Technical Writer

Sampson's Story

The cold North Wind whistled around the snowy hills of the Highlands and hammered its icy gusts against the barn, where inside Sampson the Bactrian camel had settled into a reverie.  As the wind blew outside, Sampson was in his bed of straw as he awaited the arrival of his friends, the beautiful cat Mirabella Forster, and their friend Athene Noctua, a small brown owl.  Every evening at this time, the three friends gathered to discuss their day and plan their next adventures.

 

Sampson opened his eyes at the approach of his friends, and once again, Mirabella marveled at the beauty of his thick eyelashes, and wished such nice ones for herself.  Sampson had especially lustrous eyelashes due to the daily combing he received from his valet Peter the groomsman, and his own superb health and hygiene. Sampson seemed lost in thought this evening, and Mirabella noticed this immediately.

Sampson and Mirabella had become friends years ago.  She met him on her expedition in 1911 to far-away Tibet.  Mirabella and her family eventually returned home to their London house, and Sampson remained with his own family.  He never forgot his new friend, and so when Sampson grew up he decided to visit Mirabella’s home in London. She had left a useful travel guide behind for him in case he decided to make the trip.

Camels have always been great travelers.  Setting off on adventures over deserts and mountains is what camels like to do and they know how to take care of themselves along the way.  Sampson himself always seemed to know his way and was especially sure-footed on rough roads.  When he told his family that he was going to London, they helped him pack his saddle bags, and sent him on his way with good wishes for a safe journey.

So it was one bright morning a few months later that Mirabella saw her friend Sampson coming along the cobble street in London toward the house where she lived with her family, Edward Morgan Forster and his parents.  Sampson carried the travel guide strapped under his chin.  Here is your book, he said, as he strode to a stop outside the house.  Mirabella stepped back as Sampson dropped at her feet the well-worn Baedeker guidebook.  He added that he mostly traveled by the stars, as his family had taught him in the wild hill country of his birth.

Mirabella was delighted to see her friend, and took him into the garden to meet Edward Morgan and his parents.  It was breakfast time, and fortunately the family’s kind cook was a resourceful woman and quickly managed to provide a feast for the hungry camel.  Over breakfast, the family talked about their summer plans. 

“It is a fine thing to be a camel,” but you may become lonely because you are the only one in all the country,” said Mr. Forster.  “Come with us to our house in Scotland, and you can live with all the animals in the barn.  You will enjoy their company.”

That very morning the family took Sampson with them to their country house. He settled in quickly, and liked living in the Highlands.  It was there he learned the rugged dialect of the Highland Scots, which he much preferred to the smooth city speech he used when he traveled with the family back to London.

Of course, Sampson could have lived in the big house with the family, but he preferred his fine new barn.  It was comfortable for him, and his stable boy was always close by.  Sampson’s stall was big—twice the size of the stalls of the Cleveland Bay carriage horses nearby.  Over Sampson’s stall his name was carved in the lintel. 

Sampson’s barn was actually known as the byre.  In those days, the byre is where the animals lived, and where their food and tack were stored.  The barns were where farm machinery and equipment were kept.  Sampson lived in the byre with several horses, some sturdy little Blackfaced sheep, and a few cows with long, shaggy coats and even longer horns.  The horses were big animals known for their strength and thoughtfulness.  They knew when to speak up, and when to leave well enough alone.  If the animals were surprised when a camel moved into the byre with them, they quickly got over it because Sampson proved to be a natural peacemaker in all domestic quarrels.  Further, he was a good listener, and the animals knew they could talk to him and he would not gossip.

Sampson was in the byre now, as his friends gathered.  He had been thinking of his family far away, and dozing and dreaming.  Mirabella nestled herself against him and Athene Noctua fluttered up to perch on Sampson’s front hump, just where Sampson liked her to scratch him with her owlish feet.  The byre was warm with all the animals together for the night, and the friends could hear the quiet murmur of animal conversations.  When Sampson spoke, everyone else became quiet, except the chickens, of course, because chickens can talk and listen at the same time.  They eventually settled down in the rafters overhead, keeping a watchful eye on Athene below.

Tonight he would tell them a story his mother had told him, and that she learned from her own mother, a wise old camel.  This was the first story all young camels learned.  It was a story about traveling and adventuring on a great journey made by the first member of his camel family in an age long ago.

Sampson's Story

"In the early days," began Sampson, "we camels lived with the nomads in a distant country.  We lived simply, bearing the wanderers on their journeys, and carrying their luggage, their children and other treasures.

"In that distant time, a camp of nomads had some great trouble.  The water wells dried up in the camp, and food was hard to find.  Through signs and portents (and a good deal of listening in), a young camel learned that she would make a journey to the West.  She knew that it would be a hard journey through dangerous lands to find help for her people. 

"The camel watched as the old people of the camp gathered to talk about the news in the stars.  In those days, the people read the stars like we read the newspapers at breakfast.  The camel stepped toward the tent and stood in the light of the camp fire in front and listened as the old people talked and questioned each other about the meaning of what they saw. 

" ‘A long journey!’ said a woman, pointing to the stars overhead.  

" ‘There is a great treasure at the end of the road!’ said a man.

“ ‘The treasure will be for all people,’ proclaimed the oldest grandmother, who had studied the stars and was very wise. ‘We must choose one among us to go gather it up and news of it home!’ she said to the other.

“They chose Kaspar, a restless boy who was well liked. Kaspar was always ready for adventure.  The people packed empty saddle bags for Kaspar to load with the treasure when he reached it.  He would bring it home for them all. He would need a good camel.  The elders went to the camel herder and asked which among the herd he would select for the journey. 

"The camel herder chose the camel who had listened at the tent because she was naturally curious, and had a confident nature.  The herder gave Kaspar the camel’s blanket and told Kaspar to keep the camel well.   The oldest grandmother talked quietly to the camel and gave her directions for the journey.

"Kaspar packed his saddlebags with his own few belongings and some waybread for the trip and loaded them on the camel.  She would eat what she liked along the way. 

" ‘Kaspar, choose a name for your camel,’ the people called out after him. , Leaning close to her head, Kaspar said ‘You already have a name, don’t you?’  ‘My name is Estelle,’ she answered, ‘and don’t fall off.’

"Kaspar and Estelle traveled day after day, for several weeks.  They crossed barren deserts where the sun baked them dry.  They crossed great mountain heights and broad grassy plains.  They came to a country of sweet smelling trees and Kaspar broke away some chunks of dried resin from the branches and put them in his pocket.  They reminded him of the freshness of springtime, and he liked the smell.  Every night, Estelle set their course by a star that shone ever more brightly in the sky ahead of them.

"One evening far into their journey, and when the nights were growing cold, they heard the tinkling bells of other travelers on the way.  Below in a clearing at the edge of a pool of water fringed with trees was an encampment of men sitting by a great chest that glistened in the firelight.  Kaspar and Estelle climbed down the rocky slope to greet them.

" ‘Where are you going?’ asked the first stranger, who said his name was Melchior. 

“ ‘We are travelers from the East, and we follow the great star overhead,’ Kaspar told the travelers.  The magi said they, too, were following the star. 

“ ‘I am searching for the great treasure at the end of this journey,’ Kaspar said.  He shouted in joy when Melchior showed him what glowed in the firelight.  It was a great carved chest piled to overflowing with gold. 

“Kaspar asked, ‘Have you already found the treasure place and have packed your boxes full to take home?’ 

“ ‘This treasure is not something we can carry home in our boxes and saddle bags.  We are still traveling,’ Melchior said, ‘and we are bringing the gold to give when we reach the treasure place. 

"The other wise man was Balthazar, and he held in his hand a small pouch and from it took some fragrant frankincense.  He broke off a piece and handed it to Kaspar.

“ ‘Breathe deeply,’ Balthazar said. ‘This is frankincense from a tree that grows out of hard rocks where nothing else can grow.’  His gift was much smaller than the chest of gold, but it was as precious.

"By now Estelle had walked over to the other camels to have some supper.  After many weeks on the road with Kaspar, she longed for some sensible talk that didn’t involve carrying home heavy bags of gold the long way they had come.  The camels told her that they would reach their journey’s end the next evening, and she decided that she and Kaspar would travel with them. 

“The next day the three camels, two wise men and Kaspar arose early.  They trekked by the light of the star now so bright that it glowed in the daylight.  They followed it through the day and into the night, and followed it to where it came to rest above a humble stable in a tiny village.  The two magi alighted from their camels and entered the small stable.  Kaspar followed them in, wondering at what he saw. 

"In the stable, surrounded by cattle and donkeys and other small animals of the byre, lay a newborn babe wrapped in cloths upon the straw.  With him were his mother and father.

"The camels came up to the family and knelt so the magi could unload Melchior’s chest of gold upon the ground for the baby.  Balthazar laid his bag of precious frankincense in front of the manger.  Estelle nosed Kaspar forward. Kaspar remembered that he, too, had a gift he could give this little child.  He pulled out of his pocket the few pieces of fragrant myrrh that now filled the stable with its sweet scent of spring and new life. It was all that he had. He laid the myrrh on the ground by the manger where the baby lay sleeping.

"The camels bedded for the night in the stable with their kindred animals, near the magi, and young Kaspar.  Near them slept the baby, with his parents.  All the people slept, but the animals kept watch as the starlight pooled gleaming on the stable floor and lit the gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  Never before did gifts glow more beautifully than in starlight on that bare, dirt floor.  The little baby awoke and turned his head toward the watchful animals, and he smiled at them.  Suddenly all the animals who had been talking among themselves, the sheep to the sheep, the donkeys to each other, and the lowing cattle together, could understand what all were saying. 

"The camels began talking about the gifts at the foot of the manger. They knew about treasures because they had traveled with the rich magi from the East.

“ ‘There is a legend about the myrrh,’ Melchior Camel said. ‘It is about the Phoenix Bird that is of all animals the most wonderful.  Once every thousand years a new bird is born.  The new one is as large as an eagle.  It is as beautiful as the morning sun.  Its feathers are all the colors of the world and living things, and like stars in a dark sky and rain falling on dry land.’

" ‘The Phoenix makes her nest with frankincense and myrrh.  The scent of the myrrh gives her courage and strength for all her life to come, and it is with her to remind her that she passes through this life to be reborn in greater glory.  The Phoenix will always be with us, bearing the great gifts that the God of all creatures gives to us.' 

“A small donkey said, ‘I carried the child’s mother on my back because she could not walk all the way here from her village. The baby was born in this stable this very night. He is a beautiful baby, and he is the greatest gift that the God of all creatures gives to us.’

"Then the sheep said, ‘Our shepherds guided us safely in from the fields. A light like the star overhead filled the night sky and a voice like music from the heavens spoke to us and said, “Fear Not!”  We saw the great light and heard a voice proclaiming the birth of a Savior of all people.  ‘We are not afraid,’ the sheep said, 'for this child will be the Great Shepherd.”

“Estelle had many questions for the animals, and they talked long into the night, and as the morning sun rose in the East, all the animals were filled with great joy and strength for all their lives.

“Soon after, Kaspar and the Magi returned home and lived their lives according to what they had seen and learned.  Kaspar came home a changed boy.  People said he seemed a better person than before, and had grown wise in his ways. He knew where to find new water wells, and how to find good food for the people to eat. He also told the people stories of the newborn baby in the manger.

“Kaspar lived to a very old age, and his people loved him greatly.  With him lived the faithful Estelle.  She eventually had her own family, and she told her sons and daughters the story of the great journey and the treasure at its end.  Her children told the story to their own young ones, and so the story was passed down in my family to my own mother, who told it to me."

The byre was quiet when the great camel finished the tale.  The birds had already fallen asleep, and Athene Noctua herself had grown drowsy.  Mirabella was awake to the every end, but then she fell asleep against Sampson until morning, and they both dreamed of three camels walking through the night by the light of that great star. 

The rich scent of balsam fir filled the byre as the animals slept, for of course, the stable boy had hung some up for Christmas.

 

The Little Tooth Mouse

It probably happens more often than we imagine, but once upon a time there was a little gray mouse whose dearest wish of the heart was granted by a fairy. It was a wish she had since she was a young pinkie in her parents’ nest.

“Why is Papa looking at the sky,” she wondered when the family’s picnic one early spring morning was suddenly interrupted in the fore-yard of their home.  Papa and mother dashed with their brood undercover, and a quick thinking house mouse scruffed the little mouse as she trailed behind.  When safely inside Mouse Hall, the little mouse listened as her elders whispered about the birds of the sky swooping and flying.  “Falcon is on the wing,” they said quietly to one another, not wanting to frighten her, but the little mouse heard their words.  What are birds, she wondered?

The days lengthened and the pinkies began to grow.  Their ears grew and they could hear the green grasses swish about them.  The mice grew elegant whiskers to feel the breezes as they lifted up to sniff the air.  Their beautiful gray fur grew into coats much admired in the family. 

The little mouse was outside a great deal in the summer and she watched the falcon in the rocks high overhead.  The bird had raised a family on the rocky ledges for generations of mice, and this summer, the little mouse had watched as the fledglings high above learned to fly.  The birds tumbled about on the edge of their nest, and their first flights were often falls caught at the last minute on the branch of a tree.  The little mouse wanted to fly in the sky, too. 

One evening at dusk as she was watching the birds as they gathered to roost for the night, she heard a flutter behind her, but it was was a fairy, not a bird.  “Why are you sad?” the fairy asked. The little mouse told her that she wanted to fly like a bird in the sky.  “But you are a little gray mouse, not a bird,” said the fairy.  The little mouse hung her head in sorrow.  The kind fairy said to the little mouse, “I will give you wings to fly, for I see that you are a special young mouse and perhaps you can help me.”

The fairy waved her magic wand over her head and in the evening light stars danced around the little mouse.  She twirled in happiness.  She felt lighter than air.  She lept up to dance and her toes did not touch the grass.  She could skim over the field as if she were the very breezes she played with as a child.  She returned to the kind fairy and said, “What can I do to help you?” 

“It is something you will like,” said the fairy. “I have given you wings and your own magic wand.  Each night you will watch, and when you see a child put a tooth under the pillow at bedtime, you will visit the child and save the tooth.  Wave your magic wand and leave in its place a silver coin.”

So the little Tooth Mouse began her work.  Before long, children everywhere began telling their parents at breakfast that they dreamed the night before that a beautiful fairy mouse flew to visit them when they lost their teeth.  The tooth would be missing in the morning, but a pretty treat would lie shining on the pillow.

What did the Tooth Mouse do with all the baby teeth she collected?  She built on a cloud a castle made of the pearly white teeth.  There is not a more beautiful castle than hers. 

If you lose your tooth and put it under your pillow the Tooth Fairy may come to visit you, but if you are very lucky, the little Tooth Mouse herself will come, and if it is a very beautiful tooth she will take it to her castle and leave you a present that is nice.  Her parents are very proud of her.

_____________________________________________________

French children are not visited by the Tooth Fairy.  Since at least the 1950s, they have been visited by the little Tooth Mouse.  It is well known that the Tooth Mouse lives in a beautiful castle on a cloud, and the castle is made of shining teeth. 

Marie-Paule told me the story, including the admonition that mothers give their children.  Clean your teeth carefully if you want them to be good enough for the La Petite Souris!

When children are very, very young, sometimes the little Tooth Mouse over-exerts and leaves a present that a sensible child knows is too large for her to carry, even given her magical powers.  My friend Nathalie said,

The mouse used to bring me a kinder surprise, which is a big chocolate egg with a surprise inside.  One day I asked my mum, how can the little mouse (as we call her) bring me such a big sweet since she is so small?  After that, she used to bring me the smallest things.

The Further Adventures of Mirabella, Part 3: Hearts Aflame

Athene had a passion for dramatic assertions.  This time, however, Mirabella believed that perhaps her feathered friend had espied some part of a larger truth.  Could Braycock be in love with Etoile?  Mirabella considered the evidence. 

There was the young man's inability to speak coherently in Etoile's presence, and while he was least among the quick wits among the Bloomsbury friends, in the past he had been able to hold his own in conversation. 

Mirabella also considered the near accident when Braycock drove his new, sky blue Bugatti up from London just days before.  Nearing Edward Morgan's country house and rounding the final mile of the approach that wound along the lane through the towering rhododendrons, the young man became distracted and nearly drove the beautiful automobile up against the ancient Tower Oak through the bracken on the side of the road. The old oak had marked the spot where once a Jacobite tower stood sentinel, and it had seen its own share of excitement. 

The tower was long gone, but the tree was enough to awe anyone to a full stop, man and horse alike, or in this case, a fine new motor car.  Mirabella considered that  Braycock may have been distracted by Etoile who, having arrived the day before, had been out walking that morning with her friends to listen to the early warblers, although at the time, Etoile blamed the young man's speed and the curve in the road, and loudly told everyone so. 

She doth protest too much, thought Mirabella as she thought about Etoile's striking dislike of the young man.  The girl's threat to pin his ears to the dartboard?  That sounded like love to Mirabella, and so she raised the possibility with her two friends.

"Is it possible," said she, "that Etoile favors Braycock instead of loathing his very presence, as she appears, Athene?" The little owl narrowed her eyes at her, and even Sampson was startled by the question.

The Further Adventures of Mirabella, Part 2

Further Adventures of Mirabella; The story so far—

Mirabella decided that a timely visit to Sampson in the stable would save her from listening to young Braycock read his newest poetry, as he promised the party after supper.  Sampson, the handsome Bactrian, was in his stall being curried and combed by Peter, his valet.  When Mirabella and Sampson were finally alone, they were joined by Athene noctua, who shared similar opinions on bad verse, but who also alluded to rising tensions in a party of convivial literati at Edward Morgan Forster’s country house. 

 

Part 2, An Unusual Manuscript

Mirabella cocked her head toward Athene while her ears reflexively turned in the direction of the great house across the field. She was dismayed that Edward Morgan’s friends should squabble among themselves. He had looked forward to their arrival, which meant long afternoons riding out with them through the countryside and even longer evenings of merriment and discussion of the doings of the close-knit group.

“Tell us more about what happened after I left the library,” asked Mirabella, “Etoile Caruthers is a hot-head as are the family, but she is no fool.” 

Etoile was an artist and a poet of some skill, and she could not abide the careless work of Braycock.  She detested it with all the passion of her mingled Celtic and Gallic blood, and she let him know.

Mirabella liked Etoile, a proud girl who presumed to wear the Bruce tartan when she visited the Forster’s house in the country.  Her mother’s great-grandfathers were bold Border reivers, but the family had since settled down in the village of Mouswald, a name that amused Mirabella, although she knew that the village anciently was named for the forest near the great marsh of Lochar Moss.  Etoile’s ancestors had lived in the village when workmen in 1840 dug up in the local peat a brass bowl with a beautiful bronze torc broken and placed within it for safekeeping against the ages in the marsh.  It had been Etoile’s dream as a young girl to wrest the beautiful torc from the confines of the British Museum and bear it home in triumph to the village that had opened its arms to her as a child.

Etoile had been born in Paris, where her mother had lived for a while as a young woman and had befriended the poets and artists who lived in her neighborhood near La Sorbonne. It is not known why, but after a few years she abruptly returned to Mouswald, with only a leather satchel in one hand and a tiny, dark-eyed daughter by the other.

Playing in her mother’s bedroom alone one afternoon, Etoile found the old satchel under the bed and discovered inside some fine charcoal and sanguine drawings of a young woman lazing on the grass.  When Etoile asked about them, her mother only locked them away out of the girl’s reach in the tall dresser, where they remained unremarked until her mother died.  She carried the name of Etoile’s father to her grave.

Mirabella had heard Etoile’s story from Edward Morgan who, although he would promise every friend in turn that anything whispered to him in the agony of confidence would go with him to the grave,  told his little cat everything, usually over salmon on buttered toast, and cups of piping hot tea the very next morning. Athene noctua would listen, settled comfortably on the porch post, and Mirabella felt that she and Athene could privately discuss any of these matters with Sampson in the stable.  The three friends had now forgathered in Sampson’s stall. 

Sampson snorted and said, “Young Braycock was here earlier, and I saw him carrying a packet in his two hands, close to his chest. He tripped and fell over there in the corner against the hay rack before scuttling out like a thief in the night.  He was up to no good, that one.” 

Braycock had been surprised to see Peter in the camel’s stall, and he uttered an oath and tripped over the alley rake.  He fell to the floor and his packet burst open with strings snapping and papers flying. He was angry at poor Peter, but Sampson stood by the lad and leveled Braycock with a look. The young man fled.

Mirabella noticed a scrap of paper at the corner of the stall. She crossed the floor in an instant and pulled an entire begrimed page free from where it jammed when Braycock fell in his haste to escape the indignant camel. She brought the page back to Sampson and Athene, and the little owl took particular interest in the contents, what she could read between the smears. Let it dry a bit, suggested Mirabella, and Athene delicately grasped the paper in her beak and fluttered with it to the stall rail, where she carefully draped it.

While what she hoped was incriminating evidence dried, Athene related how she had perched at the library window to preen her plumage. She moved close to the open window to hear accurately the alarming discord within. 

“Etoile has taken a dislike to Braycock’s poetry,” observed Athene. “I believe that Braycock possesses an occluded soul, which stops up the well spring that waters the fountain of his intellect,” she said evenly. Sampson looked kindly at the little owl and thought that she must be reading the Russian spiritualists again. 

Athene had a good point, though.  Braycock was a likable young man but his mind lacked vigor and purpose, and it showed in whatever he turned his hand to, whether riding a horse, or conversation and verse. He was simply a dull fellow in a bright and clever crowd.

Athene saw that the paper had dried sufficiently and she plucked it from the rail and laid it out on the hay.  “What is this now,” she said, beginning to read.

 “Against night’s umber cloak the pale moon casts a single mote

The light lost in gloomy shroud bound close to wild Octavio’s throat

Against the wind that cut so sear across the midnight moor so drear …”

“Please,” choked Mirabella, “Enough!”

“Athene, read on,” commanded Sampson. “Mirabella, we must know his mind and discern what he was doing with this manuscript here tonight. Perhaps he was not the author.”

“Yes,” said Athene brightly. “Perhaps he murdered the true author and hid the body in the high field and made off with verse that he assumes will improve his fortunes with Etoile.”

“The verse will win him no friends,” said Mirabella, “but if it is not his, where did he find it?”

A cliffhanger, yes?

While Awaiting the Muse

I do not want to disappoint my one fan by posting nothing during the time I am writing a second chapter to the story of Mirabella, who, if you might recall, is a member of the household of E.M. Forster.  Mirabella herself is deciding whether to track down young Braycock (who will suddenly go missing) or search for the equally errant manuscript of his poetry, which in itself is without value. Mirabella learns, however, that Braycock had stealthily removed an ancient manuscript from the elder Forster's library and was writing his own drivel on top of pages of a palimpsest of a great work. She decides that Braycock can find his own way out of the woods, and she will retrieve the now missing literary piece he purloined. There is the old skull kicked up in the hedgerow to consider, and the letter Mirabella has found on the library floor beneath the shelf with the now empty place marking the lost manuscript.

I offer this instead, in the meantime. I have written before that it is important to live surrounded by beauty, whether the flowers of nature, or art.  This is a small piece of art I admire.  The drawing was probably made in the early-18th century, and is probably a contemporaneous scene of the Upper Rhine valley.  The men seated in the left foreground are eating bread and drinking in the shade of the building while resting from their labor scything the fields outside the village at the end of the road.  The work is communal and many men are working to bring in the grain.  Boys are chasing and playing, and working, too, and the day is fair.  The road leads in the foreground to the destination of the two more finely dressed men in the foreground, and there is a young boy walking with his dog in the same direction as they.  The artist is unknown to me yet I do search for him in gallery halls, books, and catalogs of exhibitions of works by artists of Northern Europe.

Further Adventures of Mirabella, Part 1

There are times when a cat just needs to feel the grass under her paws.  Mirabella thought so, and decided that the evening festivities of Edward Morgan’s literary friends had gone on long enough for common sense, so she slipped out the open library window, and leapt quietly to the cool flagstones of the east porch. 

She paused and breathed deeply the moist night air rich with fragrant scents of rose and geranium and of the grasses mixed with thyme in a springy cushion underfoot, and with the more distant but heady smells of warm animal life in the great barns to the left of the house in the fields.  She heard the close-by night cry of her friend Athene noctua, the little owl who had taken up residence in the bower between the barns and the green lawns surrounding the house. 

Hearing that Athene was wide awake for a bird who had lately taken up perching in the daylight on the porch banister, she felt that perhaps a little heroic endeavor of her own was just what the evening called for and she set off to explore the grounds by the stable and barns. It was not fully dark. 

Nearing the approach of midsummer in these northern latitudes when night was perpetual dusk, long days meant adventure for Mirabella and her friends.  She had easily won over the stable boys and groomsmen.  When she appeared, they liked to stop their chores and roll clumped horse sweepings down the long stable alley at her as she sat as contemplative as the Buddha, then frisked aside at the last moment, to the delighted shrieks of the boys.  She’d return to the spot, again they’d bowl, and she would spring from the ground, enjoying the game, too, as the clumps broke apart at their approach. 

She entered the stable tonight and made her way to Sampson’s stall.  The stall was made for his visits north from London with the family.  A fine big stall fit for a Cleveland Bay was too small for the camel, so Edward Morgan had three stalls joined together.  Sampson’s commodious new apartment was always filled with fresh hay, and his name was carved into the lintel overhead. 

Sampson heard her approach, less the sound of soft paw on stone floor than the feeling that bespeaks the approach of a friend, and he called her to his side.  “Come here, lass.  There have been unusual goings on in the stable this evening, and I think we should investigate.  Let Peter Pierpott finish my eyelashes, then we’ll have privacy to talk.”

Sampson, for one so brave and braw, had one small vanity.  Set beneath his magnificent brow ridge, Sampson had truly beautiful eyelashes, which he kept well combed.  Peter Pierpott, the youngest stable boy, was Sampson’s own valet.  Peter took great pride in keeping Sampson’s coat clean, and he would brush Sampson until the camel’s coat gleamed.  Sampson would drift into a pleasant reverie at those times, but he was in fact deep in meditation.  He was an observant and thoughtful fellow even among camels, who are well known as a far-thinking and prescient race.  Being ministered to by young Peter gave Sampson the time he needed to think. 

Peter Pierpott stood back from Sampson and admired his handiwork.  Peter gave the Bactrian a respectful pat and said goodnight and went to his quarters, which he entered through the tack room.  Sampson and Mirabella waited a moment until silence rested on the stable, when the quiet snuffling of the horses meant that their noses were determinedly in their hay racks and that they would not be disturbed by the conversation of the two friends.

“Tell me first about the house party,” Sampson asked.  “I’ve seen how some of Edward Morgan’s fine friends take care of the horses. It took some time for the grooms to untangle their fetlocks and manes after the outing this afternoon. They rode ‘em through hedge rows,” he could not refrain from snorting.

Sampson knew that these were not Mirabella’s friends especially, but Edward Morgan’s, and that she tolerated them for his sake.  They had come as a group from London for a visit of several days, a self-absorbed array of bright young things.  They drank the port, belittled each others’ manuscripts, and vexed with their mirth the drowsy citizens of barn and house.  

“Athene is yet awake,” Mirabella said.  She cocked her ears in the direction of the little owl’s night call, and just then Athene fluttered into the stall to join them.  Sampson looked approvingly at the owl’s small speckled head, so packed with knowledge and wisdom. 

“What news ,  Athene?”   

“News?” the little owl asked, as she smoothed her ruffled feathers.  “Young Braycock’s poetry remains abysmal, if that’s what you are asking,” she said.  “Etoile Caruthers threatens to pentameter his ears to the dart board with her Waterman if he doesn’t read something worth listening to, she says.”  

Mirabella purred in sympathy.  She had heard Braycock announce that he would read his latest poem to them after supper, and that is when she decided that she needed the night air instead.

________  Part 2 to follow . Let's hope this story gets a little better. We need some action!  A manuscript with a drop of blood, perhaps? ________

Mirabella Visits Mouse of Gorse Hall

It was late morning when Mirabella completed packing the wicker basket of provender for the Mouse she rescued before breakfast when she and Samson were ranging the hills at dawn.  Mouse had been bravely fighting off the hunting dive of a Peregrine falcon, and it had been clear to Mirabella when she and Samson advanced upon the scene that the Peregrine had the upper hand. The Peregrine had wheeled away from them in irritation with a keening kar-kar-kar and disappeared in a flash of swift wing.

 

Mirabella arrived for her visit to Mouse on the back of Samson. She retrieved the heavily laden basket wedged firmly between Samson’s humps and slid down the bactrian’s nose and landed gracefully in the clearing in front of the main gate of Gorse Hall.  She did not need to otherwise announce her arrival; the Hall was well guarded, for Mouse was laird in these parts, and much respected. He had inherited Gorse Hall in direct line from his ancestors, and the manse was a sturdy hall that his father and now Mouse had expanded over time.

 

Mouse stepped out into the clearing beyond his main gate and while his heart may have skipped a beat at the sight of a large camel grazing beyond her, he recognized Mirabella as the one who had rescued him from the Peregrine, and his good manners as host overcame any trepidation within caused by a cat at the front door.

 

Mirabella herself had the good manners to suppress her sudden keen interest in the aroma of the den,which she accomplished by turning to the basket and pushing it forward, as a gift to the laird.  The basket was covered with a homespun napkin in a pleasing plaid in colors of  green, blue, yellow, and orange.  She knew that Mouse's Doe would use the cloth for her family in any number of ways, and that Mouse himself could use the basket’s contents to extend next winter’s larder.  Mirabella had packed barley and oat cakes and some of last night’s clootie dumpling, and there was fresh salmon left from breakfast, and she threw in some stovies and  leeks for good measure. She even found a nice wedge of cheese, and wild rowen-berry jelly and butterscotch drops for the children. 

 

Mouse advanced sniffing the air and he bowed to her gracefully, sweeping the ground with a fore paw, and accepted her tribute.  Mouse instantly recognized that although the Hall was a spacious and commodious abode, he would have to entertain her out of doors. He jumped upon a mossy log that formed a short wall directly outside the door, pulled out his brier pipe and invited Mirabella to join him there for bannocks and barley tea. After their initial pleasantries,  it was Mouse who raised the subject of the Peregrine.

 

"Old Falco the tiercel has lived on yon high cliff since before the time of my grandfathers," said Mouse, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe, "and he has caused me no end of watchfulness for my wee mischief of pinkies."  He wiped a paw along his sleek whiskers to settle himself at the memory of that recent encounter. Tea arrived on a tray carried by one of the many house mice, and Mirabella accepted a cup.  She admired the beauty of the surroundings, and especially the bright yellow canopy of Gorse Hall, which caused Mouse to blush with pleasure.  He said that they often took for granted the grandeur of their surroundings, and that it could take an outsider’s point of view to remind him of his good fortune and the hard work of the family, and his own stewardship, of course.  The rest of the morning passed in conversation, and Mirabella was even introduced to one of the little pinkies who had wobbled out the front door before he was scruffed and dragged back inside by a house mouse.

 

Too soon it was time for her to return to the fishing bothy and Edward Morgan.  She had much to tell him upon her return, to which he listened with evident interest over afternoon tea. 

Mirabella Adventuring Before Breakfast

Mirabella edged her camel into the lee of the ridge as the wind picked up over the blue hills.   She gazed north by the light of the emerging stars; the moon was sinking beneath Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan.  Mirabella was in the lonely mountains north of the Great Glen, many miles from the public roads leading around their distant edge.  She trusted Samson to pick out the track.  After all, the Bactrian had surprised her by finding his own way when he followed her home to London from the wilds of Tibet in 1911.

She had been riding awhile, snug between Samson’s humps, which kept the breezy and chill night air from ruffling her long fur. The camel stopped to crop the verge by the track, and as Mirabella meditated on the quietness of the night a sharp barking cry came from the woods away in the direction of the fishing bothy where Edward Morgan and she had been lodging the fortnight past.  “Don’t panic, wee lass,” Samson whispered to her.  “I have big hairy feet to protect ye with.” 

Samson much preferred to use the rugged Highland dialect on their travels north, rather than the smooth city speech he had adopted in the first months after arriving in London.  Her friend calmed fear’s grip on her, for she knew Samson could stomp any trouble flat. But she was alert with concern; what could they have heard in the woods, and was Edward Morgan in danger?

Samson left the main track and veered down the path to the bothy at a trot.  Mirabella knew that he could run swiftly across the high steppes of Tibet, and many a time she had ridden him with her ears pressed back by the wind. Now with hearts racing and feet pounding on the trail they ran quickly toward the sound and reached the bothy clearing, and there in the center of the clearing was a solitary mouse facing a menacing Peregrine falcon, the source of the commotion. The mouse was brandishing a very sharp stick, thrusting it up toward the falcon now startled by their sudden arrival.  Heedless of the risk to herself, Mirabella leapt from Samson onto the ground between the brave little mouse and his doom, who considered that the odds had turned against him and flew away.

Now the little mouse began brandishing the stick at her for he thought one doom had replaced another.  Mirabella backed away to indicate her gentle nature and invited him for breakfast, but the mouse completely misunderstood and made a dash for the safety of the gorse and as he disappeared from sight, Mirabella could hear the faint shouts of “Papa’s home,” from his joyful family awaiting their protector’s return.  She promised herself that she would return with a basket of provisions for the family, later in the day.  Now close to home and dawn approaching, her thoughts turned to breakfast.

Mirabella Learns About Properly Cooked Fish

“He read my mind,” Mirabella thought as she slide down the back of the camel and ran across the dew covered green into the summer kitchen where her beloved Edward Morgan was poaching the salmon they caught in the Spey the day before.  Casting a cautionary eye toward heaven, she continued, “But let him not have overcooked it again.”

Salmon must be pink in the center; she had learned this as a kitten, when, from her corner basket near the oven, she watched how to make what tastes best as Cook prepared the meal for the family.  Mirabella would test the salmon with a paw pressed gently on the fish, and if it gave slightly to her delicate touch, it was ready for the serving plate. Cook would nod in agreement and move the toothsome fish to the China platter already resting on the cloth laid over the far end of the work table.  The footman removed the platter to the dumbwaiter, and then hoisted it to the pantry on a floor above to be brought to the family’s table.  Cook would reward Mirabella’s attentiveness with a small portion placed in a blue and white porcelain bowl. 

She still ate from the same little bowl, which Edward Morgan filled for her when they dined together daily.  Here is Edward Morgan himself, gazing at his sweet Mirabella just out of the camera’s eye. They had enjoyed each other's company since the day when as a frolicsome youngster Mirabella rode up the dumbwaiter with the salmon, quite by accident. Mr. and Mrs. Forster were not as amused as was their son, and as soon as he saw her, Edward Morgan recognized a companion spirit, and the two were never again parted.  He liked to cook for Mirabella when they went on their fishing trips together to Scotland.

Tammietta's Great-Great Aunt Mirabella

Mirabella was a famous beauty of her day, but her reputation did not rest alone on the loveliness of silken brown fur and light brown paws, a pert nose, and beguiling eyes, for the lovely Mirabella was a member of the Bloomsbury group, and she was devoted to fine literature.  She may have been the only cat established as a member of the group, and she moderated the rather esoteric air of its gatherings that she attended with E.M. Forster and kept him down to earth.  Mirabella became a member of his household as a playful kitten and later assisted as his editor, and she is credited with coaxing a decent novel out of a pile of travel papers on India, which she discovered once in her litter tray.

Yet it was her knack for understanding the interconnectivity of ideas and her convictions about the nature of consciousness and its relation to external nature, about the fundamental separateness of individuals that involves both isolation and love, and about the ideals of truth, love, and beauty that set her apart from others of her species.  She was an original thinker in the discourse of the impossible.

Tammietta and the New Red Shoes

While I was awaiting the morning newspapers, my little cat Tammietta asked me for a pair of shoes.   She has never had shoes, so this is an important request. Further, she has asked for two pairs so all her paws can be properly shod at the same time, something I believe is rare among cats.  She wants red patent leather shoes, with round toes for comfort.

She has mentioned her great-great aunt Mirabella, a famous Bloomsbury cat of London early in the last century.  Mirabella wore shoes, but pennies were dear and she had only the one pair, which she wore on her back feet, giving her a rather bohemian look.  Miss Tammietta thought about having just back shoes, but she is not her Aunt Mirabella, who delighted in her ability to shock.

These are the shoes I have found for her. They are a little youthful for her mature years, but she needs a flat shoe, not high heels, for stability in the garden.  I have ordered two pairs.