Lend Me A River Quotes

On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, `Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome---lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. `I have come to the river,' she said, `to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide. In the silence of gathering night I asked her, `Maiden, your lights are all lit---then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome---lend me your light.' She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. `I have come,' she said at last, `to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void. In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, `Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome---lend me your light.' She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. `I have brought my light,' she said, `to join the carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights.

Kay suffered from a congenital lack of energy, and after taking books out of W.H. Smith's lending libraries in Swindon and Marlborough she would succumb to a mysterious, destructive lassitude which prevented her from returning them until long after the dates written on the little tickets dangling reproachfully from their spines. Conscious of having incurred a debt which mounted terrifyingly with every day that went by, and unable to compute with even approximate accuracy the sum of the fines to which she might eventually be liable, she would postpone their settlement yet further. When at last Kay feared that some river of no return had been fatally crossed, she judged it too much to much of a risk to be seen passing W.H. Smith's shop windows in either town, and to escape notice, recognition and exposure she would condemn herself to inconvenient detours, dodging down side alleys or hiding behind traffic in the main streets except on safe Sundays and early-closing afternoons. Most of the borrowed books did in the end find their way back to the libraries(sometimes conveyed there by me) but one of her favourites - Without My Cloak by Kate O'Brien - still remained in her possession. Kay's sense of guilt at having in effect stolen Without My Cloak had become so overwhelming that she now refused to visit Marlborough or Swindon at all unless she was covered up in some sort of wrap as a token disguise - in fact(I made myself laugh at the thought as I waited for the hours to pass in my lonely dark hilltop watch) in those places she was never without her cloak!

The next morning, Steve took his boat out and saw what had happened. The big male had triggered the trap and was snared in the mesh--sort of. Even though the rectangular-shaped net was the biggest he had, the croc’s tail and back leg stuck out. But the black ghost had finally been caught. At Steve’s approach, the animal thrashed wildly, smashing apart mangrove trees on either side of the trap. Steve tried to top-jaw-rope the croc, but it was fighting too violently. Normally Chilli acted as a distraction, giving Steve the chance to secure the croc. But the dog wanted no part of this. She cowered on the floor of the dinghy, unwilling to face this monstrously large croc. Steve was truly on his own. He finally secured a top-jaw rope and tied the other end to a tree. With a massive “death roll”--a defensive maneuver in which the reptile spins its enormous body--the big croc smashed the tree flat and snapped it off. Steve tried again; the croc thrashed, growling and roaring in protest at the trapper in khaki, lunging again and again to tear Steve apart. Finally, the giant croc death-rolled so violently that he came off the bank and landed in the boat, which immediately sank. Chilli had jumped out and was swimming for shore as Steve worked against time. With the croc underwater, Steve lashed the croc, trap and all, in the dinghy. But moving the waterlogged boat and a ton of crocodile was simply too much. Steve sprinted several miles in the tropical heat to reach a cane farm, where he hoped to get help. The cane farmers were a bit hesitant to lend a hand, so Steve promised them a case of beer, and a deal was made. With a sturdy fishing boat secured to each side of Steve’s dinghy, they managed to tow it downriver where they could winch croc and boat onto dry land to get him into a crate. By this time, a crowd of spectators had gathered. When Steve told me the story of the capture, I got the sense that he felt sorry he had to catch the crocodile at all. “It seemed wrong to remove the king of the river,” Steve said. “That croc had lasted in his territory for decades. Here I was taking him out of it. The local people just seemed relieved, and a couple even joked about how many boots he’d make.” Steve was very clever to include the local people and soon won them over to see just how special this crocodile really was. Just as he was dragged into his crate, the old croc attempted a final act of defiance, a death roll that forced Steve to pin him again. “I whispered to him to calm him down,” Steve said. “What did you say to him?” I asked. “Please don’t die.” The black crocodile didn’t die. Steve brought him back to Beerwah, named him Acco, and gave him a beautiful big pond that Bob had prepared, with plenty of places to hide. We were in the Crocodile Environmental Park at the zoo when Steve first told me the story of Acco’s capture. I just had to revisit him after hearing his story. There he was, the black ghost himself, magnificently sunning on the bank of his billabong.

Right about then, Sean attempted to stand and reclaim his manhood, only to slip on some slimy melon guts and crash into the floor again. He didn’t exactly pass out, but he was on the nether edges, half listening to the conversation going on above him. “He threw the first punch,” a voice said. “You threw him in the melons!” Franci yelled. “He was grabbing your arm after you told him to go away and leave you alone! Shoot me for trying to lend a hand!” “But then the little guy did hit the big guy,” someone said. And Sean thought, I am not a little guy. I’m definitely six-one. I bench two-fifty with no problem. “But the big guy plastered the little guy, knocked him out.” “I am not little,” Sean mumbled through a swollen jaw, though no one was listening to him. “I didn’t ask you to protect me!” Franci shouted. “I told you to leave him alone!” Yeah, Sean thought. Because I’m harmless. Just how I always wanted her to see me. Harmless. And that was Sean Riordan’s last coherent thought. The

The count says we’re Austrians now. But the countess tells me on the sly: ‘You’re Polish and always will be.’ I asked her if she was Polish too, and she said: ‘Forever.’ ” Tytus led his son to a window, and as if to lend emphasis to what he was about to say, pointed toward the river: “As long as the Vistula flows, it waters the soul of Poland.

Even in the camp, some of the old practices from village life survived. If I pass by a stranger’s open door and they are gathered around the dining table, inevitably, they would invite me to join the meal. Of course, a refusal is customary, but the older people practice a tenacious insistence. They would set down their spoons and come to the doorway, compelling me inside to a bite of rice and a sip of broth. They would say, “There’s not much to eat, but all our hearts will get fuller if we sit together awhile.” If someone died, no one waited for an invitation to visit. We would all go and gather close to speak of our communal grief and lament the loss as a Hmong family. If there was heavy work to be done, such as butchering an animal, or tedious work such as washing baskets of mustard greens, or complicated work such as helping to move a family from one segment of the camp to the other, then everyone close by would lend a hand. In a difficult moment, we would all help carry the sorrow, the weight of work, and the sadness. These are beautiful things about my people.

wood and I found the two-person saw under the porch. Thanks for thinking of us. Do you want to come in? I don’t have any coffee or anything.” “That’s okay. Put on the water. I brought you a jar of peppermint leaves I dried last fall. We can have tea.” Patience follows me through the blue door with her little boy and gives him his red metal fire truck to play with. “Oh, the house looks so pretty. Do you have everything you need? Is there anything more I could lend you?” “No,

I felt obliged to lend her my swim trunks. Getting back entailed making our way over to the Zambian side and then walking up-river on the bank before swimming across. So there I was, a stark-naked white Rhodesian army boy escorting two girls in what was essentially enemy territory, being watched through a pair of binoculars by my commanding officer. It was on the eve of a leave period for me, which got canceled as punishment. That ended up being fortunate, because the following night a platoon of ours got ambushed and sustained heavy casualties, so having an extra medic they could fly in was useful. The rest of my war stories are really mundane and boring. Well, none of them involve red pubic hair, and I’ve always thought, ‘What’s the point of a story without that?’ Haven’t you?