Hardy Country Quotes

But happiness is a difficult thing-it is, as Aristotle posited in The Nicomachean Ethics, an activity, is is about good social behavior, about being a solid citizen. Happiness is about community, intimacy, relationships, rootedness, closeness, family, stability, a sense of place, a feeling of love. And in this country, where people move from state to state and city to city so much, where rootlessness is almost a virtue ("anywhere I hang my hat...is someone else's home"), where family units regularly implode and leave behind fragments of divorce, where the long loneliness of life finds its antidote not in a hardy, ancient culture (as it would in Europe), not in some blood-deep tribal rites (as it would in the few still-hale Third World nations), but in our vast repository of pop culture, of consumer goods, of cotton candy for all-in this America, happiness is hard.

God was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town.

To speak like a book I once read, wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our country's history;

Suddenly, in the space of a moment, I realized what it was that I loved about Britain - which is to say, all of it. Every last bit of it, good and bad - Marmite, village fetes, country lanes, people saying 'mustn't grumble' and 'I'm terribly sorry but', people apologizing to me when I conk them with a nameless elbow, milk in bottles, beans on toast, haymaking in June, stinging nettles, seaside piers, Ordnance Survey maps, crumpets, hot-water bottles as a necessity, drizzly Sundays - every bit of it. What a wondrous place this was - crazy as fuck, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bec and Farleigh Wallop, or a game like cricket that goes on for three days and never seems to start? Who else would think it not the least odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, compel the Speaker of the House of Commons to sit on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a military hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? ('Please Hardy, full on the lips, with just a bit of tongue.') What other nation in the world could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, the Open University, Gardners' Question Time and the chocolate digestive biscuit? None, of course. How easily we lose sight of all this. What an enigma Britain will seem to historians when they look back on the second half of the twentieth century. Here is a country that fought and won a noble war, dismantled a mighty empire in a generally benign and enlightened way, created a far-seeing welfare state - in short, did nearly everything right - and then spent the rest of the century looking on itself as a chronic failure. The fact is that this is still the best place in the world for most things - to post a letter, go for a walk, watch television, buy a book, venture out for a drink, go to a museum, use the bank, get lost, seek help, or stand on a hillside and take in a view. All of this came to me in the space of a lingering moment. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you.

It takes two or three generations to do what I tried to do in one; and my impulses--affections--vices perhaps they should be called-- were too strong not to hamper a man without advantages; who should be as cold-blooded as a fish and as selfish as a pig to have a really good chance of being one of his country's worthies. You may ridicule me--I am quite willing that you should-- I am a fit subject, no doubt. But I think if you knew what I have gone through these last few years you would rather pity me. And if they knew"--he nodded towards the college at which the dons were severally arriving--"it is just possible they would do the same.

Here and everywhere be folk dying before their time like frosted leaves, though wanted by their families, the country, and the world; while I, an outcast, an encumberer of the ground, wanted by nobody, and despised by all, live on against my will!

the race of men born to the exercise of arms, was sought for in the country rather than in cities; and it was very reasonably presumed, that the hardy occupations of smiths, carpenters, and huntsmen, would supply more vigour and resolution, than the sedentary trades which are employed in the service of luxury.

It was the first day of June, and the sheep-shearing season culminated, the landscape, even to the leanest pasture, being all health and colour. Every green was young, every pore was open, and every stalk was swollen with racing currents of juice. God was palpably present in the country, and the devil had gone with the world to town.

Immortality is often ridiculous or cruel: few of us would have chosen to be Og or Ananias or Gallio. Even in mathematics, history sometimes plays strange tricks; Rolle figures in the textbooks of elementary calculus as if he had been a mathematician like Newton; Farey is immortal because he failed to understand a theorem which Haros had proved perfectly fourteen years before; the names of five worthy Norwegians still stand in Abel’s Life, just for one act of conscientious imbecility, dutifully performed at the expense of their country’s greatest man. But on the whole the history of science is fair, and this is particularly true in mathematics. No other subject has such clear-cut or unanimously accepted standards, and the men who are remembered are almost always the men who merit it. Mathematical fame, if you have the cash to pay for it, is one of the soundest and steadiest of investments.

don’t you know you could be in the middle of a crowd at a concert on the other side of the country, and I’d still find you, baby, because you always stand out.

Oh, it is true enough. I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb (an old country saying, not of much account, but it will do for a rough soldier), and so I will speak my mind, regardless of your pleasure, and without hoping or intending to get your pardon. Why, Miss Everdene, it is in this manner that your good looks may do more harm than good in the world." The sergeant looked down the mead in critical abstraction. "Probably some one man on an average falls in love with each ordinary woman. She can marry him: he is content, and leads a useful life. Such women as you a hundred men always covet—your eyes will bewitch scores on scores into an unavailing fancy for you—you can only marry one of that many. Out of these say twenty will endeavour to drown the bitterness of despised love in drink; twenty more will mope away their lives without a wish or attempt to make a mark in he world, because they have no ambition apart from their attachment to you; twenty more—the susceptible person myself possibly among them—will be always draggling after you, getting where they may just see you, doing desperate things. Men are such constant fools! The rest may try to get over their passion with more or less success. But all these men will be saddened. And not only those ninety-nine men, but the ninety-nine women they might have married are saddened with them. There's my tale. That's why I say that a woman so charming as yourself, Miss Everdene, is hardly a blessing to her race.

He could no longer believe, but he cherished the memory of belief, and especially the centrality and beauty of Christian ritual in country life, and what it had meant to earlier generations and still meant to some.

Thus Casterbridge was in most respects but the pole, focus, or nerve-knot of the surrounding country life; differing from the many manufacturing towns which are as foreign bodies set down, like boulders on a plain, in a green world with which they have nothing in common.

West Country novelist Thomas Hardy almost did not survive his birth in 1840 because everyone thought he was stillborn. He did not appear to be breathing and was put to one side for dead. The nurse attending the birth only by chance noticed a slight movement that showed the baby was in fact alive. He lived to be 87 and gave the world 18 novels, including some of the most widely read in English literature. When he did die, there was controversy over where he should be laid to rest. Public opinion felt him too famous to lie anywhere other than in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, the national shrine. He, however, had left clear instructions to be buried in Stinsford, near his birthplace and next to his parents, grandparents, first wife and sister. A compromise was brokered. His ashes were interred in the Abbey. His heart would be buried in his beloved home county. The plan agreed, his heart was taken to his sister’s house ready for burial. Shortly before, as it lay ready on the kitchen table, the family cat grabbed it and disappeared with it into the woods. Although, simultaneously with the national funeral in Westminster Abbey, a burial ceremony took place on 16 January 1928, at Stinsford, there is uncertainty to this day as to what was in the casket: some say it was buried empty; others that it contained the captured cat which had consumed the heart.

During any prolonged activity one tends to forget original intentions. But I believe that, when making a start on A Month in the Country, my idea was to write an easy-going story, a rural idyll along the lines of Thomas Hardy's Under the Greenwood Tree. And, to establish the right tone of voice to tell such a story, I wanted its narrator to look back regretfully across forty or fifty years but, recalling a time irrecoverably lost, still feel a tug at the heart. And I wanted it to ring true. So I set its background up in the North Riding, on the Vale of Mowbray, where my folks had lived for many generations and where, in the plow-horse and candle-to-bed age, I grew up in a household like that of the Ellerbeck family. Novel-writing can be a cold-blooded business. One uses whatever happens to be lying around in memory and employs it to suit one's ends. The visit to the dying girl, a first sermon, the Sunday-school treat, a day in a harvest field and much more happened between the Pennine Moors and the Yorkshire Wolds. But the church in the fields is in Northamptonshire, its churchyard in Norfolk, its vicarage London. All's grist that comes to the mill. Then, again, during the months whilst one is writing about the past, a story is colored by what presently is happening to its writer. So, imperceptibly, the tone of voice changes, original intentions slip away. And I found myself looking through another window at a darker landscape inhabited by neither the present nor the past.

As of old Phoenician men, to the Tin Isles sailing Straight against the sunset and the edges of the earth, Chaunted loud above the storm and the strange sea's wailing, Legends of their people and the land that gave them birth- Sang aloud to Baal-Peor, sang unto the horned maiden, Sang how they should come again with the Brethon treasure laden, Sang of all the pride and glory of their hardy enterprise, How they found the outer islands, where the unknown stars arise; And the rowers down below, rowing hard as they could row, Toiling at the stroke and feather through the wet and weary weather, Even they forgot their burden in the measure of a song, And the merchants and the masters and the bondsmen all together, Dreaming of the wondrous islands, brought the gallant ship along; So in mighty deeps alone on the chainless breezes blown In my coracle of verses I will sing of lands unknown, Flying from the scarlet city where a Lord that knows no pity, Mocks the broken people praying round his iron throne, -Sing about the Hidden Country fresh and full of quiet green. Sailing over seas uncharted to a port that none has seen.

A fair, sweet, and honest country face was revealed, reposing in a nest of wavy chestnut hair. It was between pretty and beautiful. Though her eyes were closed, one could easily imagine the light necessarily shining in them as the culmination of the luminous workmanship around. The groundwork of the face was hopefulness; but over it now I ay like a foreign substance a film of anxiety and grief. The grief had been there so shortly as to have abstracted nothing of the bloom, and had as yet but given a dignity to what it might eventually undermine. The scarlet of her lips had not had time to abate, and just now it appeared still more intense by the absence of the neighbouring and more transient colour of her cheek. The lips frequently parted, with a murmur of words. She seemed to belong rightly to a madrigal - to require viewing through rhyme and harmony.

Last Victorian and Edwardian Britain saw a mega-change in reading habits. For the first time fiction took the primary place in book publishing, and the medium was taken up by briliant and entertaining authors with an agenda for 'a brave new world'. Such men as Thomas Hardy, H. G. Wells and George Bernard Shaw were the opinion-makers for coming generations. 'With the next phase of Victorian fiction', wrote G. K. Chesterton, 'we enter a new world; the later, more revolutionary, more continental, freer but in some ways weker world in which we live today.' Chesterton did not live to see the full consequences of the change but W. R. Inge predicted what was coming when he wrote: No God. No country. No family. Refusal to serve in war. Free love. More play. Less work. No punishments. Go as you please. It is difficult to imagine any programme which, if carried out, would be more utterly ruinous to a country situated as Great Britain is today.

Here, till our navy of a thousand sail Have made a breakfast to our foe by sea, Let us encamp to wait their happy speed.- Lorraine, what readiness is Edward in? How hast thou heard that he provided is Of martial furniture for this exploit? Lorraine To lay aside unnecessary soothing, And not to spend the time in circumstance, 'Tis bruited for a certainty, my lord, That he's exceeding strongly fortified; His subjects flock as willingly to war As if unto a triumph they were led. Charles England was wont to harbor malcontents, Bloodthirsty and seditious Catilines, Spendthrifts, and such as gape for nothing else But changing and alteration of the state. And is it possible that they are now So loyal in themselves? Lorraine All but the Scot, who solemnly protests, As heretofore I have informed his grace, Never to sheathe his sword or take a truce. King John Ah, that's the anch'rage of some better hope. But, on the other side, to think what friends King Edward hath retained in Netherland Among those ever-bibbing epicures -- Those frothy Dutchmen puffed with double beer, That drink and swill in every place they come -- Doth not a little aggravate mine ire; Besides we hear the emperor conjoins And stalls him in his own authority. But all the mightier that their number is, The greater glory reaps the victory. Some friends have we beside domestic power: The stern Polonian, and the warlike Dane, The King of Bohemia, and of Sicily Are all become confederates with us, And, as I think, are marching hither apace. [Drums within.] But soft, I hear the music of their drums, By which I guess that their approach is near. Enter the King of Bohemia, with Danes, and a Polonian Captain with other soldiers, some Muscovites, another way. King of Bohemia King John of France, as league and neighborhood Requires when friends are any way distressed, I come to aid thee with my country's force. Polonian Captain And from great Moscow, fearful to the Turk, And lofty Poland, nurse of hardy men, I bring these servitors to fight for thee, Who willingly will venture in thy cause. King John Welcome Bohemian King, and welcome all. This your great kindness I will not forget; Besides your plentiful rewards in crowns That from our treasury ye shall receive, There comes a hare-brained nation decked in pride, The spoil of whom will be a treble gain. And now my hope is full, my joy complete. At sea we are as puissant as the force Of Agamemnon in the haven of Troy; By land, with Xerxes we compare of strength, Whose soldiers drank up rivers in their thirst. Then Bayard-like, blind, overweening Ned, To reach at our imperial diadem Is either to be swallowed of the waves Or hacked a-pieces when thou com'st ashore.

L'unico esercizio fisico che Tess si concedeva a quell'epoca aveva luogo dopo il tramonto; solo allora, fuori nei boschi, le sembrava d'essere meno sola, sapeva come cogliere con precisione quell'attimo della sera, quando la luce e l'oscurità si compensano così equamente che le certezze del giorno e i dubbi della notte si neutralizzano, lasciando un'assoluta libertà mentale. È allora che il difficile impegno d'essere vivi si riduce al minimo. Non temeva le ombre, il suo unico pensiero sembrava quello di evitare l'umanità, o meglio, quella fredda sostanza in aumento chiamata mondo, che, così terribile nella massa, è così meschina, anzi penosa, nelle sue unità. Il suo incedere silenzioso su queste colline e valli solitarie si accordava perfettamente con l'elemento in mezzo a cui si muoveva. La sua figurina flessuosa e furtiva diveniva parte insostituibile della scena. A volte una stravagante fantasia la portava a rendere più intensi i processi della natura intorno a lei, fino a che sembravano partecipare alla sua stessa storia, anzi erano una parte della sua storia, perché il mondo è soltanto un fenomeno psicologico e tutto quello che sembra, in realtà esiste. Il vento improvviso e la brezza di mezzanotte, gemendo tra i germogli strettamente avviluppati e attraverso la corteccia dei ramoscelli invernali, erano forme di un amaro rimprovero. Un giorno piovoso era espressione di inconsolabile dolore per la sua debolezza da parte di un vago essere etico che lei non riusciva a classificare con precisione né come il Dio della sua fanciullezza, né come alcun altro essere. Ma questo essere circondata da elementi caratterizzati, basati su frammenti di convenzione, popolati da fantasmi e da voci avverse, era una triste ed errata creazione della fantasia di Tess: una nube di folletti maligni che la terrorizzava senza ragione. Erano loro, non lei, ad essere esclusi dall'armonia del mondo reale. Camminando tra gli uccelli addormentati nelle siepi, osservando i conigli saltare leggeri nelle conigliere illuminate dalla luna, o fermandosi sotto a un ramo carico di fagiani, Tess si sentiva come un'immagine della Colpa introdottasi nel rifugio dell'Innocenza. Voleva fare una distinzione dove non esisteva nessuna differenza. Si sentiva in antagonismo quando invece c'era un accordo perfetto. Aveva violato una legge sociale universalmente accettata, una legge sconosciuta al mondo che la circondava e dove supponeva di rappresentare una così grande anomalia.

The second main argument to support the idea that simple living enhances our capacity for pleasure is that it encourages us to attend to and appreciate the inexhaustible wealth of interesting, beautiful, marvelous, and thought-provoking phenomena continually presented to us by the everyday world that is close at hand. As Emerson says: “Things near are not less beautiful and wondrous than things remote. . . . This perception of the worth of the vulgar is fruitful in discoveries.”47 Here, as elsewhere, Emerson elegantly articulates the theory, but it is his friend Thoreau who really puts it into practice. Walden is, among other things, a celebration of the unexotic and a demonstration that the overlooked wonders of the commonplace can be a source of profound pleasure readily available to all. This idea is hardly unique to Emerson and Thoreau, of course, and, like most of the ideas we are considering, it goes back to ancient times. Marcus Aurelius reflects that “anyone with a feeling for nature—a deeper sensitivity—will find it all gives pleasure,” from the jaws of animals to the “distinct beauty of old age in men and women.”48 “Even Nature’s inadvertence has its own charms, its own attractiveness,” he observes, citing as an example the way loaves split open on top when baking.49 With respect to the natural world, celebrating the ordinary has been a staple of literature and art at least since the advent of Romanticism in the late eighteenth century. Wordsworth wrote three separate poems in praise of the lesser celandine, a common wildflower; painters like van Gogh discover whole worlds of beauty and significance in a pair of peasant boots; many of the finest poems crafted by poets like Thomas Hardy, Robert Frost, Elizabeth Bishop, William Carlos Williams, and Seamus Heaney take as their subject the most mundane objects, activities, or events and find in these something worth lingering over and commemorating in verse: a singing thrush, a snowy woods, a fish, some chilled plums, a patch of mint. Of course, artists have also celebrated the extraordinary, the exotic, and the magnificent. Homer gushes over the splendors of Menelaus’s palace; Gauguin left his home country to seek inspiration in the more exotic environment of Tahiti; Handel composed pieces to accompany momentous ceremonial occasions. Yet it is striking that a humble activity like picking blackberries—the subject of well-known poems by, among others, Sylvia Plath, Seamus Heaney, and Richard Wilbur—appears to be more inspirational to modern poets, more charged with interest and significance, than, say, the construction of the world’s tallest building, the Oscar ceremonies, the space program, or the discovery of DNA’s molecular structure. One might even say that it has now become an established function of art to help us discover the remarkable in the commonplace

Is sisu a mental power or muscle that you flex? Where does it come from? Is it a cultural construct, part of a country brand, or a slogan? Or, as I suspect, a sort of mind and body attitude that anyone, anywhere, can tap into? In my quest to wrap my head around the term, I initially apply it liberally to cover a quality that I notice a great many Finns seem to share: a hardy, active, outdoors-in-any-weather, do-it-yourself approach to life. Even when it comes to domestic chores, such as house or window cleaning, which many people could easily afford to pay someone to do, it seems instead to be a source of personal pride and satisfaction to take on the task oneself. I observe that this DIY approach also includes trying to fix things before rushing out to buy new ones and taking on home renovations instead of contracting them out. Doing instead of buying.

To be a patriot, one had to say, and keep on saying, " Our country, right or wrong," and urge on the little war. Have you not perceived that that phrase is an insult to the nation? Glances at History

People may ask, since Marxism is accepted as the guiding ideology by the majority of the people in our country, can it be criticized? Certainly it can. Marxism is scientific truth and fears no criticism. If it did, and if it could be overthrown by criticism, it would be worthless. In fact, aren't the idealists criticizing Marxism every day and in every way? And those who harbour bourgeois and petty-bourgeois ideas and do not wish to change -- aren't they also criticizing Marxism in every way? Marxists should not be afraid of criticism from any quarter. Quite the contrary, they need to temper and develop themselves and win new positions in the teeth of criticism and in the storm and stress of struggle. Fighting against wrong ideas is like being vaccinated -- a man develops greater immunity from disease as a result of vaccination. Plants raised in hothouses are unlikely to be hardy. Carrying out the policy of letting a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend will not weaken, but strengthen, the leading position of Marxism in the ideological field.

Thirteen years earlier, in the week of David's birth, The Times in its Parliamentary report had carried the famous prediction of the first Labour MP, the Member for West Ham South, Keir Hardie. In opposing a motion that a humble address be presented to Her Majesty to congratulate her on the birth of a son, Keir Hardie addressed the House on behalf of those who disowned any allegiance to hereditary rule. To a background of cries of ‘Order!’ and shouts of outrage, he questioned ‘what particular blessing the Royal Family has conferred on the nation.’ Then he turned his fire upon the new-born child who would be called upon one day to rule over the Empire. “We certainly have no means of knowing his qualifications or fitness for this position,” the MP declared. “From childhood onward this child will be surrounded by sycophants and flatterers by the score and will be taught to believe himself as of a superior creation. A line will be drawn between him and the people he is to be called upon someday to reign over. In due course, following the precedent which has already been set, he will be sent on a tour round the world, and probably rumours of a morganatic alliance will follow, and the end of it all will be (that) the country will be called upon to pay the bill.” Keir Hardie sat down to universal cries of ‘Shame!’ from a House of Commons which, forty years later, would as unanimously shout down Winston Churchill‘s efforts to prevent Edward VIII from fulfilling these dire predictions.

All both of you ever said was that it didn’t work out, or that sometimes love wasn’t enough, or some other Hallmark card country song bullshit

Kerry shifted her attention from Hardy to the rest of the still-milling crowd and tried to ignore the murmurs that included Cooper’s nickname for her and speculations on there being yet another McCrae family wedding. She needed to put an end to that before it even started. She clapped her hands, drawing everyone’s attention to her, then strode to the bar and hoisted herself right up on it, straight to her feet. She was no weakling herself. “Okay, listen up, everyone.” The noise abruptly wound down again, though not to the complete silence of before. “I’d like you to meet Cooper Jax, from Cameroo Downs cattle station, Northern Territory, Australia.” Heads swiveled and Cooper smiled, nodded several times, shifting his gaze around the room as he did, easily meeting everyone’s avidly curious gazes. But when that gaze went back to Kerry, despite the smile creasing his handsome face, the look in his eyes was anything but casual. Kerry ignored that. Or tried to. She shifted her attention back to the crowd. “I worked the Jax family’s station for close to a year, just before coming home for Logan’s wedding.” Blueberry Cove was small enough that everyone knew who Logan McCrae was. Not only due to his police chief status but, as it happened, the McCraes were also a founding family of the Cove. There wasn’t much the general populace didn’t know about the entire history of her family, past and present. “Long time for you,” came a voice from somewhere in the crowd. Kerry recognized the scratchy voice; Stokey Parker. A Rusty Puffin regular and one of Fergus’s cronies. “Heard tell you don’t stick in one place too long. Guess we know now what the draw was Down Under.” A chuckle went up in the crowd, and Kerry knew this wasn’t going as she’d planned. Not that she’d had much of a plan. “Thanks, Stokey. Australia is a beautiful country. I loved it there.” That much was sincere. All the same, she carefully kept from looking anywhere near Cooper’s direction. “But I’m home in the Cove now.” She expanded her gaze to encompass the full crowd again. “I appreciate that you’re all entertained by this…little surprise.” She swallowed hard and looked at Cooper as she added, “But there’s not going to be another McCrae wedding.

Duchesse de Branbant, General Jacqueminot, Honorine de Branbant, Mme. Hardy and Salet. Hybrid-tea Roses for Hot, Dry Climates — Double

Duchesse de Branbant, General Jacqueminot, Honorine de Branbant, Mme. Hardy and Salet. Hybrid-tea

A politician who really serves his country well, and deserves his country’s gratitude, must usually possess some of the hardy virtues which we admire in the soldier who serves his country well in the field. Far

Perhaps we live in a wilder place than we give ourselves credit for. Scots tend to be hardy perennials. It's as if we've evolved to withstand the challenging nature of our own country. And what's more, we've worked out how to shape it into a force for good. Out of necessity our homes feature clever ways to keep the outside out and the inside warm. Scotland's oldest towerhouses were built with slits for windows not just as a defensive measure, but to protect residents from the elements. Out of problems came solutions, even beauty. Our foreparents thought to install open fires to heat their homes then toiled to make them easy on the eye. Intricately carved wooden fireplaces and elaborate hearths that referenced Scottish folklore followed.

The boys continued their journey in the deepening darkness. Ahead, the road wound through isolated, hilly country. Here and there they encountered patches of light radiation fog, a phenomenon common to this type of terrain.

None other than John Adams expanded on the theme of the armed citizen in his influential Novanglus series, a refutation of former Whig and now Tory "Massachusettensis" (Daniel Leonard), who argued that Parliament's authority extended to the colonies. In response to the suggestion that the colonies could not defend themselves, partly because the colonies south of Pennsylvania had no men to spare, Adams wrote: But we know better; we know that all those colonies have a back country, which is inhabited by a hardy, robust people, many of whom are emigrants from New England, and habituated, like multitudes of New England men, to carry their fuzees113 or rifles upon one shoulder, to defend themselves against the Indians, while they carry their axes, scythes, and hoes upon the other, to till the ground.

Mr. Dalrymple smiled faintly, then gave the boys a swift, penetrating look. “Like to follow in your world-famous dad’s footsteps, eh—be detectives yourselves, would you?” His keen eyes took in the hiking boots and khaki outfits they wore. “Fine summer morning for a hike.” He added abruptly, “Which direction are you taking?” Before either boy could answer he went on: “Try Shore Road, past the harbor. Turn off and follow Willow River Road out into the country.” “Why?” Frank queried, intrigued. “You’ll pass the old Purdy place. Know the one I mean?

Chet Morton, who was a school chum of the Hardy boys, lived on a farm about a mile out of Bayport. The pride of Chet’s life was a bright yellow jalopy which he had named Queen. He worked on it daily to “soup up” the engine. Frank and Joe retraced their trip for a few miles, then turned onto a country road which led to the main highway on which the Morton farm was situated.

A few minutes later the boys were in the jalopy and driving down a country road bordered by woods. A half mile farther, Chet stopped and turned off the Queen’s engine. The sound of rushing water could be heard. “This is the spot,” Chet announced, and they started off through the woods. The boys soon came to a clear running stream and spotted Mr. Morton seated contentedly on the bank. He was leaning against a tree, holding his rod lightly between his knees and steadying it with his hands. Just as the boys called a greeting to him, the line began to jerk and almost immediately the rod bent till the tip was close to the water. Mr. Morton leaped to his feet and shouted, “Just a minute, fellows! I’ve hooked a lulu!

His hair was the dark, blackish red of eagle plumage hardy enough to withstand the unforgiving northern winter, his eyes the Imperial violet of the gemstones yielded by the Dragon Corpse mountain range, which stood as the shield of the country. His countenance was equal parts elegance and sharpness, the features of a monster made of ice.

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Joe held the speedometer needle at the maximum speed allowed, and the countryside flashed by. When they hit the turnpike, Frank spelled his brother at the wheeL Now, with greater speed, the miles melted past. “She purrs like a kitten,” Frank said. “A great car, Joe.” “Good thing we had the motor tuned up,” Frank remarked as the wind whipped through his hair. After a quick stop for lunch, Joe drove away from the roadside restaurant. “Want to listen to the news?” “Okay. What country’s having a war today?” “Maybe someone has landed on the moon,” Frank said as he clicked on the high-powered transistor.

Hardys set off for the Morton farm at five o’clock. When they arrived, the group learned that Chet had piled hay into his father’s truck, so they could all go on an old-fashioned hayride to the amusement park. “Len is going to drive us,” Iola announced. A big cheer went up from the boys. Len Wharton, a good-natured former cowboy, had recently come to work at the Morton place. Len grinned. “Shucks, I figured that if I was seventeen I sure wouldn’t want to be stuck with the drivin’” Zigzagging through the back-country roads, Len stretched the trip to Elkin

A few minutes later they reached the east side of Bayport. Frank turned into Springdale Avenue. By the time they passed a small stone house numbered fifty-two, they had entered a section where the sidewalks came to an end and buildings were far apart. The car bumped along an uneven dirt road. “We’re practically out in the country,” said Joe. “I’ll bet we’re beyond the city limits.

The Piper farm was difficult to locate. A man cutting grass in a small country cemetery finally put the boys on the right track. He pointed out an abandoned property next to the cemetery. “John Piper died last year,” he informed them. “No one has lived there since.” Frank and Joe got out of the car and crossed the unkempt fields. The whole place was in a state of neglect. Weeds grew high in the yard. Parts of farm machinery lay rusting by a tumble-down fence. The farmhouse windows were boarded.

I can indeed. I did not stand up for Mr Hardy to bring about the Rights of Man, you know. No, no, I only seek to save the British soul by British ways. As Burke says of the British Constitution, madam, the triumph of this country is in its traditions, and as Mr Erskine argued, we break with the habits of our forefathers at our peril.

Orchid hunting is a mortal occupation. That has always been part of its charm. Laroche loved orchids, but I came to believe he loved the difficulty and fatality of getting them almost as much as the flowers themselves. The worse a time he had in the swamp the more enthusiastic he would be about the plants he'd come out with. Laroche's perverse pleasure in misery was traditional among orchid hunters. An article published in a 1906 magazine explained: "Most of the romance in connection with the cult of the orchid is in the collecting of specimens from the localities in which they grow, perhaps in a fever swamp or possibly in a country full of hostile natives ready and eager to kill and very likely eat the enterprising collector." In 1901 eight orchid hunters went on an expedition to the Philippines. Within a month one of them had been eaten by a tiger; another had been drenched with oil and burned alive; five had vanished into thin air; and one had managed to stay alive and walk out of the woods carrying forty-seven thousand Phalaenopsis plants. A young man commissioned in 1889 to find cattleyas for the English collector Sir Trevor Lawrence walked of fourteen days through jungle mud and never was seen again. Dozens of hunters were killed by fever or accidents or malaria or foul play. Others became trophies for headhunters or prey for horrible creatures such as flying yellow lizards and diamondback snakes and jaguars and ticks and stinging marabuntas. Some orchid hunters were killed by other orchid hunters. All of them traveled ready for violence. Albert Millican, who went on an expedition in the northern Andes in 1891, wrote in his diary that the most important supplies he was carrying were his knives, cutlasses, revolvers, daggers, rifles, pistols, and a year's worth of tobacco. Being an orchid hunter has always meant pursuing beautiful things in terrible places. From the mid-1800s to the early 1900s, when orchid hunting was at its prime, terrible places were really terrible places, and any man advertising himself as a hunter needed to be hardy, sharp, and willing to die far from home.

At her best, no one has ever surpassed George Sand as the novelist of Nature, because her style pulsates with a natural vigor and music and because she was a countrywoman as well as a Romantic. Her range includes not only the mysteries and enchantments of distant horizons and perilous wanderings, of superstition and legend, of ecstatic (and often feminist) solitude; but also the closely observed and dearly loved realities of peasant life: the greeds and frugalities, the labor of the seasons, the farm animals and insects, the stolid silences of illiterate folk radiated with their music and dancing, their enchanting dialect speech. Her romans champêtres (La Mare au Diable, François le Champi, La Petite Fadette, Jeanne, Les Maîtres sonneurs, Le Meunier d'Angibault) are those of Sand's novels which have never gone completely out of fashion and to which the English country novelists (George Eliot and Thomas Hardy) were most in debt. But Sand had something her English imitators did not and that was her grasp of history. "Tout concourt à I'histoire," she wrote, "tout est I'histoire, meme les romans qui semblent ne se rattacher en rien aux situations politiques qui les voient eclore." Her country tales and her love stories take place in the churning past and the open future of a world of toppling regimes, shifting classes, and clashing ideologies.

When you expose yourself to new ideas, new experiences, or things you’ve long feared, you will have what social scientists call a disorienting dilemma. This often occurs when people travel to foreign countries, but it can even happen by doing activities you’ve never done before. A disorienting dilemma is when your current mental model is somewhat shattered through exposure to new ideas or experiences that contradict your current way of thinking. Being disoriented and experiencing a transformational learning experience doesn’t mean you lose faith in everything you once believed, though. Rather, it’s about weeding out ineffective and unhealthy ways of thinking and seeing. For instance, when you travel to a foreign country, you may realize that you held prejudices against certain types of people that were frankly incorrect.

The village of Haworth stands, steep and grey, on the topmost side of an abrupt low hill. Such hills, more steep than high, are congregated round, circle beyond circle, to the utmost limit of the horizon. Not a wood, not a river. As far as eye can reach these treeless hills, their sides cut into fields by grey walls of stone, with here and there a grey stone village, and here and there a grey stone mill, present no other colours than the singular north-country brilliance of the green grass, and the blackish grey of the stone. Now and then a toppling, gurgling mill-beck gives life to the scene. But the real life, the only beauty of the country, is set on the top of all the hills, where moor joins moor from Yorkshire into Lancashire, a coiled chain of wild free places. White with snow in winter, black at midsummer, it is only when spring dapples the dark heather-stems with the vivid green of the sprouting wortleberry bushes, only when in early autumn the moors are one humming mass of fragrant purple, that any beauty of tint lights up the scene. But there is always a charm in the moors for hardy and solitary spirits. Between them and heaven nothing dares to interpose. The shadows of the coursing clouds alter the aspect of the place a hundred times a day. A hundred little springs and streams well in its soil, making spots of livid greenness round their rise. A hundred birds of every kind are flying and singing there. Larks sing; cuckoos call; all the tribes of linnets and finches twitter in the bushes; plovers moan; wild ducks fly past; more melancholy than all, on stormy days, the white sea-mews cry, blown so far inland by the force of the gales that sweep irresistibly over the treeless and houseless moors. There in the spring you may take in your hands the weak, halting fledgelings of the birds; rabbits and game multiply in the hollows. There in the autumn the crowds of bees, mad in the heather, send the sound of their humming down the village street. The winds, the clouds, Nature and life, must be the friends of those who would love the moors.

If I have presented them as picturesque and quaint, I have erred. Countryfolk they were, but a bunch of tough nuts. Dawn-to-dusk, fourteen-hour-a-day workers, unshirking and unstinting, stylish in their own New England right, whose plainest, homeliest task became a kind of ritualistic act: the quartering of an apple, the whittling of a stick, the laying of a brick. I appreciated them for their country wisdom, their humility, their hardiness. The sturdy sons of sturdy fathers. I found them people of simple but profound convictions, and I admired them for their love of the soil, their esteem for their village, their reverence for the past, and their determination to hold on to it at all costs. I liked their forthrightness, their modest know-how, their reticence; if they were worried and wearied by debt, or fearful of natural disaster, they alone knew it, for they never confided such things, except perhaps among themselves. It was the freemasonry of those who live close to the earth, with its harsh, often bitter realities.

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