Knitting Needles Quotes

She was knitting a sweater and enjoying the calm atmosphere of her living room when her chubby, beer-drinking, sports-watching husband woke from a nap on the couch screaming, “Touchdown!” At the moment her serenity had been broken, she unconsciously reacted by swinging around and plunging a knitting needle into her husband’s throat. While blood squirted from his throat and his shocked face produced gurgling sounds, she lifted from her chair and drove the other knitting needle into his beer-ballooned stomach over and over again. Blood and beer gushed out of his belly like a punctured fish tank. As her husband gurgled and deflated, she stared down at him with a beaming smile. She had found her new hobby—annihilating assholes. She had cut up her husband into nice little pieces and used him as fertilizer for her backyard garden. Never again did her cozy house get raped by blaring sounds of sports emanating from a television set. The TV went into the garbage and the living room was converted into a tea room.

And I find chopsticks frankly distressing. Am I alone in thinking it odd that a people ingenious enough to invent paper, gunpowder, kites and any number of other useful objects, and who have a noble history extending back 3,000 years haven't yet worked out that a pair of knitting needles is no way to capture food?

I want a sword not a knitting needle -Kalen

. . . And so Charlie Asher . . . led an army of fourteen-inch-tall bundles of animal bits, armed with everything from knitting needles to a spork, into the storm sewers of San Fransciso.

Can you row?" the Sheep asked, handing her a pair of knitting-needles as she spoke. "Yes, a little--but not on land--and not with needles--" Alice was beginning to say.

Marianne's mouth was open in surprise, but Poppy looked murderous. She clutched her reticule as though it contained a weapon. Realizing that it probably held some very sharp knitting needles, Christian reflected that it did.

Really, all you need to become a good knitter are wool, needles, hands, and slightly below-average intelligence. Of course superior intelligence, such as yours and mine, is an advantage.

Amazing what the application of a knitting needle could do for one's manners.

That's me," Tack answered. "Full of surprises. Now, you gonna give Lawson his assurances and make your call or are we gonna get out our knitting needles and chat while we make scarves.

How very American it was to assume that these unsmiling Chinese would be pleased if one showed a preference for their native implements...How very American it was to feel somehow guilty unless one struggled over rice noodles and lumps of meat with things that looked like enlarged knitting needles.

Twelve men conducted the investigation, gathering as on a knitting-needle the accursed stitches of this complicated case all over Moscow.

I saw what I had been fighting for: It was for me, a scared child, who had run away a long time ago to what I had imagined was a safer place. And hiding in this place, behind my invisible barriers, I knew what lay on the other side: Her side attacks. Her secret weapons. Her uncanny ability to find my weakest spots. But in the brief instant that I had peered over the barriers I could finally see what was finally there: an old woman, a wok for her armor, a knitting needle for her sword, getting a little crabby as she waited patiently for her daughter to invite her in.

Old Flossie settle down on the other side of What-the-Dickens and dragged some handiwork out of a sack. She armed herself with two thorns shaped into knitting needles. A wodge of curlicued metallic scrubbing pad supplied the threat. 'I knit handcuffs as a hobby,' explained Old Flossie happily, and set to work. 'Idle hands get up to no good, so I like to be prepared in case I meet up with any idle hands.

He didn’t save us ; haven’t you been listening?” Elizabeth held an icepack to her chin where she’d been hit by an meaty elbow . “Fiona stabbed one of them with a Susan Bates needle, Marie was wielding a tequila bottle, Sandra pistol-whipped the other, and I shot the third.” “Where were Janie and Kat?” Ashley looked from me to Kat. “Hiding behind the couch like sane people!” Kat said before anyone else could speak.

But unvented - ahh! One un-vents something; one unearths it; one digs it up, one runs it down in whatever recesses of the eternal consciousness it has gone to ground. I very much doubt if anything is really new when one works in the prehistoric medium of wool with needles. The products of science and technology may be new, and some of them are quite horrid, but knitting? In knitting there are ancient possibilities; the earth is enriched with the dust of the millions of knitters who have held wool and needles since the beginning of sheep. Seamless sweaters and one-row buttonholes; knitted hems and phoney seams - it is unthinkable that these have, in mankind's history, remained undiscovered and unknitted. One likes to believe that there is memory in the fingers; memory undeveloped, but still alive.

[Francesca] 'You really are a few biscuits short of breakfast.' His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 'You're a few colors shy of a rainbow?' she offered. 'Not pulling a full wagon? Knitting with only one needle? All foam and no beer? Your cheese slid off the cracker? You couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel?' [Nicodemus] 'All right. I get it.

The last time I was on a cruise it was through the Greek islands with Justin, and I was positively glowing with love and post-sex hormones. Now, huddled in a corner with three Aldi bags of knitting needles, crochet hooks and wool, accompanied by an ex-hippy and a sardine sandwich, I can no longer deny the fact that my life has taken a turn for the worse.

Armed to the teeth?" "He had not even a knitting-needle.

Mrs Morton’s knitting needles tutting against each other in disapproval.

He wished that he could break out his knitting, but for some reason, people didn’t take you seriously as a warrior when you were knitting. He’d never figured out why. Making socks required four or five double-ended bone needles, and while they weren’t very large, you could probably jam one into someone’s eye if you really wanted to. Not that he would. He’d have to pull the needle out of the sock to do it, and then he’d be left with the grimly fiddly work of rethreading the stitches. Also, washing blood out of wool was possible, but a pain. Still, if he had to suddenly pull out his sword and fend off an attack, there was a chance he’d drop the yarn, and since he’d been feeling masochistic and was using two colors for this current set of socks, there was absolutely no chance the yarn wouldn’t get tangled and then he’d be trying to murder people while chasing the yarn around. And god forbid the tide rose and he went berserk. You never got the knitting untangled after that; you usually just had to throw it away completely.

You want listeners to smell the lavender, to feel the point of those knitting needles in a handbag of the granny who happens to harbor a loyalty to Madame Defarge. You want the listener to know the wood's burning in the stove when they walk into the song with me. Music is about all of your senses, not just hearing.

By 7:28, all the guests had arrived, and there were three empty seats: one for Eve, who had yet to show up, another for John, who would have a seat after he gave his daughter away, and a third that would remain empty, save for the ball of soft white yarn with two silver knitting needles in it.

(knitting while on a motorcycle) "For several years she knitted in secret (my father would not approve; she was to concentrate on motorcycling and LEAN into the curves, etc), and used a small circular needle (socks and mittens) in order to keep the knitting in her pocket until they were under way; then she leaned back slightly so Gaffer couldn't feel the movement of her hands. On the interstate one day, they were slowly passing a semi and my father happened to see the truck driver laugh and point out my mother's knitting to his passenger. Whoops-

This is it I’m not coming after you I’m going to lie down for half an hour This is it I’m not going down On your memory I’m not rubbing my face in it anymore I’m going to yawn I’m going to stretch I’m going to put a knitting needle Up my nose And poke out my brain I don’t want to love you For the rest of my life I want your skin To fall off my skin I want my clamp To release your clamp I don’t want to live With this tongue hanging out And another filthy song In the place Of my baseball bat This is it I’m going to sleep now darling Don’t try to stop me I’m going to sleep I’ll have a smooth face And I’m going to drool I’ll be asleep Whether you love me or not This is it The new world order Of wrinkles and bad breath It’s not going to be Like it was before Eating you With my eyes closed Hoping you won’t get up And go away It’s going to be something else Something worse Something sillier Something like this Only shorter

I pick up my knitting and wind the yarn around my fingers so I can finish the row. The needles whisper softly as they slide against each other, as if telling secrets.

There were the garden shears, the knitting needles; the world is full of weapons if you're looking for them. I should have paid attention

I love to knit. There's a comfort to it that I can't entirely explain. The repetition of weaving the yarn around the needle and then forming a stitch creates a sense of purpose, of achievement, of progress. When your entire world is unraveling, you tend to crave order and I found it in knitting.

Tip thought this strange Army bore no weapons whatever; but in this he was wrong. For each girl had stuck through the knot of her back hair two long, glittering knitting-needles.

Mr Wisdom,' said the girl who had led him into the presence. 'Ah,' said Howard Saxby, and there was a pause of perhaps three minutes, during which his needles clicked busily. 'Wisdom, did she say?' 'Yes. I wrote "Cocktail Time"' 'You couldn't have done better,' said Mr Saxby cordially. 'How's your wife, Mr Wisdom?' Cosmo said he had no wife. 'Surely?' "I'm a bachelor.' Then Wordsworth was wrong. He said you were married to immortal verse. Excuse me a moment,' murmured Mr Saxby, applying himself to the sock again. 'I'm just turning the heel. Do you knit?' 'No.' 'Sleep does. It knits the ravelled sleave of care.' (After a period of engrossed knitting, Cosmo coughs loudly to draw attention to his presence.) 'Goodness, you made me jump!' he (Saxby) said. 'Who are you?' 'My name, as I have already told you, is Wisdom' 'How did you get in?' asked Mr Saxby with a show of interest. 'I was shown in.' 'And stayed in. I see, Tennyson was right. Knowledge comes, but Wisdom lingers. Take a chair.' 'I have.' 'Take another,' said Mr Saxby hospitably.

Stanley knives, basebaw bats, knuckledusters, beer glesses, sharpened knitting needles,

The addition of knitting needles and twirling yarn made Beckett’s forearm ink the exact replica of the tattoo on Mouse’s chest. “He was my friend and my brother.

I barely eat cake now. The one I’m sending you, make a hole on the top with a knitting needle and pour a glass of whiskey into it to keep it moist.

Women with knitting needles should never be underestimated.

He said he could have you, but that he would eviscerate him with a knitting needle and a hack saw if he ever stepped out of line.

Without an engine, Beebe's bathysphere dangled helplessly from the topside support ship like a ball of yarn suspended from knitting needles.

And, second, I thought I shouldn’t have given her the knitting needles,” says Connie. “But you can’t be ruled by hindsight, can you?” “That is a wise thing to say.

she focused on the pale blue yarn and the way the knitting needles dove in and out of the soft strands, creating every moment something that hadn’t existed before.

Can you kill a ghost by driving a knitting needle through her heart?

I could finally see what was there: an old woman, a wok for her armor, a knitting needle for her sword, getting a little crabby as she waited patiently for her daughter to invite her in.

My ears strain for the sound of claws on the floor, for a soft yawn. For the sound of your knitting needles, gently clicking together. But all I can hear is the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock.

How often do people start down a path and then give up on it entirely? How many treadmills, exercise bikes, and weight sets are at this very moment gathering dust in basements across the country? How many kids go out for a sport and then quit even before the season is over? How many of us vow to knit sweaters for all of our friends but only manage half a sleeve before putting down the needles? Ditto for home vegetable gardens, compost bins, and diets. How many of us start something new, full of excitement and good intentions, and then give up—permanently—when we encounter the first real obstacle, the first long plateau in progress? Many of us, it seems, quit what we start far too early and far too often. Even more than the effort a gritty person puts in on a single day, what matters is that they wake up the next day, and the next, ready to get on that treadmill and keep going.” Excerpt From: Angela Duckworth. “Grit.” iBooks.

The repetition of weaving the yarn around a needle and then forming a stitch creates a sense of purpose, of achievement, of progress. When your entire world is unraveling, you tend to crave order, and I found it in knitting.

Observe her when she has some knitting, or some other woman's work in hand, and sits the image of peace, calmly intent on her needles and her silk, some discussion meantime going on around her, in the course of which peculiarities of character are being developed, or important interests canvassed; she takes no part in int; her humble, feminine mind is wholl with her knitting; none of her features move; she neither presumes to smile approval, nor frown disapprobation; her little hands assiduously ply their unpretending task; if she can only get this purse finished, or this bonnet-grec completed, it is enough for her.

As a songwriter, I'm gathering clues and possibilities all the time, whether I see a piano that day or not. I've tried to explain to people how I collect these dispatches, because I think anybody can do what I'm talking about. Once I do plug in, I might get only one line and two bar phrases of the melody. I always have elements of songs around that may never ever get recorded. As far back as Little Earthquakes, I began to realize that I needed to have a library of notes, phrases, words, things that might prove useful at any given time. Within a few months' time I'll gather hundreds of those fragments. Half won't be used. And then the craft comes in, the part that is about painting a world. You want listeners to smell the lavender, to feel the point of those knitting needles in a handbag of the granny who happens to harbor a loyalty to Madame Defarge. You want the listener to know the wood's burning in the stove when they walk into the song with me. Music is about all of your senses, not just hearing.

This youngster gradually became an intimate visitor of the family. He talked little, but he sat long. He filled the father's pipe when it was empty, gathered up the mother's knitting needle, or ball of worsted, when it fell to the ground, stroked the sleek coat of the tortoise-shell cat, and replenished the teapot for the daughter from the bright copper kettle that sang before the fire. All these quiet little offices may seem of trifling import, but when true love is translated into Low Dutch it is in this way that it eloquently expresses itself.

Captain, have you ever seen a knitting-needle abortion? You are invited to come watch; I understand that one can be quite bloody.” (Even more ridiculous. I can talk about abortion; I can’t do it. Even though this wart inside me is no kin to me, it is nevertheless my innocent guest.)

Stillborn, it was. Or, Stabbed her with a knitting needle, right in the belly. Jealousy, it must have been, eating her up. Or, tantalizingly, It was toilet cleaner she used. Worked like a charm, though you’d think he’d of tasted it. Must’ve been that drunk; but they found her out all right.

I beg to announce to your glorious highness,” began the Scarecrow, in a solemn voice, “that my Emerald City has been overrun by a crowd of impudent girls with knitting-needles, who have enslaved all the men, robbed the streets and public buildings of all their emerald jewels, and usurped my throne.

THIS IS IT This is it I’m not coming after you I’m going to lie down for half an hour This is it I’m not going down on your memory I’m not rubbing my face in it any more I’m going to yawn I’m going to stretch I’m going to put a knitting needle up my nose and poke out my brain I don’t want to love you for the rest of my life I want your skin to fall off my skin I want my clamp to release your clamp I don’t want to live with this tongue hanging out and another filthy song in the place of my baseball bat This is it I’m going to sleep now darling Don’t try to stop me I’m going to sleep I’ll have a smooth face and I’m going to drool I’ll be asleep whether you love me or not This is it The New World Order of wrinkles and bad breath It’s not going to be like it was before eating you with my eyes closed hoping you won’t get up and go away It’s going to be something else Something worse Something sillier Something like this only shorter

The glistening beauty of the rising moon illuminated Mouse’s bare chest and revealed a familiar tattoo with a music note, a cross, and a knife. But in this case, Chaos’ mark featured an addition. The knitting needles fit perfectly into the montage of brotherhood. Patterns. But this pattern had to come to an end.

I was just reaching for my knitting needles when Mary Alice gripped my arm. "Play nice," she murmured. "I wasn't going to kill him," I muttered back. "But a little light stabbing might teach him some manners." "Focus on the job. I'll trip him when we get inside," she promised. "That's real friendship," I told her.

HYGGE TIP: GET KNITTING Why might someone have a knitting needle laying around? Because knitting is extremely hygge. It is a sign of “everything is safe”–it has a certain grandma vibe to it—and even the sound of knitting is hygge. Knitting also brings calmness to the situation and atmosphere. In fact, one of my friends is currently studying to be a midwife. She and her class were told by one of the professors that they should take up knitting because it would have a calming effect on people in the room when the babies were being delivered. Most of the students in the class were knitting during the next class. Oh, and of course, there are bonus hygge points for socks and scarves you’ve knitted yourself.

Starting again: there's a secret hope that makes you hold on, to dream that you'll get it right someday, that you'll go back and take it up again and it will finally come out right. That this time all the pieces will fit. The mistake is waiting until you feel renewed enough to give it another try. You simply have to pick up the needles and keep at it anyway.

Healthy Choices Hold still Keep quiet. Get a degree to learn how to talk saying nothing. Catch a good man by being demure. the one your mother chooses. Let him climb you whenever his urge, amidst headaches and menstrual aches and screaming infants. And when he bids quick, turn over. Hold still. Make your tongue a slab of cement a white stone etched with your name. Kill your stories with knives and knitting needles and Clorox bleach. Hide in your mysteriousness by saying nothing. Starch your thoughts with ironed shirts. Tie your anger with a knot in your throat and when he comes without concern swallow it. Hold still. Keep desire hopeless as ice and sleepless nights and painful as pinched eyelid. Keep your fingers from the razor, keep your longing to sever his condescension safely in your douchbag. Turn the blade against yourself. Don't twitch as your slashed wrists stain your bathroom tiles. Disinfect with Pine Sol. Hold still. Keep quiet. Keep tight your lips, keep dead your dreams, keep cold your heart. Keep quiet. And he will shout praises to your perfection.

It’s bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boy’s games and work and manners! I can’t get over my disappointment in not being a boy. And it’s worse than ever now, for I’m dying to go and fight with Papa. And I can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!” And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.

The raft was seized, with a noise like needles knitting, and we were hemmed in for winter -- river and the old channel's oxbow lake having frozen solid. By now, we guessed we were not two ordinary river travelers...it must have been the river that was extraordinary: a marvel that protected us by the same mysterious action that had given a common horse wings and changed a woman into a laurel tree.

The whole thing starts with a single knot and needles. A word and pen. Tie a loop in nothing. Look at it. Cast on, repeat the procedure till you have a line that you can work with. It’s a pattern made of relation alone, my patience, my rhythm, till empty bights create a fabric that can be worn, if you’re lucky and practised. It’s never too late to pick up dropped stitches... (from "How to Knit a Poem")

I have not yet formulated a plan to force people to knit that is likely to be successful, but the one where I locked resistant people in a freezer filled with yarn and needles has promise, if I can work out the ethical issues.

The moon had risen higher and the moonlight was bright in the little open place. All around it the shadows were dark among the trees. “After a long while, a doe and her yearling fawn came stepping daintily out of the shadows. They were not afraid at all. They walked over to the place where I had sprinkled the salt, and they both licked up a little of it. “Then they raised their heads and looked at each other. The fawn stepped over and stood beside the doe. They stood there together, looking at the woods and the moonlight. Their large eyes were shining and soft. “I just sat there looking at them, until they walked away among the shadows. Then I climbed down out of the tree and came home.” Laura whispered in his ear, “I’m glad you didn’t shoot them!” Mary said, “We can eat bread and butter.” Pa lifted Mary up out of her chair and hugged them both together. “You’re my good girls,” he said. “And now it’s bedtime. Run along, while I get my fiddle.” When Laura and Mary had said their prayers and were tucked snugly under the trundle bed’s covers, Pa was sitting in the firelight with the fiddle. Ma had blown out the lamp because she did not need its light. On the other side of the hearth she was swaying gently in her rocking chair and her knitting needles flashed in and out above the sock she was knitting. The long winter evenings of fire-light and music had come again.

She was never coming back, she no longer knew what knitting was, but wrapping up her scores of needles, her thousand patterns, a baby’s half-finished yellow shawl, to give them all away to strangers was to banish her from the living.

The Browns’ house at number thirty-two Windsor Gardens was unusually quiet. It was a warm summer day, and all the family, with the exception of Paddington, who had mysteriously disappeared shortly after lunch, were sitting on the veranda enjoying the afternoon sun. Apart from the faint rustle of paper as Mr. Brown turned the pages of an enormous book and the click of Mrs. Brown’s knitting needles, the only sound came from Mrs. Bird, their housekeeper, as she prepared the tea things.

I saw what I had been fighting for: It was for me, a scared child, who had run away a long time ago to what I had imagined was a safer place. And hiding in this place, behind my invisible barriers, I knew what lay on the other side: Her side attacks. Her secret weapons. Her uncanny ability to find my weakest spots. But in the brief instant that I had peered over the barriers I could finally see what was really there: an old woman, a wok for her armor, a knitting needle for her sword, getting a little crabby as she waited patiently for her daughter to invite her in.

Carbon dioxide has its own flavor, which affects the overall taste of a drink. (At high partial pressures—which is to say, when a gas contains lots of CO2 relative to other gases—it also sets off the body’s pain receptors, called “nociceptors.” One trick almost every distiller I visited tried to play on me was to get me to stick my head into the vat during the final stages of fermentation, when the headspace—the volume of air above the liquid—is a cloud of CO2. Taking a whiff is like sticking a knitting needle up your nose. Too much of it, and you can pass out and fall right into the vat. Fun!)

I can’t leave him here. Not with them. Not in the fucking dirt.” Beckett grabbed his flashlight with every intention of handing it to Eve so he could carry his friend—no matter how fucking big he was—to someplace better, when the light landed on Mouse’s bare chest. “What the hell?” Beckett touched Mouse’s chest again, and Eve took the light and centered it on the tattoo in question. Beckett traced it for a moment, his finger lingering on the knitting needles that set it apart from his own, and bowed his head. “Now that’s too fucking much,” he said softly. “That hurts too fucking much. Eve, not Mouse. He can’t be gone.

For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of--to think; well, not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless. [...] Not at oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accomplished here something dexterous with her needles) but as a wedge of darkness. [...] Often she found herself sitting and looking, sitting and looking, with her work in her hands until she became the thing she looked at--that light, for example.

What the knitting was, I don't know, not being learned in that art; but it looked like a net; and as she worked away with those Chinese chopsticks of knitting-needles, she showed in the firelight like an ill-looking enchantress, baulked as yet by the radiant goodness opposite, but getting ready for a cast of her net by and by.

Now you understand my meaning,” said my mother triumphantly. I smiled. And really, I did understand finally. Not what she had just said. But what had been true all along. I saw what I had been fighting for: It was for me, a scared child, who had run away a long time ago to what I had imagined was a safer place. And hiding in this place, behind my invisible barriers, I knew what lay on the other side: Her side attacks. Her secret weapons. Her uncanny ability to find my weakest spots. But in the brief instant that I had peered over the barriers I could finally see what was really there: an old woman, a wok for her armor, a knitting needle for her sword, getting a little crabby as she waited patiently for her daughter to invite her in.

They were striking the set of a play, humble, one-handed domestic drama, without permission from the cast. They started in what she called her sewing room—his old room. She was never coming back, she no longer knew what knitting was, but wrapping up her scores of needles, her thousand patterns, a baby’s half-finished yellow shawl, to give them all away to strangers was to banish her from the living. They worked quickly, almost in a frenzy. She’s not dead, Henry kept telling himself. But her life, all lives, seemed tenuous when he saw how quickly, with what ease, all the trappings, all the fine details of a lifetime could be packed and scattered, or junked. Objects became junk as soon as they were separated from their owner and their pasts—without her, her old tea cosy was repellent, with its faded farmhouse motif and pale brown stains on cheap fabric, and stuffing that was pathetically thin. As the shelves and drawers emptied, and the boxes and bags filled, he saw that no one owned anything really. It’s all rented, or borrowed. Our possessions will outlast us, we’ll desert them in the end. They worked all day, and put out twenty-three bags for the dustmen.

undid my knitting. All those little knots that you make one after another, row by row, to knit a sock, I undid them. It’s easy. Take the needles out, a little tug and they just fall apart. One after another, row by row. I undid the extra heel and then I just kept going. The foot, the first heel, the ribbing of the leg. All those loops unraveling themselves as you pull the wool. Then there was nothing left to unravel, only a pile of crinkled blue wool in my lap.

You can tell me all about the new job and lecture me about my lack of focus once I’m done with this mission and giving you this sweater in person. But you’d better meet me somewhere civilized and comfortable, because I’m done with impossible environments.” The comm goes still, and she feels a small ping of guilt for ignoring him. Most ships can’t even handle communications at this range, but the Resistance does have some wonderful toys. Vi puts her boots up and leans back in her seat, focusing on the unwieldy wooden knitting needles that look more like primitive weapons than elegant tools. “It’s all about forward momentum, Gigi,” she says to her astromech, U5-GG. “Better a hideous sweater infused with love than…I don’t know. What other gifts do people give their only living relative? A nice chrono? I shall continue to the end, if imperfectly.” She spins in her chair and holds up what she’s accomplished so far. “What do you think?” Gigi beeps and boops in what sounds

A week later, I was struggling through a scarf. I made a mess of it, randomly adding stitches, dropping stitches, then adding even more. When I showed up with this tangle of wool, Jen pulled it off the needle and all my mistakes were miraculously gone. Unlike life, at least this new life of mine – in which I was forced to keep moving forward through the mess it had become – knitting allowed me to start over again and again, until whatever I was making looked exactly like I wanted it to look.

I am quite safe, I assure you. But, even if I were not, I have the habits of a lifetime to protect me. And Lacey.” “Lacey?” I could not keep incredulity from my voice nor a grin from my face. I turned to exchange a wink with Lacey. Lacey glared at me as if affronted by my smile. Before I could even unfold from the hearth, Lacey sprang up from her rocking chair. A long needle, stripped of its eternal yarn, prodded my jugular vein, while the other probed a certain space between my ribs. I very nearly wet myself. I looked up at a woman I suddenly knew not at all, and dared not make a word. “Stop teasing the child,” Patience rebuked her gently. “Yes, Fitz, Lacey. The most apt pupil that Hod ever had, even if she did come to Hod as a grown woman.” As Patience spoke Lacey took her weapons away from my body. She reseated herself, and deftly rethreaded her needles into her work. I swear she didn’t even drop a stitch. When she was finished, she looked up at me. She winked. And went back to her knitting. I remembered to start breathing again.

the reverend bishop, knowing that Pelagia found it easier to think with her knitting in her hands, told her, “You may knit.” The pointed steel needles began clacking furiously and Mitrofanii frowned as he recalled what dreadful creations those deceptively deft hands brought into the world. At Eastertide the sister had presented the bishop with a white scarf adorned with the letters CA for “Christ is Arisen,” rendered so crookedly that they seemed already to have celebrated the ending of the fast with some gusto. “Who is this for?” His Grace

Win's sense of unease grew as evening settled over the house. She stayed in the parlor with her sisters and Miss Marks until Beatrix had tired of reading. The only relief from Win's growing tension was in watching the antics of Beatrix's ferret, Dodger, who seemed enamored of Miss Marks, despite-or perhaps because of-her obvious antipathy. He kept creeping up to the governess and trying to steal one of her knitting needles, while she watched him with narrowed eyes. "Don't even consider it," Miss Marks told the hopeful ferret with chilling calm. "Or I'll cut off your tail with a carving knife." Beatrix grinned. "I thought that only happened to blind mice, Miss Marks," "It works on any offending rodent," Miss Marks returned darkly. "Ferrets are not rodents, actually," Beatrix said. "They're classified as mustelidae. Weasels. So one might say the ferret is a distant cousin of the mouse." "It's not a family I'd care to become closely acquainted with," Poppy said. Dodger draped himself across the arm of the settee and pinned a love-struck gaze on Miss Marks, who ignored him.

I’m practicing my crocheting at the dinner table, sweat soaking my shapeless shift. Though I’ve grown unspeakably huge, Dr. Krause has assured me there’s only one baby in there. I am so large that it is difficult to cook, but I still prepare all the meals for Stan and Dorothy. “You’re very good at that.” It’s Dorothy. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me knit. She steps behind me and pulls sticky hair from my neck. I shiver at the human touch. She begins twisting the short bits into tufts. “Catherine says you’re pretending.” My needles click. “Pretending what?

Returning to my yarn stash, I select a pair of ebony needles and a lustrous ball of handspun alpaca. Then I quickly cast on to create a light, resilient fabric. We don’t have much time before the students get back, which means the gauge has to be right the first time around. When you’re weaving or knitting enchanted fabrics, gauge is critical. Gauge—the relative density of the fabric—determines the degree to which a magical object can utilize or redirect fields of energy. But magic often requires a mix of skill and sacrifice. It’s not enough to knit a pattern without making a mistake: you also have to give up something of yourself. A heart shroud is a complex spell, filled with twisty cables mimicking the structure of the human heart.

Lambspun’s Whodunnit Shell   Very Easy Knit with Bulky Yarn GAUGE: 2 sts/in   MATERIALS: US size 15 needles (or size to obtain gauge), 14-inch straight Very bulky yarn with gauge of 2 sts per inch   INSTRUCTIONS:     BACK: With yarn required for gauge, CO 40, 44, 46, 50, 52 sts. Work in garter stitch, (knit every row) or if you like an edge that rolls, work in stockinette (knit one row, purl one row) throughout garment. Continue in garter or stockinette until piece measures 8, 8.5, 9, 9, 9 inches or desired length to armhole. At armhole edges BO 3 sts once, 2 sts once, 1 st once. Work on remaining 28, 32, 34, 38, 40 sts until piece measures 14.5, 15, 15.5, 16, 16.5 inches.   NECK SHAPING: Work 11, 12, 12, 14, 15 sts. Join second ball of yarn and bind off center 6, 8, 10, 10, 10 sts. Work remaining sts, turn. Working both sides at once, bind off 1 st from the neck edge 3 times. Continue working on reaming sts until piece measures 17, 18, 18.5, 19, 19.5 inches. Place remaining 8, 9, 9, 11, 12 sts on holders.   FRONT: CO 39, 43, 45, 49, 51 sts. Work in garter stitch, (knit every row) or if you like an edge that rolls, work in stockinette (knit one row, purl one row) throughout garment. Continue in garter or stockinette until piece measures 8, 8.5, 9, 9, 9 inches or desired length to armhole. At armhole edges BO 3 sts once, 2 sts once, 1 st once. Work on remaining 28, 32, 34, 38, 40 sts until piece measures 14.5, 15, 15.5, 16, 16.5 inches.   NECK SHAPING: Same as for back.   FINISHING: Join shoulders with three-needle bind off. Single crochet around every edge. Hand seam sides together. Pattern courtesy of Lambspun of Colorado, Fort Collins, Colorado.

Is it hard for you to be in an Abnegation house again? I meant to ask before. We can go somewhere else, if it is.” I finish my second piece of bread. All Abnegation houses are the same, so this living room is exactly the same as my own, and it does bring back memories, if I look at it carefully. Light glowing through the blinds every morning, enough for my father to read by. The click of my mother’s knitting needles every evening. But I don’t feel like I’m choking. It’s a start. “Yes,” I say. “But not as hard as you might think.” He raises an eyebrow. “Really. The simulations in Erudite headquarters…helped me, somehow. To hold on, maybe.” I frown. “Or maybe not. Maybe they helped me to stop holding on so tightly.” That sounds right. “Someday I’ll tell you about it.” My voice sounds far away. He touches my cheek and, even though we’re in a room full of people, crowded by laughter and conversation, slowly kisses me. “Whoa there, Tobias,” says the man to my left. “Weren’t you raised a Stiff? I thought the most you people did was…graze hands or something.” “Then how do you explain all the Abnegation children?” Tobias raises his eyebrows. “They’re brought into being by sheer force of will,” the woman on the arm of the chair interjects. “Didn’t you know that, Tobias?” “No, I wasn’t aware.” He grins. “My apologies.” They all laugh. We all laugh. And it occurs to me that I might be meeting Tobias’s true faction. They are not characterized by a particular virtue. They claim all colors, all activities, all virtues, and all flaws as their own. I don’t know what binds them together. The only common ground they have, as far as I know, is failure. Whatever it is, it seems to be enough. I feel, as I look at him, that I am finally seeing him as he is, instead of how he is in relation to me. So how well do I really know him, if I have not seen this before?

The nurse brought out some knitting, and clicked her needles sharply. She turned to me, very bright, very cheerful. “How are you liking Manderley, Mrs. de Winter?” “Very much, thank you,” I said. “It’s a beautiful spot, isn’t it?” she said, the needles jabbing one another. “Of course we don’t get over there now, she’s not up to it. I am sorry, I used to love our days at Manderley.” “You must come over yourself sometime,” I said. “Thank you, I should love to. Mr. de Winter is well, I suppose?” “Yes, very well.” “You spent your honeymoon in Italy, didn’t you? We were so pleased with the picture-postcard Mr. de Winter sent.” I wondered whether she used “we” in the royal sense, or if she meant that Maxim’s grandmother and herself were one. “Did he send one? I can’t remember.” “Oh, yes, it was quite an excitement. We love anything like that. We keep a scrapbook you know, and paste anything to do with the family inside it. Anything pleasant, that is.

What’s perhaps strange to say is that I’m not sure I would have gotten there without the period of enforced stillness and the steadiness I found inside of knitting. I’d had to go small in order to think big again. Shaken by the enormity of everything that was happening, I’d needed my hands to reintroduce me to what was good, simple, and accomplishable. And that turned out to be a lot. I now knit while talking to my mom on the phone, during Zoom meetings with my team from the office, and on summer afternoons when friends come to sit on our back patio. Knitting has made watching the evening news a little less stressful. It has made certain hours of the day less lonely, and it’s helped me think more reasonably about the future. I’m not here to tell you that knitting is a cure for anything. It won’t end racism or demolish a virus or vanquish depression. It won’t create a just world or slow climate change or heal anything big that’s broken. It’s too small for that. It’s so small that it hardly seems to matter. And this is part of my point. I’ve come to understand that sometimes the big stuff becomes easier to handle when you deliberately put something small alongside it. When everything starts to feel big and therefore scary and insurmountable, when I hit a point of feeling or thinking or seeing too much, I’ve learned to make the choice to go toward the small. On days when my brain apprehends nothing but monolithic catastrophe and doom, when I feel paralyzed by not-enoughness and my agitation begins to stir, I pick up the knitting needles and give my hands a chance to take over, to quietly click us out of that hard place. In knitting, when you create the first stitch of a new project, you cast on. When an item is finished, you bind off. Both of these actions, I’ve found, are incredibly satisfying—the bookends of something manageable and finite. They give me a sense of completion in a world that will always and forever feel chaotic and incomplete.

They never thought about their age, was a common reply; they had once been adolescents, then they were thirty, fifty, sixty, and never gave it a thought, so why should they do so now? Some of them were very restricted, finding it hard to walk or move, and yet there was nowhere they wanted to go. Others were absentminded, confused, or forgetful, but this worried their carers and relatives more than it did them. Catherine Hope insisted that the residents of the second and third levels remain active, and it was Irina’s job to keep them interested, entertained, and connected. “However old one is, we need a goal in our lives. It’s the best cure for many ills,” Cathy insisted. In her case, the goal had always been to help others, and her accident had not altered this in the slightest. On Friday mornings, Irina used to accompany the most active residents on their street protests, to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. She also took part in the vigils for noble causes and in the knitting club; all the women who could wield a pair of needles (apart from Alma Belasco) were knitting

Dinner was a family affair. And oh, how she enjoyed it! Who knew there was so much to talk about each day? She loved when the men shared stories about their work in the mines, while she often regaled them with stories about life in the castle when she was a small child or about the types of birds she spotted from the window. And then there were the questions. She found she had many! After staying silent for so long, there was much she longed to know, and she was always interested in learning more about the men and their lives. She wanted to know who had carved the beautiful wooden doorways and furniture around the cottage, and why the deer and the birds seemed to linger at the kitchen window while she prepped meals. "They must adore you, as we do," gushed Bashful. "And I you!" Snow would say. She found she could talk to them till the candle burned out each night. It felt like she was finally waking up and finding her voice after years of silent darkness. And while she promised the men she would not do more than her share of the housework, she couldn't help trying to find small ways to repay them for their kindness when she wasn't busy strategizing. Despite their protests, she prepared a lunch basket for them to take to work each day. She mended tiny socks. And secretly, she was using yarn and needles she had found to knit them blankets for their beds. It might have been summer, but she couldn't help noticing they had few blankets for the winter months.

Not liking to think of him so, and wondering if they had guessed at dinner why he suddenly became irritable when they talked about fame and books lasting, wondering if the children were laughing at that, she twitched the stockings out, and all the fine gravings came drawn with steel instruments about her lips and forehead, and she grew still like a tree which has been tossing and quivering and now, when the breeze falls, settles, leaf by leaf, into quiet. It didn't matter, any of it, she thought. A great man, a great book, fame—who could tell? She knew nothing about it. But it was his way with him, his truthfulness—for instance at dinner she had been thinking quite instinctively, If only he would speak! She had complete trust in him. And dismissing all this, as one passes in diving now a weed, now a straw, now a bubble, she felt again, sinking deeper, as she had felt in the hall when the others were talking, There is something I want—something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed. And she waited a little, knitting, wondering, and slowly rose those words they had said at dinner, "the China rose is all abloom and buzzing with the honey bee," began washing from side to side of her mind rhythmically, and as they washed, words, like little shaded lights, one red, one blue, one yellow, lit up in the dark of her mind, and seemed leaving their perches up there to fly across and across, or to cry out and to be echoed; so she turned and felt on the table beside her for a book. And all the lives we ever lived And all the lives to be, Are full of trees and changing leaves, she murmured, sticking her needles into the stocking. And she opened the book and began reading here and there at random, and as she did so, she felt that she was climbing backwards, upwards, shoving her way up under petals that curved over her, so that she only knew this is white, or this is red. She did not know at first what the words meant at all. Steer, hither steer your winged pines, all beaten Mariners she read and turned the page, swinging herself, zigzagging this way and that, from one line to another as from one branch to another, from one red and white flower to another, until a little sound roused her—her husband slapping his thighs. Their eyes met for a second; but they did not want to speak to each other. They had nothing to say, but something seemed, nevertheless, to go from him to her. It was the life, it was the power of it, it was the tremendous humour, she knew, that made him slap his thighs. Don't interrupt me, he seemed to be saying, don't say anything; just sit there. And he went on reading. His lips twitched. It filled him. It fortified him. He clean forgot all the little rubs and digs of the evening, and how it bored him unutterably to sit still while people ate and drank interminably, and his being so irritable with his wife and so touchy and minding when they passed his books over as if they didn't exist at all. But now, he felt, it didn't matter a damn who reached Z (if thought ran like an alphabet from A to Z). Somebody would reach it—if not he, then another. This man's strength and sanity, his feeling for straight forward simple things, these fishermen, the poor old crazed creature in Mucklebackit's cottage made him feel so vigorous, so relieved of something that he felt roused and triumphant and could not choke back his tears. Raising the book a little to hide his face, he let them fall and shook his head from side to side and forgot himself completely (but not one or two reflections about morality and French novels and English novels and Scott's hands being tied but his view perhaps being as true as the other view), forgot his own bothers and failures completely in poor Steenie's drowning and Mucklebackit's sorrow (that was Scott at his best) and the astonishing delight and feeling of vigour that it gave him.

Her needles clicked and flashed triumphantly as her eyes came back from their journeying and fixed themselves upon her work for that one knitting event for which their regard was necessary- the turning of the heel.

The brave and dear man currently has the exact same sweater on needles (in another yarn, thank heavens) and is attempting to finish it in a month in case the whole repair process on the first one doesn’t work out. He’s completely deluded, of course, but it seems to be giving him hope. Imagine trying again. It’s a wonder he’s sober, never mind knitting.

He wished that he could break out his knitting, but for some reason, people didn’t take you seriously as a warrior when you were knitting. He’d never figured out why. Making socks required four or five double-ended bone needles, and while they weren’t very large, you could probably jam one into someone’s eye if you really wanted to. Not that he would. He’d have to pull the needle out of the sock to do it, and then he’d be left with the grimly fiddly work of rethreading the stitches. Also, washing blood out of wool was possible, but a pain.

I touched her cheek, ran my finger down the scar. I guess the wire hanger wasn't strong enough. I probably should have used something that didn't give so easily under pressure. A knitting needle? I'm not sure it would have been long enough.

old ladies once again shared their needles and the cats weren’t the only cats licking people

Now, huddled in a corner with three Aldi bags of knitting needles, crochet hooks, and wool, accompanied by an ex-hippie and a sardine sandwich, I can no longer deny the fact that my life has taken a turn for the worse.

Knitting? I think she’d rather use the needles to stab someone.

That’s why I brought so much yarn,” she explained. “I knit whenever my hands don’t have something else to do. It helps make my thoughts more orderly.” He turned back toward her and saw she’d drawn the yarn out of her pack. Blue and fluffy, it was being transformed into something tubular by the four crisscrossing needles that Raina deftly maneuvered. It was magical seeing a single strand feed into her hands and a three-dimensional object slowly appear on the other side. It was a little like watching a plant grow and bloom, miraculous, from a seed.

wonderfully sensual and depraved ways! I pushed one experimentally through my weave, deep into the tightly knit yarn, shuddering with delight as threads were stretched wide, allowing the needle to slide all the way through!

an old lady stabbed his mum with some kind of knitting needle. The auntie’s done a runner with a man believed to be the boy’s father. Don’t know where they went.

The needles of evolution, endlessly knitting.

Even now, it still seems unbelievable to me that by pulling together a motley collection—the soft yarn, the sharp needles, the scripted pattern, the smoothing hook, the intangibles of creativity, humanity, and imagination—you can create something that will hold a piece of your soul. But you can.

He's resourceful and very good with people. His job will be to form a connection with someone in the mansion so he can get inside and feed us information." "I'll bet he's good with people," Emma muttered. "So long as the people have boobs, money, and utterly no taste." "You remind me of someone I really cared about." Cristian gave her a smooth, guileless smile that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. "We should hang out. I've always enjoyed spending time with older women. You could teach me how to knit." Emma's face turned three shades of fury. "Give me a pair of knitting needles and I'll shove them up your---

As I stand up to leave the room, Mary reaches out to grab my arm with her spindly fingers. “Hold onto that knitting needle I gave you, Amy. You’re going to need it.

Inside the cafe a group of half a dozen women sat around a table knitting. A couple of ageing hippies, one with purple hair, and three younger women who talking earnestly as the needles clicked. Joe had those down as stay-at-home mothers stealing an hour away from the kids. He couldn’t blame them. As he watched, they gathered up their belongings and made their way out, shouting goodbye to the girl behind the counter. There were a few drops of rain heavy on the glass roof of the station, then a downpour, rain bouncing off the concrete in the uncovered area of platform. The group of women gathered in the archway leading out to the town, waiting for it to ease, before running for their cars. As he left the cafe he saw that one of the older women was in the road, her face turned to the sky, laughing until she was drenched. The watching women cheered and clapped.

The divine knitting—Adoration is the clinging of the thread to the needle as the divine hand penetrates the Scriptures and pulls through them by prayer. So His Spirit knits us to Himself.

was the only place he wanted to be right at this moment. Tossing his clothes into a pile on the floor, Jeffrey yanked his pajamas from the drawer, put them on, then climbed under his duvet and pulled it over his head. He just needed to sleep. He’d figure out what to do in the morning. He could hear a ticking sound, but not like the one his clock made. Jeffrey pulled the covers away from his head and looked around the dark room. There was an odd shadow in the chair in the corner. As he swallowed hard and screwed his eyes up to focus, he saw Agnes, her needles clacking as she knitted, her head lowered purposefully over her work. “Mum, what’re you doing?” he whispered. “I could ask you the same thing, laddie.” The little purple head tilted to the side, and his mother’s dark eyes connected with his. “I don’t understand ye, Jeffrey.” Jeffrey sat up in bed and turned on the bedside light. Meanwhile, Agnes carefully wrapped a long strand of wool around the bulk of what she was working on, stuck the needles through the bundle, and placed it behind her as she rose from the chair. He watched her familiar movements, afraid to move or breathe too deeply in case she wafted away. When she sat on the edge of his bed, Jeffrey noted that she made no impression on the duvet, like a butterfly landing on a flower. He leaned back against his pillow and tried

How often do people start down a path and then give up on it entirely? How many treadmills, exercise bikes, and weight sets are at this very moment gathering dust in basements across the country? How many kids go out for a sport and then quit even before the season is over? How many of us vow to knit sweaters for all of our friends but only manage half a sleeve before putting down the needles? Ditto for home vegetable gardens, compost bins, and diets. How many of us start something new, full of excitement and good intentions, and then give up—permanently—when we encounter the first real obstacle, the first long plateau in progress? Many of us, it seems, quit what we start far too early and far too often. Even more than the effort a gritty person puts in on a single day, what matters is that they wake up the next day, and the next, ready to get on that treadmill and keep going

Nila? Did he dare trust the security system?   ****   Nila hurried into the living room, “Lydia, where could I find the church newsletter from last month? Did you keep it?” Lydia lowered her knitting needles. “I think so.

There’s Tom,” Becky says. He’s been tromping around the city half the day, but I don’t see a speck of mud on him. Though he dresses plain, it always seems he rolls out of bed in the morning with his hair and clothes as neat and ordered as his arguments. We walk over to join him, and he acknowledges us with a slight, perfectly controlled nod. He’s one of the college men, three confirmed bachelors who left Illinois College to join our wagon train west. Compared to the other two, Tom Bigler is a bit of a closed book—one of those big books with tiny print you use as a doorstop or for smashing bugs. And he’s been closing up tighter and tighter since we blew up Uncle Hiram’s gold mine, when Tom negotiated with James Henry Hardwick to get us out of that mess. “How goes the hunt for an office?” I ask. “Not good,” Tom says. “I found one place—only one place—and it’s a cellar halfway up the side of one those mountains.” Being from Illinois, which I gather is flat as a griddle, Tom still thinks anything taller than a tree is a mountain. “Maybe eight foot square, no windows and a dirt floor, and they want a thousand dollars a month for it.” “Is it the cost or the lack of windows that bothers you?” He pauses. Sighs. “Believe it or not, that’s a reasonable price. Everything else I’ve found is worse—five thousand a month for the basement of the Ward Hotel, ten thousand a month for a whole house. The land here is more valuable than anything on it, even gold. I’ve never seen so many people trying to cram themselves into such a small area.” “So it’s the lack of windows.” He gives me a side-eyed glance. “I came to California to make a fortune, but it appears a fortune is required just to get started. I may have to take up employment with an existing firm, like this one.” Peering at us more closely, he says, “I thought you were going to acquire the Joyner house? I mean, I’m glad to see you, but it seems things have gone poorly?” “They’ve gone terribly,” Becky says. “They haven’t gone at all,” I add. “They’ll only release it to Mr. Joyner,” Becky says. Tom’s eyebrows rise slightly. “I did mention that this could be a problem, remember?” “Only a slight one,” I say with more hope than conviction. “Without Mr. Joyner’s signature,” Becky explains, “they’ll sell my wedding cottage at auction. Our options are to buy back what’s ours, which I don’t want to do, or sue to recover it, which is why I’ve come to find you.” If I didn’t know Tom so well, I might miss the slight frown turning his lips. He says, “There’s no legal standing to sue. Andrew Junior is of insufficient age, and both his and Mr. Joyner’s closest male relative would be the family patriarch back in Tennessee. You see, it’s a matter of cov—” “Coverture!” says Becky fiercely. “I know. So what can I do?” “There’s always robbery.” I’m glad I’m not drinking anything, because I’m pretty sure I’d spit it over everyone in range. “Tom!” Becky says. “Are you seriously suggesting—?” “I’m merely outlining your full range of options. You don’t want to buy it back. You have no legal standing to sue for it. That leaves stealing it or letting it go.” This is the Tom we’ve started to see recently. A little angry, maybe a little dangerous. I haven’t made up my mind if I like the change or not. “I’m not letting it go,” Becky says. “Just because a bunch of men pass laws so other men who look just like them can legally steal? Doesn’t mean they should get away with it.” We’ve been noticed; some of the men in the office are eyeing us curiously. “How would you go about stealing it back, Tom?” I ask in a low voice, partly to needle him and partly to find out what he really thinks. He glances around, brows knitting. “I suppose I would get a bunch of men who look like me to pass some laws in my favor and then take it back through legal means.” I laugh in spite of myself. “You’re no help at all,” Becky says.

The only relief from Win’s growing tension was in watching the antics of Beatrix’s ferret, Dodger, who seemed enamored of Miss Marks, despite—or perhaps because of—her obvious antipathy. He kept creeping up to the governess and trying to steal one of her knitting needles, while she watched him with narrowed eyes. “Don’t even consider it,” Miss Marks told the hopeful ferret with chilling calm. “Or I’ll cut off your tail with a carving knife.” Beatrix grinned. “I thought that only happened to blind mice, Miss Marks.” “It works on any offending rodent,” Miss Marks returned darkly. “Ferrets are not rodents, actually,” Beatrix said. “They’re classified as mustelidae. Weasels. So one might say the ferret is a distant cousin of the mouse.” “It’s not a family I’d care to become closely acquainted with,” Poppy said. Dodger draped himself across the arm of the settee and pinned a love-struck gaze on Miss Marks, who ignored him.

Holly Berries A Confederate Christmas Story by Refugitta There was, first, behind the clear crystal pane, a mammoth turkey, so fat that it must have submitted to be killed from sheer inability to eat and move, hung all around with sausage balls and embowered in crisp white celery with its feathered tops. Many a belated housekeeper or father of a family, passing by, cast loving glances at the monster bird, and turned away with their hands on depleted purses and arms full of brown paper parcels. Then there were straw baskets of eggs, white and shining with the delightful prospect of translation into future eggnogs; pale yellow butter stamped with ears of corn, bee hives, and statuesque cows with their tails in an attitude. But these were all substantials, and the principal attraction was the opposition window, where great pyramids of golden oranges, scaly brown pineapples, festoons of bananas, boxes of figs and raisins with their covers thrown temptingly aside, foreign sauces and pickles, cheeses, and gilded walnuts were arranged in picturesque regularity, jut, as it seemed, almost within reach of one’s olfactories and mouth, until a closer proximity realized the fact of that thick plate glass between. Inside it was just the same: there were barrels and boxes in a perfect wilderness; curious old foreign packages and chests, savory of rare teas and rarer jellies; cinnamon odors like gales from Araby meeting you at every turn; but yet everything, from the shining mahogany counter under the brilliant gaslight, up to the broad, clean, round face of the jolly grocer Pin, was so neat and orderly and inviting that you felt inclined to believe yourself requested to come in and take off things by the pocketful, without paying a solitary cent. I acknowledge that it was an unreasonable distribution of favors for Mr. Pin to own, all to himself, this abundance of good things. Now, in my opinion, little children ought to be the shop keepers when there are apples and oranges to be sold, and I know they will all agree with me, for I well remember my earliest ambition was that my papa would turn confectioner, and then I could eat my way right through the store. But our friend John Pin was an appreciative person, and not by any means forgetful of his benefits. All day long and throughout the short afternoon, his domain had been thronged with busy buyers, old and young, and himself and his assistant (a meager-looking young man of about the dimensions of a knitting needle) constantly employed in supplying their demands. From the Southern Illustrated News.

Finger knitting was the greatest — no knitting needles needed. She looped the yarn over her fingers, one, two, three, four, back, over, under, through

Nerissa,” he called after the retreating pair. She turned and looked at him, her eyes wounded, the tears still wet upon her face. “It is bad enough that you would marry a man so far beneath you,” he said. “It is bad enough that you would marry a man that your family does not accept, a man for whom you have thrown away your birthright, heritage and country, a man who will never be able to keep you in the comfort and luxury in which you’ve been raised and to which you’ve been accustomed.” He waited for his words to sink in, and then he dropped the killing blow. “But for you to knowingly walk off with an accused killer, a man who murdered his very best friend….” Bang. He saw the fatal shot hit home as the blood drained from the Parasite’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nerissa said uncertainly, and tried to continue on. “Don’t you? Do you mean this vermin you’ve wed hasn’t told you?” Lucien’s smile was coldly triumphant. “Josiah Brown. A duel, 1776. You shot him, didn’t you, O’ Devir? Your very best friend in the world, and all over a woman you both purported to love.” The blows he’d dealt the Irishman during the fight were nothing compared to the damage his words now caused, and Lucien felt a dark and savage satisfaction as he watched stunned denial and fear, yes fear, steal the color from that rascal’s hated face. “Dolores Foley was the wench’s name, wasn’t it? And she’s dead now, too.” The Irishman looked as though he’d been stabbed through the heart with a knitting needle. “I didn’t kill her.” “Of course you didn’t,” Lucien said loftily, and gave a dramatic sigh. “You didn’t need to. But you did kill Brown, you were convicted and sentenced to hang, and it was only your friend John Adams’s brilliance that got you out of the noose in an appeal that should never have been made.” O’ Devir flushed with rage. “Ye know nothin’ of what happened.” “Oh, I know all of it. Have you told my sister about this particular little… tidbit of your past?” By the dawning horror in Nerissa’s face, he had not. “I think we’ve all heard enough,” Brendan said, nodding for his wife to join him as he took the duke by the elbow and tried to force him away. “Some things are over and done with, and that’s one of them.” “Ah, well… always best to know everything there is to know about a person before you marry them,” Lucien murmured. His smile was pitiless and cold. “You’re correct, Merrick. It is time to leave.

--Birthday Star Atlas-- "Wildest dream, Miss Emily, Then the coldly dawning suspicion— Always at the loss—come day Large black birds overtaking men who sleep in ditches. A whiff of winter in the air. Sovereign blue, Blue that stands for intellectual clarity Over a street deserted except for a far off dog, A police car, a light at the vanishing point For the children to solve on the blackboard today— Blind children at the school you and I know about. Their gray nightgowns creased by the north wind; Their fingernails bitten from time immemorial. We're in a long line outside a dead letter office. We're dustmice under a conjugal bed carved with exotic fishes and monkeys. We're in a slow drifting coalbarge huddled around the television set Which has a wire coat-hanger for an antenna. A quick view (by satellite) of the polar regions Maternally tucked in for the long night. Then some sort of interference—parallel lines Like the ivory-boned needles of your grandmother knitting our fates together. All things ambigious and lovely in their ambiguity, Like the nebulae in my new star atlas— Pale ovals where the ancestral portraits have been taken down. The gods with their goatees and their faint smiles In company of their bombshell spouses, Naked and statuesque as if entering a death camp. They smile, too, stroke the Triton wrapped around the mantle clock When they are not showing the whites of their eyes in theatrical ecstasy. Nostalgias for the theological vaudeville. A false springtime cleverly painted on cardboard For the couple in the last row to sigh over While holding hands which unknown to them Flutter like bird-shaped scissors . . . Emily, the birthday atlas! I kept turning its pages awed And delighted by the size of the unimaginable; The great nowhere, the everlasting nothing— Pure and serene doggedness For the hell of it—and love, Our nightly stroll the color of silence and time.

My secret name for the annex was "the hen-coop". Glued to the nesting boxes of their favorite wicker chairs, the inmates sat click-clacking knitting needles, hatching balls of wool, their silence pierced only by an occasional frail voice of meaningless conversation. Flapping imaginary wings, "Cock-a-doodle-dooing," and "Chook-chooking", I ran through crowing, but not so loudly as to frighten them or be rude. I see now the old women's pinched faces, stiff and severe as the potted aspidistras beside them, only masked despair. With nothing to do but breathe, they knitted and crocheted memories and lost dreams into tangible objects. On the hour as though on cue, the old chickens roused, froze suddenly still, before exchanging smiles and nodding some shared secret to one another as the wild music from Bruges' church bells rang out the time from the many belfries, rattling teh panes and vibrating through the "hen house" with deep echoes. And I'd leap to the wild music - a dancing puppet pulled by unseen strings.

means of dealing with the Three Furies before they drove her crazy or assassinated each other with rolling pin or knitting needle.

After consciously enduring a twelve-inch knitting needle navigated into the unseen recesses of my pelvis and almost passing out at the sensation of my hip inflating with fluid and somehow clinging to my sanity through the hour-long, migraine-inducing blare of the imaging contraption, which resembled a compact wind tunnel, possessed the amplification capability of a Marshall stack, and pushed my patience beyond the limits of superhuman endurance, I was informed by my orthopedist that the image of my still-smoldering hip had revealed, and I quote, “just a little inflammation.” In the world of orthopedic medicine, “a little inflammation” apparently qualifies as sound diagnosis.

There are endless variations on Broomstick Lace, also known as Jiffy Lace, and ways it can be combined with other stitches to create wonderful fabrics. The version demonstrated here is the most basic of these - master this and you can do the rest! For broom stick lace you will need one extra tool in addition to the usual yarn and hook - a dowel, large knitting needle, or even an actual

Giddy-up, giddy-up!" she cried, switching her horse's flanks with one of her mother's long knitting needles as a riding crop. "Take it easy!" Bear protested. "I'm going as fast as I can!" Caroline had to laugh at the sight. "Now if you don't ride nicely, I'll buck you off and run for the woods!" "No, you won't," retorted Bianca smugly. "It's too cold out there. Giddy-up!

Grand Duchess Marie pronounced knitting a wonderful escape from life’s problems: ‘When the needles slip through the fingers, your imagination takes flight.’ —new york times, may 12, 1936

It’s a scarf,” said Horace. “Miss P was able to smuggle me a pair of needles, and I knitted it while I was in my cell. I reckon that making it kept me from going mad in there.” I thanked him and unfolded it. The scarf was simple and gray with knotted tassels on the ends, but it was well made and even had my initials monogrammed in one corner. JP.

I set up the skin of Estelle's bird number 5, the marbled godwit---- a migratory visitor to Florida, like me. I draw the beak twice as long as the head, tapering down to the width of a knitting needle, then fill in the back and wings with terrazzo mottling, brown and black and white. It has long legs and an exquisite neck. I hope this bird gets a prominent place in the exhibit. On my second sheet, a young woman kneels on black soil, her back to the viewer, dark hair in a chignon. She pulls at the weeds that crowd her precious bee balm, betony, dock, and rue. She wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist, avoiding the dirt on her glove. I should go see my mother today, but to be honest, I don't feel like it. Yes, she's an oldish person, displaced from her home, who might count on someone to come and break her solitude. But that journal entry... I simmered while Loni played... gives new color to my lifelong weariness. Godwit. I draw the bird flying blessedly north, displaying her gorgeous cinnamon wings.

socks were knit using the five-needles

pair of knitting needles,

We cannot go to your home. It's not even good enough for rats." Aumont snorted out a laugh. "Oh, that is untrue, sir! The rats are quite at home there! They are my dearest friends. I was going to knit them little scarves for the winter." Darling couldn't hold back his own laugh. "You never were!" "I swear it. I was." Aumont's smile was a rare and wonderful thing, and Darling had so rarely seen it without a sharp tinge of bitterness in the curl of his mouth. "I was going to sit there hunched over like a tricoteuse at the foot of the guillotine, needles clacking together as I made all my little rat scarves." Darling didn't know whether to laugh again, or to kiss him. Aumont snapped his twig in half, and mimed knitting. "You're just jealous that I did not offer to knit you one." "I'm not a rat, sir, and I am not jealous!

The world had accepted my absence with a shrug, I realised that email breeds email, and if you just stop, it stops. I would like to say I felt calmed and soothed by this. In truth, I felt affronted - like my ego had been poked with a knitting needle. All this mania, all these demands on my time, I realised, made me feel important. I wanted in a sudden rush to send emails in order to get emails back - to feel needed again. I clicked over to my Twitter feed. I had precisely the same number of Twitter followers that I had when I left. My absence had been entirely unnoticed.

As souvenirs he carried away a Boer carbine, a band triangle, a half-knitted sock made with needles fashioned from barbed wire and a set of leg fetters.

My hands followed their hands. We knit and purled, purled and knit. And after a time, something interesting started to happen. My focus narrowed; my mind felt a little splash of ease. In all my decades of staying busy, I had always presumed that my head was fully in charge of everything, including telling my hands what to do. It hadn’t really ever occurred to me to let things flow the opposite way. But that’s what knitting did. It reversed the flow. It buckled my churning brain into the back seat and allowed my hands to drive the car for a while. It detoured me away from my anxiety, just enough to provide some relief. Any time I picked up those needles, I’d feel the rearrangement, my fingers doing the work, my mind trailing behind.

Sometimes you recognize a tool only after it starts working for you. And sometimes, it turns out, the smallest of tools can help us to sort through the largest of feelings. I learned this a couple of years ago when I mail-ordered myself some knitting needles without quite realizing what I needed them for.

Like the fairies of old, who were repelled by cold iron, she felt like she’d spent too much time in the crowded, brightly lit, fast-paced world normal people inhabited and she longed for a crackling fireplace, the click of knitting needles, and the lullaby of ocean waves.

Even the two moose were surprised. It was almost as cold as Iceland, but not quite. They decided to occupy the last hour on deck knitting hats and scarves for Snugs, Carla, and James. Clickety-click went their knitting needle antlers...

Sighing, she wished Pallas were here right now. Then she’d have someone friendly to talk to. Shoving the pink scroll aside, Athena pulled out a ball of yellow yarn. Knitting relaxed her, and it would help disguise the fact that she was a loser with no friends. The soft click, click of her needles was a comforting sound. When lunch period was nearly over, she remembered the cookie. Finding it under the pink scroll, she tore off the wrapper and bit into it. Instantly, a small, dramatic voice announced, “You’ll be famous.” “What?” Athena looked around, her eyes wide. No one was near. “Who said that?” she asked. But no one answered. She took another bite.

Next door was a vegetarian café and deli, and next to that was the Wooly Bear yarn shop. Its logo was a caterpillar in shades of yellow, green, and scarlet. Maggie went in. The shop was warm and bright, with one entire wall given over to cubbyholes filled with yarns of every hue in many weights and fibers. The opposite wall held small skeins and spools of thread on pegs for embroidery and quilting. There were racks of pattern books and magazines, and in the back a mini classroom was set up with a small maple table and folding chairs, now accommodating a group of eight-year-olds wielding fat knitting needles and balls of oversize wool. A girl of about sixteen wearing a Rye Manor sweatshirt was helping a little boy to cast on stitches.

As the repetitive knit one, purl one worked its magic, the tension tightening my spine seeped out into the needles and got lost in the motion.

CAMERA BACKS AWAY to reveal the tidy, clinical abomination of the head and wires and pipes. The head is on a tripod. There is a black box with winking colored lights hanging under the head, where the chest would normally be. Mechanical arms come out of the box where arms would normally be. There is a table within easy reach of the arms. On it are a pen and paper, a partially solved jigsaw puzzle and a bulky knitting bag. Sticking out of the bag are needles and a sweater in progress. Hanging over SYLVIA’s head is a microphone on a boom.

Girls like me were a waste of time for doctors. With no money and no connections - otherwise we wouldn't accidentally end up on their doorstep - we were a constant reminder of the law that could send them to prison and close down their practice for good. They would never tell us the truth, that they weren't prepared to sacrifice their career for some young doe-eyed damsel foolish enough to get knocked up. Or maybe their sense of duty was such that they would have chosen to die rather than break a law that could cost women their lives. They must have assumed that most women would go through with the abortion anyway, in spite of the ban. All in all, plunging a knitting needle into a womb weighed little next to ruining one's career.

I sewed like other people knitted, to occupy my mind, to calm my nerves; I never felt safer than I did with a needle in my hand.

My hands—I might as well start thinking of them as mine, since nobody else was using them—itched to get around a pair of knitting needles. Better to count stitches and rows and cable crosses than to dwell on what I’d lost. Or rather, what I’d kept, and what Celia had lost.

Mohair jumpers, knitted on big needles, so loosely that you can see all the way through them, T-shirts slashed and written on by hand, seams and labels on the outside, showing the construction of the piece; these attitudes are reflected in the music we make. It’s OK not to be perfect, to show the workings of your life and your mind in your songs and your clothes. And everything you do in life is meaningful on a political level.

Listen . . . shall we just ask Hermione if we can have a look at what she’s done?” Harry glanced over at her; she was sitting with Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flashed in midair in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf socks.

The tub wife fills. The pork wife cures. The quill wife writes. The soap wife scrubs. The needle wife knits. The lard wife spreads. The door wife knocks. The candle wife burns. The clock wife chimes. The broom wife sweeps. The womb wife conceives. The stamp wife licks herself.

Firestarter Create an image of the archetype of Burning Woman. What does she look like? What symbols represent her? Paint her, draw her, collage or art journal her. Sculpt her from clay or papier maché, needle-felt or knit her...what colour and form suits her best? Where might you keep her so her presence is visible to you as you read?

After dinner, the king spoke. "That was all very nice, my dear," he said, "but you must have been mistaken. That was how your grandfather grew food, not how he made gold." "Right," she said as she pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders and gazed longingly at the fire. Even in the palace she could feel the chill of autumn. Time for phase two, she thought. "Of course you're right," she said. "I told you it was long ago. But I think I remember now. He didn't grow gold. He knitted it with golden knitting needles.

Vivienne [Westwood] and Malcolm [McLaren] use clothes to shock, irritate and provoke a reaction but also to inspire change. Mohair jumpers, knitted on big needles, so loosely that you can see all the way through them, T-shirts slashed and written on by hand, seams and labels on the outside, showing the construction of the piece; these attitudes are reflected in the music we make. It’s ok not to be perfect, to show the workings of your life and your mind in your songs and your clothes. And everything you do in life is meaningful on a political level. That’s why we’re all merciless about each other’s failings and why sloppiness is derided.

Now let me hear some details about dogs and lake.” He gave her an account of the night. She listened attentively, though her knitting needles never stopped clicking. He loved that gentle, rhythmic sound. Although . . . perhaps that was simply because it waseasier to admit that he loved the sound rather than that he loved the woman.

Euonymus europaeus, also known as the spindle tree. Later I found out that it is native to Britain and, more importantly, native to the northern regions of Europe where many of the stories in the Grimm Brothers’ collection originated. It is sometimes called skewerwood, or prickwood, because as well as spindles (which are not sharp) it was used for goads and skewers and knitting needles (which are). Also, every bit of the tree is poisonous.

Diversity is not, however, a virtue in itself. Heterogeneous teams, by definition, are less tight knit and can be more difficult to motivate because the bonds that tie them are looser. Trust, mutual respect, and open debate have to be encouraged right from the start—an essential element of the social process of innovation. Done right, the advantage of diversity is that there are many different kinds of minds crackling all around a subject. A team of people who think alike may, in fact, be more cohesive and report less friction—but it is also less apt to come up with answers that move the needle.

Aunt Octavia was sitting in the front parlor, her hands working a pair of knitting needles like she meant to kill the sweater instead of knit it.

The men swoop close upon Melena, near enough to abduct her; her knees buckle but she manages to keep from crumpling to the ground. They surround her, crowd her, though don’t touch her. Nanny is at last on her feet. Her agility augmented by this crisis, she rushes at the marauders. She hammers at their shoulders with a pair of tweezers. A knitting needle from her apron pocket proves more useful for getting to Melena’s side. Boozy is keening and wringing her hands—perhaps a touch theatrically, it must be said. Severin and Snapper fall into hand-to-hand combat with the newcomers. Though the Quadling hired guides are, so far, being treated as lightly as possible. Before long the rest of the missionary’s entourage, its straggling Quadling bearers and aides, has disappeared in the underbrush. Frex is missing. Elphie is missing. Nessa is presumably napping aloft in her bassinet. While Nanny, Melena, Snapper, and Severin are packed tightly, back to back, surrounded by a wreath of pointing spears. Boozy returns to packing up her cookware. Suddenly she shows little interest in what’s happening in the middle of the camp. Spoons bundled with spoons, two knives wrapped in plantain leaves to help them keep their sharp opinions to themselves.

Although invisible to Church and State, it was women who knitted the country together, and in Faha, on Sunday morning after mass, you could see the needles.

cat needed to play? When Nana settled on the couch to knit a sweater for her grandson, Socks was so fascinated by the movement of her knitting needles that he had to jump up beside her to watch. She eyed him with disapproval, but when he sat very, very still, the way he sat while watching a bug crawl across the floor, she did not object. He did not take his eyes from those flashing needles until, with one

This night seriously better not end with me needing to stab somebody with a knitting needle.

The night old Grizel gave birth to the second litter of her breeding career a spring storm raged, a storm of such proportions that - as Ted Jennings put it afterwards - the thunderclaps were like bleedin’ ’owitzer batteries. The train's knitting needles beat with unremitting fury against the windows, the gale whistled and raged into every comer of the hunt kennels at Owlhurst, through the yards and into the boiler room, the flesh hovel and the lodging-rooms, where the melodrama of the thunder and lightning kept some of the fox-hounds wailing continuously until dawn, while every now and then came a wild neighing from the stables.

The only signs of life within were the polite notes left for tradesmen in the wire cage that hung from the gate. Pale green wool, the shade of a cabbage heart. Knitting needles (x 3). Three sharp flensing knives and a ball of string (large). Beef for Hogmanay, please. Hung for at least three weeks. The people of Loyal were accustomed to check the basket as they passed Altnaharra and left the goods there when next they happened by. Payment was left in the cage in the same fashion, always correct to the farthing. It was said in Loyal that the residents of Altnaharra opened the gate at night under the autumn moon and ran wild over the moor, painted blue, looking for souls to take. Some said they were all long dead, and that the isle was now populated by ghosts. Jamie did not set any store by this. Ghosts and fairies did not use such things as lamb mince or wool.

There were the eternal problems: suffering; death; the poor. There was always a woman dying of cancer even here. And yet she had said to all these children: You shall go through with it. To eight people she had said relentlessly that (and the bill for the greenhouse would be fifty pounds). For that reason, knowing what was before them – love and ambition and being wretched alone in dreary places - she had often the feeling: Why must they grow up and lose it all? And then she said to herself, brandishing her sword at life, nonsense. They will be perfectly happy. No, she thought, putting together some of the pictures he had cut out – a refrigerator, a mowing machine, a gentleman in evening dress – children never forget. For this reason it was so important what one said, and what one did, and it was a relief when they went to bed. For now she need not think about anybody. She could be herself, by herself. And that was what she now often felt the need of – to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others. Although she continued to knit, and sat upright, it was thus that she felt herself; and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless. And to everybody there was always this sense of unlimited resources, she supposed; one after another, she, Lily, Augustus Carmichael, must feel, our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless. There were all the places she had not seen; the Indian plains; she felt herself pushing aside the thick leather curtain of a church in Rome. This core of darkness could go anywhere, for no one saw it. They could not stop it, she thought, exulting. There was freedom, there was peace, there was, most welcome of all, a summoning together, a resting on a platform of stability. Not as oneself did one find rest ever, in her experience (she accomplished here something dexterous with her needles), but as a wedge of darkness.

The adults went off to the cinema and meanwhile the other children tied me to a chair and pretended to torture me with a knitting needle. I never told my parents anything, but I’ll always remember the perspiration and prodding and, more than anything, that unfamiliar sensation in my stomach, a wave of nausea that rippled out to all my limbs, oozing like mud, as it dawned on me that someone much less intelligent could destroy me if they wanted to. The exterior world was an inhospitable place with absurd rules, teeming with savages. So I took refuge in myself and didn’t trust a soul.

Don’t be,’ I said. ‘It happens all the time. Well, most of the time … once in a while … okay, hardly ever, but let’s not worry about that now. No, I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to make you pay for what you’ve done.’ ‘Pay?’ the somebody sniggered. ‘If only I’d brought some loose change.’ ‘Good joke,’ I groaned, ‘but only one person will be laughing when I get myself out of this particular fix … and it won’t be you!’ I paused. ‘It’ll be me. And I will get out of it. Yes, I’m stood on the roof of a rather large building and yes, you want me to jump, but that doesn’t mean anything. Not in the grand scheme of things. The way I see it, this isn’t over ‘til the fat lady— whoa!’ My sentence was left hanging as I did the exact opposite. The somebody prodded, the knitting needle stabbed and my body jerked. I began to wobble. Then I did something else entirely. I fell off the roof. ‘Goodbye,’ said the somebody. ‘Forever.’ This time there was no coming back. I was on my way. Over and out. Going … going … gone.

Ozunov paced up and down and addressed the backs of their heads, his hands clasped behind him. “On your desk are sealed envelopes. Do not touch them. Also a pair of knitting needles. Do not touch them, either. We presume you to know what they are, much as we presume that you have never used them.” They laughed politely. [...] He paced silently, his boots slapping the scrubbed wooden floor, and breathed with a fury. “The point is, comrades, you don't know. Not such a difficult solution, is it? You don't know because the letter is sealed. It could be birthday greetings from the Belgian consul. It could be a love note from the stable boy. It could be anything. Now, how shall we discover this elusive truth?” Kerenyi: “Take the letter out and read it.” “Brilliant! You shall now all do exactly that. When I give the word, you have ten minutes. Oh, by the way …” He stopped, leaned over Voluta and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don't tear the envelope. We don't want the gentleman to know that someone is reading his mail. And here's a hint, little as any of you deserve it, use the knitting needles.” [...] Khristo Stoianev held the letter in one hand, the envelope, still sealed, in the other. The letter read: Meet at noon by Spassky Tower. Ozunov could feel his heart beating. It was the throb of the prospector finding golden flecks in an ordinary rock. What was this? A magnificent discovery, to be wrapped carefully and delivered, in all humility, to his superiors? Or something else. Something bad. Something very, very bad indeed. He began to sweat. Closed his eyes, reviewed the last few weeks in his mind. Khristo had discovered the small, unsealed slit at the side of the envelope where the glue line ended. He had squeezed the envelope so that the slit bulged slightly; peering inside, he had seen the fold of the letter within. Carefully, he ran one needle inside the fold, then inserted the second needle between the top of the fold and the upper edge of the envelope flap so that the needles sandwiched the fold of the letter between them. With great patience, he began to rotate both needles, and soon the letter became a tube of paper with the needles at its core. When he had the whole letter, he drew it toward him through the slit.