Done.

Done and done.

A walk through Walker's Arms is always exciting.

Treasures.

On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from over the hills through the low lattice window. I rose at an early hour, and looked out between the branches of eglantine which overhung the casement. To my surprise Scott was already up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone, and chatting with the workmen employed on the new building. I had supposed, after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would be closely occupied this morning, but he appeared like a man of leisure, who had nothing to do but bask in the sunshine and amuse himself.

I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked about his proposed plans of Abbotsford; happy would it have been for him could he have contented himself with his delightful little vine-covered cottage, and the simple, yet hearty and hospitable style, in which he lived at the time of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expense it entailed upon him, of servants, retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and a weight upon his mind, that finally crushed him.

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and Scott pleased himself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of the fanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his air castles," he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar." About the place were strewed various morsels from the ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion. He had already constructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a spring, and had surmounted it by a small stone cross.

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before us, was a most quaint and antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shall never forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to which it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which he was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of his early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection. "There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and old time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste—the mouldier the better."

Washington Irving, from "Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey"

Thanks to Walker's Arms for the image.

Bones.

Walker's Arms has the right idea ...

Daily.

I spied him on a park bench, my how happy he did seem

As contented as a sleeping man within a pleasant dream

So full of equanimity, so tranquil and refined

Obviously no distress disturbed his state of mind

His suit was made of finest wool; his shirt was starched and clean

His countenance reflected by shoes polished to a sheen

Who was this lordly gentleman who graced our neighborhood?

I did not seem to recognize him though I thought I should

For clearly he was someone I could envy and admire

Someone whose lavish lifestyle I could strive for and desire

If only I could take his place as God I wished I might

How high would then my spirits soar, oh what a pure delight.

Just then his nurses came toward him helping him to stand

As carefully they crossed the cobbles walking hand in hand

Only then I realized this gentleman was blind

Living in a land of darkness, physically confined

Yet how obtuse was my existence though I had my sight

I could not recognize my fortune, only saw my plight

How ironic that a blind man finally helped me see

The blessings and good fortune that have daily come to me.

Richard Lackman

Thanks to Walker's Arms for the view.

Thanks to Walker's Arms.

Countenance.

Why is it that so many of us persist in thinking that autumn is a sad season? Nature has merely fallen asleep, and her dreams must be beautiful if we are to judge by her countenance.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Thanks, yet again, to Walker's Arms for the image.

Medicine.

Walker's Arms. It's good medicine.

Done.

Done and done.

Thank you to Walker's Arms for the diversion.

Essential.

Walker's Arms inspired an exploration of the "apple keep."

"The Apple Keep" at Great Chalfield Manor in Wiltshire was designed in the early twentieth century by Sir Harold Brakspear as an apple store and cheese room.  Imagine what that space must have smelled like!

Apples were essential winter sustenance, and preservation was crucial. Techniques included careful harvesting to avoid bruising, storing in cool, dark, and ventilated spaces, and utilizing materials like straw, sawdust, or newspaper to separate layers and absorb moisture. 

Right.

Walker's Arms has the right idea ...

Hang.

They call me hanging Johnny,

Away, boys, away!

They say I hang for money!

So hang, boys, hang!

They say I hanged my mother,

Away, boys, away!

My sisters and my brothers

So hang, boys, hang!

They say I hanged my granny,

Away, boys, away!

I strung her up so canny

So hang, boys, hang!

They say I hung a copper,

Away, boys, away!

I gave him the long dropper

So hang, boys, hang!

I’d hang the mates and skippers,

Away, boys, away!

I’d hang 'em by their flippers

So hang, boys, hang!

A rope, a beam, a ladder,

Away, boys, away!

I’ll hang ye all together

So hang, boys, hang!

Hang 'em from the yardarm,

Away, boys, away!

Hang the sea and buy a pigfarm

So hang, boys, hang!

They say I hang for money,

Away, boys, away!

I hang because it’s funny

So hang, boys, hang!

They call me hanging Johnny,

Away, boys, away!

Ain’t never hanged nobody

So hang, boys, hang!

Traditional

With gratitude to Walker's Arms for the picture.

Done.

Done and done.

Thanks, Walker's Arms.

Done.

Done and done.

Thanks to Walker's Arms.

Nuisance.

Thanks to Walker's Arms.

Sing.

I go among trees and sit still.

All my stirring becomes quiet

around me like circles on water.

My tasks lie in their places

where I left them, asleep like cattle.

Then what is afraid of me comes

and lives a while in my sight.

What it fears in me leaves me,

and the fear of me leaves it.

It sings, and I hear its song.

Then what I am afraid of comes.

I live for a while in its sight.

What I fear in it leaves it,

and the fear of it leaves me.

It sings, and I hear its song.

After days of labor,

mute in my consternations,

I hear my song at last,

and I sing it. As we sing,

the day turns, the trees move.

Wendell Berry

Thanks to Walker's Arms for the great image.

Done.

Done and done.

Thank you, Walker's Arms.

Done.

Done and done.

Thank you, Walker's Arms.

Done.

Done and done.

Thanks, again, to Walker's Arms.

Full.

It is the life of the crystal, the architect of the flake, the fire of the frost, the soul of the sunbeam. This crisp winter air is full of it. 

John Burroughs, from "Winter Sunshine"

Thanks to Walker's Arms for the view.  What a great site.

Done.

Done and done.

HUZZAH FOR HEARTH SEATS!  Extra points for the well-laced Guinness glass.

Many thanks and warm wishes for a merry Christmas to Walker's Arms.  The images found there will always be fertile ground for my imagination.