. Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started. Elisa started at the sound of her husband's voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens. "At it again," he said. "You've got a strong new crop coming." Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again. "Yes. They'll be strong this coming year." In her tone and on her face there was a little smugness. You've got a gift with things," Henry observed. "Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you had this year were ten inches across. I wish you'd work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big." Her eyes sharpened. "Maybe I could do it, too. I've a gift with things, all right. My mother had it. She could stick anything in the ground and make it grow. She said it was having planters' hands that knew how to do it." "Well, it sure works with flowers," he said. "Henry, who were those men you were talking to?" "Why, sure, that's what I came to tell you. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too." "Good," she said. "Good for you. "And I thought," he continued, "I thought how it's Saturday afternoon, and we might go into Salinas for dinner at a restaurant, and then to a picture show—to celebrate, you see." "Good," she repeated. "Oh, yes. That will be good." Henry put on his joking tone. "There's fights tonight. How'd you like to go to the fights?" "Oh, no," she said breathlessly. "No, I wouldn't like fights." "Just fooling, Elisa. We'll go to a movie. Let's see. It's two now. I'm going to take Scotty and bring down those steers from the hill. It'll take us maybe two hours. We'll go in town about five and have dinner at the Cominos Hotel. Like that?" "Of course I'll like it. It's good to eat away from home." "All right, then. I'll go get up a couple of horses." She said, "I'll have plenty of time to transplant some of these sets, I guess." She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the steers. There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid it on a small orderly pile. A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road ran along the dense bank of willows and cotton-woods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro. A big stubblebearded man sat between the cover flaps and drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately. Words were painted on the canvas in clumsy, crooked letters. "Pots, pans, knives, sisors, lawn mores, Fixed." Two rows of articles, and the triumphantly definitive "Fixed" below. The black paint had run down in little sharp points beneath each letter. Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it didn't pass. It turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him. Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily. The caravan pulled up to Elisa's wire fence and stopped. Now the newcomer dog, feeling outnumbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth. The man on the wagon seat called out, "That's a bad dog in a fight when he gets started." Elisa laughed. "I see he is. How soon does he generally get started?" The man caught up her laughter and echoed it heartily. "Sometimes not for weeks and weeks," he said. He climbed stiffly down, over the wheel. The horse and the donkey drooped like unwatered flowers. Elisa saw that he was a very big man. Although his hair and beard were graying, he did not look old. His worn black suit was wrinkled and spotted with grease. The laughter had disappeared from his face and eyes the moment his laughing voice ceased. His eyes were dark, and they were full of the brooding that gets in the eyes of teamsters and of sailors. The calloused hands he rested on the wire fence were cracked, and every crack was a black line. He took off his battered hat. "I'm off my general road, ma'am," he said. "Does this dirt road cut over across the river to the Los Angeles highway?" Elisa stood up and shoved the thick scissors in her apron pocket. "Well, yes, it does, but it winds around and then fords the river. I don't think your team could pull through the sand." He replied with some asperity, "It might surprise you what them beasts can pull through." "When they get started?" she asked. He smiled for a second. "Yes. When they get started." "Well," said Elisa, "I think you'll save time if you go back to the Salinas road and pick up the highway there." He drew a big finger down the chicken wire and made it sing. "I ain't in any hurry, ma am. I go from Seattle to San Diego and back every year. Takes all my time. About six months each way. I aim to follow nice weather." Elisa took off her gloves and stuffed them in the apron pocket with the scissors. She touched the under edge of her man's hat, searching for fugitive hairs. "That sounds like a nice kind of a way to live," she said. He leaned confidentially over the fence. "Maybe you noticed the writing on my wagon. I mend pots and sharpen knives and scissors. You got any of them things to do?" "Oh, no," she said quickly. "Nothing like that." Her eyes hardened with resistance. "Scissors is the worst thing," he explained. "Most people just ruin scissors trying to sharpen 'em, but I know how. I got a special tool. It's a little bobbit kind of thing, and patented. But it sure does the trick." "No. My scissors are all sharp." "All right, then. Take a pot," he continued earnestly, "a bent pot, or a pot with a hole. I can make it like new so you don't have to buy no new ones. That's a saving for you. "No," she said shortly. "I tell you I have nothing like that for you to do." His face fell to an exaggerated sadness. His voice took on a whining undertone. "I ain't had a thing to do today. Maybe I won't have no supper tonight. You see I'm off my regular road. I know folks on the highway clear from Seattle to San Diego. They save their things for me to sharpen up because they know I do it so good and save them money. "I'm sorry," Elisa said irritably. "I haven't anything for you to do." His eyes left her face and fell to searching the ground. They roamed about until they came to the chrysanthemum bed where she had been working. "What's them plants, ma'am?" The irritation and resistance melted from Elisa's face. "Oh, those are chrysanthemums, giant whites and yellows. I raise them every year, bigger than anybody around here." "Kind of a long-stemmed flower? Looks like a quick puff of colored smoke?" he asked. "That's it. What a nice way to describe them." "They smell kind of nasty till you get used to them," he said. "It's a good bitter smell," she retorted, "not nasty at all." He changed his tone quickly. "I like the smell myself." "I had ten-inch blooms this year," she said. The man leaned farther over the fence. "Look. I know a lady down the road a piece, has got the nicest garden you ever seen. Got nearly every kind of flower but no chrysanthemums. Last time I was mending a copper-bottom washtub for her (that's a hard job but I do it good), she said to me, 'If you ever run acrost some nice chrysanthemums I wish you'd try to get me a few seeds.' That's what she told me." Elisa's eyes grew alert and eager. "She couldn't have known much about chrysanthemums. You can raise them from seed, but it's much easier to root the little sprouts you see there." "Oh," he said. "I s'pose I can't take none to her, then." "Why yes you can," Elisa cried. "I can put some in damp sand, and you can carry them right along with you. They'll take root in the pot if you keep them damp. And then she can transplant them." "She'd sure like to have some, ma'am. You say they're nice ones?" "Beautiful," she said. "Oh, beautiful." Her eyes shone. She tore off the battered hat and shook out her dark pretty hair. "I'll put them in a flower pot, and you can take them right with you. Come into the yard." While the man came through the picket fence Elisa ran excitedly along the geranium-bordered path to the back of the house. And she returned carrying a big red flower pot. The gloves were forgotten now. She kneeled on the ground by the starting bed and dug up the sandy soil with her fingers and scooped it into the bright new flower pot. Then she picked up the little pile of shoots she had prepared. With her strong fingers she pressed them into the sand and tamped around them with her knuckles. The man stood over her. "I'll tell you what to do," she said. "You remember so you can tell the lady." "Yes, I'll try to remember." "Well, look. These will take root in about a month. Then she must set them out, about a foot apart in good rich earth like this, see?" She lifted a handful of dark soil for him to look at. "They'll grow fast and tall. Now remember this. In July tell her to cut them down, about eight inches from the ground." "Before they bloom?" he asked. "Yes, before they bloom." Her face was tight with eagerness. "They'll grow right up again. About the last of September the buds will start." She stopped and seemed perplexed. "It's the budding that takes the most care," she said hesitantlv. "I don't know how to tell you." She looked deep into his eyes, searchingly. Her mouth opened a little, and she seemed to be listening. "I'll try to tell you," she said. "Did you ever hear of planting hands?" "Can't say I have, ma'am." "Well, I can only tell you what it feels like. It's when you're picking off the buds you don't want. Everything goes right down into your fingertips. You watch your fingers work. They do it themselves. You can feel how it is. They pick and pick the buds. They never make a mistake. They're with the plant. Do you see? Your fingers and the plant. You can feel that, right up your arm. They know. They never make a mistake. You can feel it. When you're like that you can't do anything wrong. Do you see that? Can you understand that?" She was kneeling on the ground looking up at him. Her breast swelled passionately. The man's eyes narrowed. He looked away self-consciously. "Maybe I know," he said. "Sometimes in the night in the wagon there—" Elisa's voice grew husky. She broke in on him. "I've never lived as you do, but I know what you mean. When the night is dark—why, the stars are sharp-pointed, and there's quiet. Why, you rise up and up! Every pointed star gets driven into your body. It's like that. Hot and sharp and—lovely." Kneeling there, her hand went out toward his legs in the greasy black trousers. Her hesitant fingers almost touched the cloth. Then her hand dropped to the ground. She crouched low like a fawning dog. He said, "It's nice, just like you say. Only when you don't have no dinner, it ain't." She stood up then, very straight, and her face was ashamed. She held the flower pot out to him and placed it gently in his arms. "Here. Put it in your wagon, on the seat, where you can watch it. Maybe I can find something for you to do." At the back of the house she dug in the can pile and found two old and battered aluminum saucepans. She carried them back and gave them to him. "Here, maybe you can fix these." His manner changed. He became professional. "Good as new I can fix them." At the back of his wagon he set a little anvil, and out of an oily tool box dug a small machine hammer. Elisa came through the gate to watch him while he pounded out the dents in the kettles. His mouth grew sure and knowing. At a difficult part of the work he sucked his under-lip. "You sleep right in the wagon?" Elisa asked. "Right in the wagon, ma'am. Rain or shine I'm dry as a cow in there." It must be nice," she said. "It must be very nice. I wish women could do such things." "It ain't the right kind of a life for a woman. Her upper lip raised a little, showing her teeth. "How do you know? How can you tell?" she said. "I don't know, ma'am," he protested. "Of course I don't know. Now here's your kettles, done. You don't have to buy no new ones." "How much?" "Oh, fifty cents'll do. I keep my prices down and my work good. That's why I have all them satisfied customers up and down the highway." Elisa brought him a fifty-cent piece from the house and dropped it in his hand. "You might be surprised to have a rival some time. I can sharpen scissors, too. And I can beat the dents out of little pots. I could show you what a woman might do." He put his hammer back in the oily box and shoved the little anvil out of sight. "It would be a lonely life for a woman, ma'am, and a scarey life, too, with animals creeping under the wagon all night." He climbed over the singletree, steadying himself with a hand on the burro's white rump. He settled himself in the seat, picked up the lines. "Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said. "I'll do like you told me; I'll go back and catch the Salinas road." "Mind," she called, "if you're long in getting there, keep the sand damp." "Sand, ma'am?. .. Sand? Oh, sure. You mean around the chrysanthemums. Sure I will." He clucked his tongue. The beasts leaned luxuriously into their collars. The mongrel dog took his place between the back wheels. The wagon turned and crawled out the entrance road and back the way it had come, along the river. Elisa stood in front of her wire fence watching the slow progress of the caravan. Her shoulders were straight, her head thrown back, her eyes half-closed, so that the scene came vaguely into them. Her lips moved silently, forming the words "Goodbye—good-bye." Then she whispered, "That's a bright direction. There's a glowing there." The sound of her whisper startled her. She shook herself free and looked about to see whether anyone had been listening. Only the dogs had heard. They lifted their heads toward her from their sleeping in the dust, and then stretched out their chins and settled asleep again. Elisa turned and ran hurriedly into the house. In the kitchen she reached behind the stove and felt the water tank. It was full of hot water from the noonday cooking. In the bathroom she tore off her soiled clothes and flung them into the corner. And then she scrubbed herself with a little block of pumice, legs and thighs, loins and chest and arms, until her skin was scratched and red. When she had dried herself she stood in front of a mirror in her bedroom and looked at her body. She tightened her stomach and threw out her chest. She turned and looked over her shoulder at her back. After a while she began to dress, slowly. She put on her newest underclothing and her nicest stockings and the dress which was the symbol of her prettiness. She worked carefully on her hair, pencilled her eyebrows and rouged her lips. Before she was finished she heard the little thunder of hoofs and the shouts of Henry and his helper as they drove the red steers into the corral. She heard the gate bang shut and set herself for Henry's arrival. His step sounded on the porch. He entered the house calling, "Elisa, where are you?" "In my room, dressing. I'm not ready. There's hot water for your bath. Hurry up. It's getting late." When she heard him splashing in the tub, Elisa laid his dark suit on the bed, and shirt and socks and tie beside it. She stood his polished shoes on the floor beside the bed. Then she went to the porch and sat primly and stiffly down. She looked toward the river road where the willow-line was still yellow with frosted leaves so that under the high grey fog they seemed a thin band of sunshine. This was the only color in the grey afternoon. She sat unmoving for a long time. Her eyes blinked rarely. Henry came banging out of the door, shoving his tie inside his vest as he came. Elisa stiffened and her face grew tight. Henry stopped short and looked at her. "Why—why, Elisa. You look so nice!" "Nice? You think I look nice? What do you mean by 'nice'?" Henry blundered on. "I don't know. I mean you look different, strong and happy." "I am strong? Yes, strong. What do you mean 'strong'?" He looked bewildered. "You're playing some kind of a game," he said helplessly. "It's a kind of a play. You look strong enough to break a calf over your knee, happy enough to eat it like a watermelon." For a second she lost her rigidity. "Henry! Don't talk like that. You didn't know what you said." She grew complete again. "I'm strong," she boasted. "I never knew before how strong." Henry looked down toward the tractor shed, and when he brought his eyes back to her, they were his own again. "I'll get out the car. You can put on your coat while I'm starting." Elisa went into the house. She heard him drive to the gate and idle down his motor, and then she took a long time to put on her hat. She pulled it here and pressed it there. When Henry turned the motor off she slipped into her coat and went out. The little roadster bounced along on the dirt road by the river, raising the birds and driving the rabbits into the brush. Two cranes flapped heavily over the willow- line and dropped into the river-bed. Far ahead on the road Elisa saw a dark speck. She knew. She tried not to look as they passed it, but her eyes would not obey. She whispered to herself sadly, "He might have thrown them off the road. That wouldn't have been much trouble, not very much. But he kept the pot," she explained. "He had to keep the pot. That's why he couldn't get them off the road." The roadster turned a bend and she saw the caravan ahead. She swung full around toward her husband so she could not see the little covered wagon and the mismatched team as the car passed them. In a moment it was over. The thing was done. She did not look back. She said loudly, to be heard above the motor, "It will be good, tonight, a good dinner." "Now you're changed again," Henry complained. He took one hand from the wheel and patted her knee. "I ought to take you in to dinner oftener. It would be good for both of us. We get so heavy out on the ranch." "Henry," she asked, "could we have wine at dinner?" "Sure we could. Say! That will be fine." She was silent for a while; then she said, "Henry, at those prize fights, do the men hurt each other very much?" "Sometimes a little, not often. Why?" "Well, I've read how they break noses, and blood runs down their chests. I've read how the fighting gloves get heavy and soggy with blood." He looked around at her. "What's the matter, Elisa? I didn't know you read things like that." He brought the car to a stop, then turned to the right over the Salinas River bridge. "Do any women ever go to the fights?" she asked. "Oh, sure, some. What's the matter, Elisa? Do you want to go? I don't think you'd like it, but I'll take you if you really want to go." She relaxed limply in the seat. "Oh, no. No. I don't want to go. I'm sure I don't." Her face was turned away from him. "It will be enough if we can have wine. It will be plenty." She turned up her coat collar so he could not see that she was crying weakly—like an old woman.

[biblioncollection]

Wind in the Willows (version 3) | Kenneth Grahame | Action & Adventure Fiction, Animals & Nature, Children's Fiction | Audiobook full unabridged | English | 1/4 Content of the video and Sections beginning time (clickable) - Chapters of the audiobook: please see First comments under this video. The classic story of how Rat, Mole, and the other river-bankers saved Toad from his excesses. This book has it all: excitement, sentiment, destruction of private property (plenty of that), paganism, and a happy ending. The prose is beautiful and occasionally requires the use of a dictionary - I had to look up “asperities.” Written as a children’s story, The Wind in the Willows is enjoyed by many grown-ups who relish Grahame’s ability to evoke the long summer days of childhood. (Summary by Adrian Praetzellis) This is a Librivox recording. If you want to volunteer please visit https://librivox.org/ by Priceless Audiobooks

[dealshive01-blog]

The best Electric kettle for coffee

You have probably tried to analyse that there are various ways to brew a good cup of coffee. If you are a coffer lover, then you will also like to debate on this topic of which method will be the best for brewed coffee. But if you consistently observe the al brewing methods, you will get that for the best cup of coffee, you are required a hot water. And you can get that with the help of hot water electric kettle.

At The Glance: Our Top 4 Picks For the Best Electric Kettle for Coffee

Electric kettles are used to brew early morning coffee. It provides a swift and easy to heat the water without using any stove, and many additional advantages are there of using hot water electric kettle. But it is necessary to understand which top kettles can be used to make delicious coffee. We want you to be confident while shopping online. We have covered the best buyer’s guide for your better understanding related to best electric kettle for coffee.

1.      Fellow Stagg Electric Coffee Kettle:

The fellow Stagg EKG, and electric pour-over coffee kettle are considered as the best model for brewing tasty coffee. In the market, this hot water kettle is famous for its sleek and modern design. This model is also available in the market with the wide range of temperatures, you can set the temperatures according to the current state of your beans. This model comes with the great LCD screen to allow the users to set the temperature and monitor progress.

2.      Bonavita Temperature Electric Gooseneck brewing kettle:

Bonavita 1.0L Digital Variable Gooseneck Temperature Brewing Kettle is second great choice for coffee lovers. This model is used to heat the water from 140 to 212 degree Fahrenheit to make the perfect cup of coffee or pour over tea using this one kettle. This kettle also contains the features of 1000-watt heater which helps to heat the water on desired temperature. Even you can set to hold this model on the same temperature for up to 2 hours, so that you can prepare your cup of coffee. You can find this model at a very affordable price, so if you are looking for an alternative of expensive model then this one will be the great choice for you.

3.      Zell Stainless Steel Electric coffee brewing Kettle:

This model is arguably the best choice for those who are looking for the best valued electric kettle. This model contains its advanced feature of 12000W temperature to heat up the fully loaded water in just 2 to 3 minutes. It is also available in the market with its great spout that help users to pour over the tea or coffee perfectly without creating a lot of unnecessary splashes.  

4.      Willow or Everett Gooseneck Kettle:

Sometimes it happens with our thoughts to take right decision and find an appropriate model of electric kettle as per their choice and requirement. If you are looking for any simple and cost effective electric hot water electric kettle, this model will be the best option to choose. It doesn’thave much features and a lot of buttons. It also comes with the long gooseneck which give an advantage to control the pouring, but there are sealing issues and quality control issues.

We hope that our guide and reviews have given you an option to choose the best option asper your need and help you to find your perfect electric kettle for brewing coffee effectively.

[audiobookers]

New Audiobook has been published on http://www.audiobook.pw/audiobook/wind-in-the-willows/

Wind in the Willows

The classic story of how Rat, Mole, and the other river-bankers saved Toad from his excesses. This book has it all: excitement, sentiment, destruction of private property (plenty of that), paganism, and a happy ending. The prose is beautiful and occasionally requires the use of a dictionary – I had to look up asperities. Written as a children’s story, The Wind in the Willows is enjoyed by many grown-ups who relish Grahame’s ability to evoke the long summer days of childhood. (Description by Adrian Praetzellis)

[biblioncollection]

Wind in the Willows (version 3) | Kenneth Grahame | Action & Adventure Fiction, Animals & Nature, Children's Fiction | Audiobook full unabridged | English | 2/4 Content of the video and Sections beginning time (clickable) - Chapters of the audiobook: please see First comments under this video. The classic story of how Rat, Mole, and the other river-bankers saved Toad from his excesses. This book has it all: excitement, sentiment, destruction of private property (plenty of that), paganism, and a happy ending. The prose is beautiful and occasionally requires the use of a dictionary - I had to look up “asperities.” Written as a children’s story, The Wind in the Willows is enjoyed by many grown-ups who relish Grahame’s ability to evoke the long summer days of childhood. (Summary by Adrian Praetzellis) This is a Librivox recording. If you want to volunteer please visit https://librivox.org/ by Priceless Audiobooks

[biblioncollection]

Wind in the Willows (version 3) | Kenneth Grahame | Action & Adventure Fiction, Animals & Nature, Children's Fiction | Audiobook full unabridged | English | 3/4 Content of the video and Sections beginning time (clickable) - Chapters of the audiobook: please see First comments under this video. The classic story of how Rat, Mole, and the other river-bankers saved Toad from his excesses. This book has it all: excitement, sentiment, destruction of private property (plenty of that), paganism, and a happy ending. The prose is beautiful and occasionally requires the use of a dictionary - I had to look up “asperities.” Written as a children’s story, The Wind in the Willows is enjoyed by many grown-ups who relish Grahame’s ability to evoke the long summer days of childhood. (Summary by Adrian Praetzellis) This is a Librivox recording. If you want to volunteer please visit https://librivox.org/ by Priceless Audiobooks

[biblioncollection]

Wind in the Willows (version 3) | Kenneth Grahame | Action & Adventure Fiction, Animals & Nature, Children's Fiction | Audiobook full unabridged | English | 4/4 Content of the video and Sections beginning time (clickable) - Chapters of the audiobook: please see First comments under this video. The classic story of how Rat, Mole, and the other river-bankers saved Toad from his excesses. This book has it all: excitement, sentiment, destruction of private property (plenty of that), paganism, and a happy ending. The prose is beautiful and occasionally requires the use of a dictionary - I had to look up “asperities.” Written as a children’s story, The Wind in the Willows is enjoyed by many grown-ups who relish Grahame’s ability to evoke the long summer days of childhood. (Summary by Adrian Praetzellis) This is a Librivox recording. If you want to volunteer please visit https://librivox.org/ by Priceless Audiobooks