Woodland Creature Quotes

Kate, perhaps you need to explain to your significant other that he is in no position to give me orders. Last time I checked, his title was Beast Lord, which is a gentle euphemism for a man who strips nude at night and runs around through the woods hunting small woodland creatures. I'm a premier Master of the Dead. I will go where I please.

Okay.” Nate took a deep breath. “Now that we’re all caught up on the new no-no’s of the house, what do you say we find a tarp and some duct tape and MacGyver ourselves a new window in the living room? Just, you know, to keep out the wind…and the leaves…and any sharp-toothed woodland creatures prone to attacking people in their sleep.” Tristan raised a brow. “What?” Nate shrugged. “Death by dragon? Awesome. Death by rabid forest squirrel? Not cool, man. Not cool.

Books entered my house under cover of night, from the four winds, smuggled in by woodland creatures, and then they never left. Books collected on every surface; I believe that somehow they managed to breed

Such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!

No settled family or community has ever called its home place an “environment.” None has ever called its feeling for its home place “biocentric” or “anthropocentric.” None has ever thought of its connection to its home place as “ecological,” deep or shallow. The concepts and insights of the ecologists are of great usefulness in our predicament, and we can hardly escape the need to speak of “ecology” and “ecosystems.” But the terms themselves are culturally sterile. They come from the juiceless, abstract intellectuality of the universities which was invented to disconnect, displace, and disembody the mind. The real names of the environment are the names of rivers and river valleys; creeks, ridges, and mountains; towns and cities; lakes, woodlands, lanes roads, creatures, and people. And the real name of our connection to this everywhere different and differently named earth is “work.” We are connected by work even to the places where we don’t work, for all places are connected; it is clear by now that we cannot exempt one place from our ruin of another. The name of our proper connection to the earth is “good work,” for good work involves much giving of honor. It honors the source of its materials; it honors the place where it is done; it honors the art by which it is done; it honors the thing that it makes and the user of the made thing. Good work is always modestly scaled, for it cannot ignore either the nature of individual places or the differences between places, and it always involves a sort of religious humility, for not everything is known. Good work can be defined only in particularity, for it must be defined a little differently for every one of the places and every one of the workers on the earth. The name of our present society’s connection to the earth is “bad work” – work that is only generally and crudely defined, that enacts a dependence that is ill understood, that enacts no affection and gives no honor. Every one of us is to some extent guilty of this bad work. This guilt does not mean that we must indulge in a lot of breast-beating and confession; it means only that there is much good work to be done by every one of us and that we must begin to do it.

Okay." Nate took a deep breath. "Now that we're all caught up on the new no-no's of the house, what do you say we find a tarp and some duct tape and MacGyver ourselves a new window in the living room? Just, you know, to keep out the wind ... and the leaves ... and any sharp-toothed woodland creatures prone to attacking people in their sleep." Tristan raised a brow. "What?" Nate shrugged. "Death by dragon? Awesome. Death by rabid forest squirrel? Not cool, man. Not cool." "You're immortal, Nate," Gabriel said. "So? That doesn't mean I want rabies." Nate shook his head. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have medieval aliens to defeat.

There are some woodland creatures that, no matter how many bread crumbs you leave out for them ... no matter how patiently you wait ... are never going to be yours. They'll never let themselves be tamed. Because they prefer to run wild and free in the forest.

It seemed truly frightening that it was only by sheer chance that she had met Nick. It could so easily not have happened and then she would have had a shadowy, half-alive existence, like some sort of woodland creature who never sees sunlight, never even knowing how much she could love and how much she could be loved. Elisabeth once said — very definitely and severely — that the right man didn't complete you, you have to find happiness yourself, and Alice nodded agreeably, while thinking to herself, 'Oh, but yes he does.

How many times do I have to tell you, Amelia? Men are like little woodland creatures. You have to lure them to you with tiny breadcrumbs and soft words of encouragement. You cannot simply whip out a rock and conk them over the head with it.

He'd been wrong about her, had seen her as some timid woodland creature who might skitter too close to him if she wasn't careful, and get caught in his snare if he wasn't even more careful than her, but in fact she was simply kind. Nothing so benign as nice or pleasant, but kind. There was nothing soft or gentle about that trait in a world that specialized in crushing it.

I thought about it for a moment. Should I dress up like a bush and stalk poor, innocent woodland creatures that will be brutally gunned down as they frolic in the glade? Or should I spend more time confined to a room with Danny’s mother? “Okay, we’ll go hunting if it really means that much to you.

I held onto Caeden’s neck with one hand and used the other to keep my dress from flashing my fanny at any unsuspecting woodland creatures. The sight might shock them to death.

Even the ones who were gay were so deep in the closet they were frolicking with woodland creatures in Narnia.

Beast Lord, which is a gentle euphemism for a man who strips naked at night and runs around through the woods hunting small woodland creatures.

YES! a ten! ...eight...nine...ten!" "Landing you in the Enchanted Forest, which is MY domain. 600 gold, please." "My Scottie dog will not pay your tyrannical toll!" "Nimona... " "He rallied the oppressed woodland creatures and organized a revolt!" "It just so happens I am a just ruler and am greatly admired by all my subjects." "Squirrels scale the walls of the castle and bears batter down the gates! Bloody chaos ensues! The Enchanted Forest is ours!" "I'm taking the 600 gold anyway." "HIGHWAY ROBBERY! " "Plus another 600 for damages.

When Yvrea is sad, she looks like a lost woodland creature that needs to be rescued. Gwendafyn looks more like a broken yet beautiful myth of yore…and I can’t believe I just used the word yore in my own mind. I’m spending too much time with elves.

I wrote to one of my doctors: I could never have guessed what would get me through this past year - a woodland snail and its offspring; I honestly don't think I would have made it otherwise. Watching another creature go about its life...somehow gave me, the watcher, purpose too. If life mattered to the snail and the snail mattered to me, it meant something in my life mattered, so I kept on...

Confirmed. Complete negative on Imperial activity,' Yendor replied. 'Unless the Empire's drafting small woodland creatures all of a sudden.

I can also speak to small woodland creatures,” he grins at me.

And for God’s sake brush your hair before you go. It looks like there’s a woodland creature nesting inside.

You have an unusual voice,' he says. 'Raspy. Quite fetching, really.' 'I damaged my vocal cords a long time ago,' I inform him. 'Screaming.' Oak steps between us, and I am grateful for the reprieve. 'What a fine gentleman you make, Jack.' Jack turns to the prince, his sinister smile dropped back into place. 'Oak and Wren, Wren and Oak. Delightful. Named for woodland creatures, but neither of you so simple.' He glances at Tiernan and Hyacinthe. 'Not nearly as simple as these two.

At the stomp of boots on grass, I ease my eyes open. Aithinne leans down with a grin. “You didn’t die. See? I told you it was easy.” She offers me a hand and I take it, rising unsteadily to my feet. “I’ve been bitten by some demonic woodland creature. My legs have been shredded by razor-sharp trees. We almost died. Easy? I’m getting you a damn dictionary.” I inspect my bleeding arm. The cut bisects five of the marks Lonnrach made, and I feel inexplicably proud of that. Good. Replace the old, bad memories with new badges. Start over. “A dictionary,” she repeats. “Is that a type of dessert?” For the love of—“It’s a type of book that explains the meaning of words.” “Oh. That sounds terribly dull. I was really hoping for dessert.” I’m hoping to end this rescue with my sanity intact.

The heroes cleansed our world of chthonic terrors -- earthborn monsters that endangered mankind and threatened to choke the rise of civilisation. So long as dragons, giants, centaurs and mutant beasts infested the air, earth and seas we could never spread out with confidence and transform the wild world into a place of safety for humanity. In time, even the benevolent minor deities would find themselves elbowed out by the burgeoning and newly confident human race. The nymphs, dryads, fauns, satyrs and sprites of the mountains, streams, meadows and oceans could not compete with our need and greed for land to quarry, farm and build upon. The rise of a spirit of rational enquiry and scientific understanding pushed the immortals further from us. The world was being reshaped as a home fit for mortal beings only. Today, of course, some of the rarer and more vulnerable mortal creatures that have shared the world with us are undergoing the same threats to their natural territories that cuased the end of the nymphs and woodland spirits. Habitat loss and species extinction have all happened before. The days of the gods themselves were numbered too. Prometheus's gift of fire, as Zeus had feared, would one day allow us to do even without the Olympians.

It was almost twilight, long shadows of oaks and chestnuts crossing the unpaved road leading away from the village. This part of England had not yet been deforested to feed the fleets and factories that had sprung up in the major cities. The woodlands were still pristine and other-worldly, scored with small cartways half-buried by overhanging branches thick with leaves. In the gathering shade the trees were wreathed in vapor and mystery, like sentinels for a world of druids and warlocks and unicorns. A brown owl glided over the lane, mothlike in the darkening sky.

The creature which stood before me was no bigger than a child, yet I would have sworn she was wood nymph. With pointed ears, translucent skin and a halo of woodland flowers in her silvery hair, the small woman held a strange presence. Besides the creature's obvious beauty, I couldn't draw my gaze away from her magnificent opaque wings. They fluttered in the breeze like the leaves above us.

The Wild Swans at Coole The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans. The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold, Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake’s edge or pool Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day To find they have flown away

The Elven people believe that preservation of the land and all that lives and grows upon it, plant and animal alike, is a moral responsibility. They have always held this belief foremost in their conduct as creatures of the earth. In the old world, they devoted the whole of their lives to caring for the woodlands and forests in which they lived, cultivating its various forms of vegetation, sheltering the animals that it harbored. Of course, they had little else to concern them in those days, for they were an isolated and reclusive people. All that has changed now, but they still maintain a belief in their moral responsibility for their world. Every Elf is expected to spend a portion of his life giving back to the land something of what he has taken out of it. By that I mean every Elf is expected to devote a part of his life to working with the land–to repairing damage it may have suffered through misuse or neglect, to caring for its animals and other wildlife, to caring for its trees and smaller plants where the need to do so is found.

O," said he, "these children do not all come from the near houses, the woodland houses, but from the country-side generally. They often make up parties, and come to play in the woods for weeks together in summer-time, living in tents, as you see. We rather encourage them to it; they learn to do things for themselves, and get to notice the wild creatures; and, you see, the less they stew inside houses the better for them.

Nothing moved in that high wilderness save the wind. They did not speak. They were men of another time for all that they bore christian names and they had lived all their lives in a wilderness as had their fathers before them. They'd learnt war by warring, the generations driven from the eastern shore across a continent, from the ashes at Gnadenhutten onto the prairies and across the outlet to the Woodlands of the west. If much in the world were mystery the limits of that world were not, for it was without measure or bound and there were contained within it creatures more horrible yet and men of other colors and beings which no man has looked upon and yet not alien none of it more than were their own hearts alien in them, whatever wilderness contained there and whatever beasts.

A very big problem we have, as a human race, is our repeated failure to identify and to acknowledge all of the parts within us and we collectively and individually spend time and energy on denying so many inner natures, in a hot pursuit of moral codes and annoying virtues, that we have shrunken away within ourselves and left on top merely a malnourished container which feeds on static energy (knee jerk emotions, responses to stimuli, etc.). We are afraid of the creatures that roam the woodlands within us and we are afraid of the abandoned castles, eerie lakes, old songs, forgotten gazebos, all of which are established on the inside of the mind. There is maybe an old chair in a corner of a diner inside of your mind and you push it away and away and further away instead of going back to it, to sit down on it, to have a milkshake at that table. We have forged a worldwide culture wherein we are constantly struggling towards a moral good and it is supposed to be a daily attainment, and yet, nobody ever is good enough at the end of the day. And so we have cut off pieces of ourselves–arms and legs–because everything is nothing, or is wrong, in our bids to be worthy. No wonder we are all so lonely. We have amputated ourselves, and one another, in a bid to run away from the souls which take residence inside of us. Then we blame this loneliness on the world, or on other people's cowardice, or on the stupidity of the human race... we have failed to embrace the monsters within us long enough to give them chances to sprout silky wings and we have failed to embrace the laughs that we wish to free from our chests, if they do not fall into the norms of the standards for our own acceptance. No wonder we are so lonely. We are not lonely because we don't have one another; we are lonely because we do not have our own selves!

General propositions – universal laws governing human thinking and human existence – leave room for many individualistic permutations. How shall I survive the specter of tomorrow, what is my life plan, and how will I come to terms with the finite lives of all humankind? How do I heal seeping internal wounds that lacerations weaken personal resolve? A person whom avoids seeking fame and fortune and engages in contemplative thought will enjoy a heightened state of existence. My survival hinges upon shedding the shackles of modern time’s economic rigors; seeking penance through heartfelt contrition; accepting a vision quest devoid of wanting; rejoicing in my budding curiosity; loving nature; giving breath to living without fear and apprehension; and eliminating any form of want or angst from my cerebral being. Unshackling myself from the burdens of the past – guilt, remorse, anger, and petty resentments – is part of the healing process. The other part of a rehabilitation prescription is declaring free rein to live in the present one moment at a time. After all, humankind is the only member of the animal kingdom that walks this earth with the foreknowledge of its ultimate demise, but why would any person allow information pertaining to our personal fate ruin a perfectly good walk in nature’s woodlands with our fellow creatures?

I don’t like raccoons. They look … shifty, with their little burglar masks and everything. Also, they carry rabies. Can I catch rabies? Probably not. All the same, it sounds gruesome—and I think we all know that cute, fuzzy woodland creatures are not to be trusted on general principle.

I HAVEN’T HAD the Dream in a long time. But it’s back. And it’s changed. It does not begin as it always has, with the chase. The woods. The mad swooping of the griffins and the charge of the hose-beaked vromaski. The volcano about to erupt. The woman calling my name. The rift that opens in the ground before me. The fall into the void. The fall, where it always ends. Not this time. This time, these things are behind me. This time, it begins at the bottom. I am outside my own body. I am in a nanosecond frozen in time. I feel no pain. I feel nothing. I see someone below, twisted and motionless. The person is Jack. Jack of the Dream. But being outside it, I see that the body is not mine. Not the same face. As if, in these Dreams, I have been dwelling inside a stranger. I see small woodland creatures, fallen and motionless, strewn around the body. The earth shakes. High above, griffins cackle. Water trickles beneath the body now. It pools around the head and hips. And the nanosecond ends. The scene changes. I am no longer outside the body but in. Deep in. The shock of reentry is white-hot. It paralyzes every molecule, short-circuiting my senses. Sight, touch, hearing—all of them join in one huge barbaric scream of STOP. The water fills my ear, trickles down my neck and chest. It freezes and pricks. It soothes and heals. It is taking hold of the pain, drawing it away. Drawing out death and bringing life. I breathe. My flattened body inflates. I see. Smell. Hear. I am aware of the soil ground into my skin, the carcasses all around, the black clouds lowering overhead. The thunder and shaking of the earth. I blink the grit from my eyes and struggle to rise. I have fallen into a crevice. The cracked earth is a vertical wall before me. And the wall contains a hole, a kind of door into the earth. I see dim light within. I stand on shaking legs. I feel the snap of shattered bones knitting themselves together. One step. Two. With each it becomes easier. Entering the hole, I hear music. The Song of the Heptakiklos. The sound that seems to play my soul like a guitar. I draw near the light. It is inside a vast, round room, an underground chamber. I enter, lifted on a column of air. At the other side I see someone hunched over. The white lambda in his hair flashes in the reflected torch fire. I call to him and he turns. He looks like me. Beside him is an enormous satchel, full to bursting. Behind him is the Heptakiklos. Seven round indentations in the earth. All empty.

Your beauty is lingering, like the baroque golden-framed cracking oils of a Botticelli painting come to life, magnified by your flawless amiable ease, your unquestionable courtesy towards a stranger, that indescribable nuclear luminosity as if you were a woodland creature surrounding by a flashing kaleidoscope of monarch butterflies simply because they enjoyed your presence.

Mav laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple. "Damn, I love you." She went still, like a woodland creature who'd spotted a predator. "You look more scraed of me than the assassin chasing us," he said dryly. "Mav-" a taut whisper filled with so much emotion. He loved this woman. This smart, spunky, loyal woman. He'd convince her of that after they got out alive.

I could never have guessed what would get me through this past year--a woodland snail and its offspring; I honestly don't think I would have made it otherwise. Watching another creature go about its life . . . somehow gave me, the watcher, purpose too. If life mattered to the snail and the snail mattered to me, it meant something in my life mattered, so I kept on . . . Snails may seem like tiny, even insignificant things compared to the wars going on around the world or a million other human problems, but they may well outlive our own species.

I wonder for the first time, with a sharply caught breath, if I did love Peeta then. If the grief that poured out of me during his Games had been the outcry of a breaking heart, rendered powerless to prevent her beloved's pain. If I agreed to his bargain not simply to save my family but because my heart desperately wanted to live in the glow of his. If the kiss I clumsily pressed to his cheek after the Reaping – the kiss that sent me sprinting back to the woods to burrow among the roots of an old tree and cry myself sick – had nothing to do with debt or gratitude and everything to do with love and loss. I wonder if I've loved him since that moment under the apple tree when a boy with a bruised cheek threw burnt bread and life to a dying girl. A girl who grew and thrived because of that boy and that bread, who wished for five years that she could have soothed his cruel bruise with a kiss. Was that why I kissed him after the Reaping? Had I been carrying that clumsy kiss inside of me all that while? Had Peeta brought life to my heart as well as my body that hopeless day in the rain? Have I ever not loved him? I shake away these troubling thoughts with a shiver that reaches to my bones. My love for Peeta is fresh and fragile as a hatchling, I'm sure of it; kindled by his compassion and coaxed into its present brave blaze by the tenderness he shows me at every moment. It's foolish and futile to wonder whether I might have loved him before coming here, let alone when that love might first have flickered into existence. I am a wild creature, devoted to the boy who tamed me with warmth and food and gentle touches, and I accordingly express that love with woodland gifts. Like a courting bird in an old tale, bringing her sweetheart all manner of odd little presents to feather his nest.

As I move slowly along a woodland edge, or through a meadow, or within a patch of scrubby heathland; as I get low to the ground to observe insects feeding on their herbs of choice; as my joy ratchets up towards ecstasy… As all of these things happen, I find my feet, knees, and hands sinking into the soil and my soul being consumed by the habitat. And I find time passing only to keep flying creatures from falling out of the sky.

Pleistocene elephants were not the puny monsters that we rode at the zoo, but dinosaur-sized creatures like the West Runton elephant, from the last-but-one interglacial, displayed at Norwich Castle. All continents had giant mammals in previous interglacials: super-elephants, super-rhinoceroses, super-sloths in South America, even an elephantine marsupial in Australia. They survived many glacial cycles, but died out around the last glaciation, when the super-fierce Homo sapiens expanded. If Upper Palæolithic people exterminated them – and what else could it have been? – the

Rollo and Cynthia Bankvole are bellringers, just as Tess and I once were. Rollo’s latest yearning is to become a squirrel and join the band of Sam and Elmtail to become part of the Mossflower Patrol. That Rollo, he will probably want to be a badger next. Constance is getting ready to sit out in the sun and take things easy. She is teaching Auma all she knows, and some season soon Auma will become the Mother of Redwall. She is dearly loved by every creature in our Abbey. Orlando is Constance’s firm friend and they are seldom apart. His axe hangs in Great Hall. As Lord of the Western Plains he only has to stand on the west battlements to survey his lands. Last summer the Churchmouse family was united to the Warriors, much to the delight of my mother and Cornflower. Mattimeo and my sister Tess were married. Our parents like to sit out in the sun a lot, my mother and father, Cornflower and Matthias. Like all life, they are growing no younger. They prefer to talk of the old times with friends, and that is good. They deserve a little rest and peace after bringing us up, though Matthias still joins Basil and Orlando to train the defenders. It is difficult to believe that we have all grown from young scamps into responsible creatures. But I am rambling. I will finish my writings and go outside into the sunlight, to the ceremony and the feast at the main gate. Forgive me for not telling you earlier, but today we have a new Redwall Champion and a naming party. Matthias is to place the great sword in the paws of his son Mattimeo, and he will be our Abbey Warrior from henceforth; there is one scamp who made doubly good. Did I not tell you? Tess and Mattimeo have a little son and I am an uncle! My mother and Cornflower chose the new baby’s name; he is to be called Martin. So the legend of Redwall has come full circle, through Martin to Matthias, from Matthias to Mattimeo, and finally back to the little life we are all so proud of: Martin, Son of the Warrior. The bells are tolling for the ceremony, so you will have to pardon me for hurrying off like this. May your lives be as full and happy as ours, and may the seasons be kind to you and your friends. The door of our Abbey is always open to any traveller roaming the dusty path between the woodlands and the plains. Tim Churchmouse (Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country).

Lila.” Matt stepped toward me as though approaching a frightened woodland creature. “You weren’t supposed to be here tonight.” Of course, I wasn’t supposed to be here.

Kate, perhaps you need to explain to your significant other that he is in no position to give me orders. Last time I checked, his title was Beast Lord, which is a gentle euphemism for a man who strips naked at night and runs around through the woods hunting small woodland creatures. I’m a premier Master of the Dead. I will go where I please.

All Hallows Eve has come. The timeless turning of the Sky has whirled and rushed, creaked and groaned, and finally aligned with a hallowed doorway of Sabbat embedded in the great whiteness and darkness behind it. The day begins to fade; a long Owl-light heralds the hidden season of mists, the ancient winter, the carnival of misrule. Shadows grow lengthy; the sun turns red and then black, and the air is dark. The screaming of insects, the sound of the bullbat, the barks and growls of creatures unseen all begin to permeate the nighted woodlands. The air is chilly, but that cold isn't only the weather; it is the cold of Elfhame seeping out into the human world.

For two years I have lived in woodlands and enchanted castles, torn between contemplation and action: on the one hand hoping to catch a glimpse of the face of the beautiful creature of mystery who, each night, lies down beside her knight; on the other, having to choose between the cloak of invisibility or the magical foot, feather, or claw that could metamorphose me into an animal.

The air was pure and still, and early sunshine sparkled on the heavy dew. In the valley sat cotton candy mist, and the distant hills stood softly, their edges blurred and colors muted by the moist air. Swallows and house martins swooped and dipped, hungry for their breakfasts, catching the first rise of insects of the day. The honeysuckle and roses had not yet warmed to release their scent, so the strongest smell was of wet grass and bracken. Laura smiled, breathing deeply, and walked lightly through the gate into the meadows. She hadn't the courage to head off onto the mountain on her own just yet but could not wait to explore the woods at the end of the fields. By the time she reached the first towering oaks, her feet were washed clean by the dew. She felt wonderfully refreshed and awake. As she wandered among the trees she had the sense of a place where time had stood still. Where man had left only a light footprint. Here were trees older than memory. Trees that had sheltered farmers and walkers for generations. Trees that had been meeting points for lovers and horse dealers. Trees that had provided fuel and food for families and for creatures of the forest with equal grace. As she walked deeper into the woods she noticed the quality of sound around her change. Gone were the open vistas and echoes of the meadows and their mountain backdrop. Here even the tiniest noises were close up, bouncing back off the trunks and branches, kept in by the dense foliage. The colors altered subtly, too. With the trees in full leaf the sunlight was filtered through bright green, giving a curious tinge to the woodland below. White wood anemones were not white at all, but the palest shade of Naples yellow. The silver lichens which grew in abundance bore a hint of olive. Even the miniature violets reflected a suggestion of viridian.

Until the moment they locked eyes on the CBS plane, each so startled their masks fell, and Truman was, for only a fragment of a moment, no longer the startlingly self-assured prodigy but a lost little boy, forgotten. And Babe was, beneath the couture and makeup, a shy, unsure woodland creature, hugging herself for comfort.

She smiled at him more frequently as they chatted about nothing in particular, pointing out various flowers and the occasional woodland animal to each other. They saw plump squirrels in the trees, pheasants in the brush, and a horned stag and his shy, delicate does gliding soundlessly through the shadows. On three separate occasions, he caught her gazing at him longer than she should. He felt distracted, entranced, and painfully alive as he watched her in the mellow autumn afternoon, dazzled by the coppery richness of her golden hair. Her innocence captivated him, and her guileless simplicity healed him somehow. He felt like a man whose fever had broken, flush with the euphoria of the first, tenuous return of strength- still weak, but buoyant with the hope of an eventual return to wholeness.

Living out in the wilds of Manitoba, I write a lot as a substitute for human interaction. I'm quite shy and retiring. Think of me as some gentle, wide-eyed woodland creature, more afraid of you, than you are of it... like a grizzly bear.

Angels aren’t as aloof and detached from our world as you’d think they’d be. Take my mom, for example. When she cries, it storms. When she’s happy, woodland creatures clean our house. When she’s angry, things explode.

Horseman is the haunting sequel to the 1820 novel The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving and takes place two decades after the events that unfolded in the original. We are introduced to 14-year-old trans boy Bente “Ben” Van Brunt, who has been raised by his idiosyncratic grandparents - lively Brom “Bones” Van Brunt and prim Kristina Van Tassel - in the small town of Sleepy Hollow, New York, where gossip and rumour run rife and people are exceedingly closed-minded. He has lived with them on their farm ever since he was orphaned when his parents, Bendix and Fenna, died in suspicious and enigmatic circumstances. Ben and his only friend, Sander, head into the woodland one Autumn day to play a game known as Sleepy Hollow Boys, but they are both a little startled when they witness a group of men they recognise from the village discussing the headless, handless body of a local boy that has just been found. But this isn't the end; it is only the beginning. From that moment on, Ben feels an otherworldly presence following him wherever he ventures, and one day while scanning his grandfather’s fields he catches a fleeting glimpse of a weird creature seemingly sucking blood from a victim. An evil of an altogether different nature. But Ben knows this is not the elusive Horseman who has been the primary focus of folkloric tales in the area for many years because he can both feel and hear his presence. However, unlike others who fear the Headless Horseman, Ben can hear whispers in the woods at the end of a forbidden path, and he has visions of the Horseman who says he is there to protect him. Ben soon discovers connections between the recent murders and the death of his parents and realises he has been shaded from the truth about them his whole life. Thus begins a journey to unravel the mystery and establish his identity in the process. This is an enthralling and compulsively readable piece of horror fiction building on Irvings’ solid ground. Evoking such feelings as horror, terror, dread and claustrophobic oppressiveness, this tale invites you to immerse yourself in its sinister, creepy and disturbing narrative. The staggering beauty of the remote village location is juxtaposed with the darkness of the demons and devilish spirits that lurk there, and the village residents aren't exactly welcoming to outsiders or accepting of anyone different from their norm. What I love the most is that it is subtle and full of nuance, instead of the usual cheap thrills with which the genre is often pervaded, meaning the feeling of sheer panic creeps up on you when you least expect, and you come to the sudden realisation that the story has managed to get under your skin, into your psyche and even into your dreams (or should that be nightmares?) Published at a time when the nights are closing in and the light diminishes ever more rapidly, not to mention with Halloween around the corner, this is the perfect autumnal read for the spooky season full of both supernatural and real-world horrors. It begins innocuously enough to lull you into a false sense of security but soon becomes bleak and hauntingly atmospheric as well as frightening before descending into true nightmare-inducing territory. A chilling and eerie romp, and a story full of superstition, secrets, folklore and old wives’ tales and with messages about love, loss, belonging, family, grief, being unapologetically you and becoming more accepting and tolerant of those who are different. Highly recommended.

I wish I could take a quick trip to the Legacy Orchard right about now and do some research on strange forests and talking animals! This is definitely someone else's story,' she thought. Still, it sounded like this forest had a mystery that needed solving and some animals that needed helping. Rosabella was always looking out for woodland friends in trouble.

Fluttershy is a natural beauty with gentle, serene ways. Despite her shy and unassuming nature, Fluttershy has a unique gift with animals. Her sweetness and sincerity can charm every animal, from tiny woodland creatures to the most powerful of mythical beasts, making her a valuable asset to her friends in all their adventures. Although she's afraid of heights (very embarrassing for a Pegasus) and shies away at the slightest sound, Fluttershy has no problem confronting grumpy manticores or scolding greedy dragons. While she lacks confidence, she has an inner strength that comes out when others are in trouble. Fluttershy has a lot of fears to overcome, but one day her strength of character and enormous heart will make her a force to be reckoned with.

You haven’t asked me to marry you,” Elle said. “My darling, Elle. When I ask you, I will make it as romantic as possible, shower you with food, and do everything in my power to woo you. However, I find myself less than enthused by the prospect of any more surprises, so I would like to be sure. Is that what you see in our future?” “We will fight.” “And then we will forgive each other.” “I will still rub plant leaves.” “And I will very likely make squirrel jokes until another woodland creature bites you.” Elle laughed. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes!” Severin

many creatures come to her for help solving problems and mysteries. So Kiko was the world’s first cat detective. It was not unusual for one or two animals to ask for her assistance each day, but one sunny afternoon not very long ago, dozens of pets and woodland creatures were lined up at her tree. They all needed her help, and they all had the same problem. So Kiko decided to hold a town meeting. All of the animals gathered

Being sworn at by woodland creatures is disquieting, but comforting too...these alarm calls remind me that we have consequential presence, that the animals we like to watch are creatures with their own needs, desires, emotions, lives.

Every man who appreciates the majesty and beauty of the wilderness and of wild life, should strike hands with the far-sighted men who wish to preserve our material resources, in the effort to keep our forests and our game-beasts, game-birds, and game-fish—indeed, all the living creatures of prairie and woodland and seashore—from wanton destruction. Above all, we should recognize that the effort toward this end is essentially a democratic movement. It is entirely within our power as a nation to preserve large tracts of wilderness, which are valueless for agricultural purposes and unfit for settlement, as playgrounds for rich and poor alike.… But this end can only be achieved by wise laws and by a resolute enforcement of the laws.

River was one of those magical people who slept like a woodland creature or someone under a fairy spell. Sweet and pretty and quiet, with glossy eyelids and mouth in a soft pout.

Opera was born in Florence at the end of the sixteenth century. It derived almost seamlessly from its immediate precursor, the intermedio, or lavish between-the-acts spectacle presented in conjunction with a play on festive occasions. Plays were spoken, and their stage settings were simple: a street backed by palace facades for tragedies, by lower-class houses for comedies; for satyr plays or pastorals, the setting was a woodland or country scene. Meanwhile the ever-growing magnificence of state celebrations in Medici Florence on occasions such as dynastic weddings gave rise to a variety of spectacles involving exuberant scenic displays: naval battles in the flooded courtyard of the Pitti Palace, tournaments in the squares, triumphal entries into the city. These all called upon the services of architects, machinists, costume designers, instrumental and vocal artists. Such visual and aural delights also found their way into the theater—not in plays, with their traditional, sober settings, but between the acts of plays. Intermedi had everything the plays had not: miraculous transformations of scenery, flying creatures (both natural and supernatural), dancing, singing. The plays satisfied Renaissance intellects imbued with classical culture; the intermedi fed the new Baroque craving for the marvelous, the incredible, the impossible. By all accounts, no Medici festivities were as grand and lavish as those held through much of the month of May 1589 in conjunction with the marriage of Grand Duke Ferdinand I and Christine of Lorraine. The intermedi produced between the acts of a comedy on the evening of May 2 were considered to be the highlight of the entire occasion and were repeated, with different plays, on May 6 and 13. Nearly all the main figures we will read about in connection with the birth of opera took part in the extravagant production, which was many months in the making: Emilio de' Cavalieri acted as intermediary between the court and the theater besides being responsible for the actors and musicians and composing some of the music; Giovanni Bardi conceived the scenarios for the six intermedi and saw to it that his highly allegorical allusions were made clear in the realization. Jacopo Peri and Giulio Caccini were among the featured singers, as was the madrigal composer Luca Marenzio, who wrote the music for Intermedio 3, described below. The poet responsible for the musical texts, finally, was Ottavio Rinuccini, who wrote the poetry for the earliest operas...

As for Beatrix, there was doubt as to whether she would marry at all. She was only half-civilized, spending most of her time out-of-doors, riding or rambling through the woodlands, marsh, and meadows of Hampshire. Beatrix preferred the company of animals to people, collecting injured and orphaned creatures and rehabilitating them. The creatures that couldn't survive on their own in the wild were kept as pets, and Beatrix occupied herself with caring for them. Out-of-doors, she was happy and fulfilled. Indoors, life was not nearly so perfect.

Mom was giving him a big hug, wearing her yoga leotard from work, holding the large kitchen knife she’d just been chopping dinner with. If they weren’t my family I might have been frightened. “Well, how’d you do?” she asked, pulling back to look him in the face. “I won third place in the junior division!” Josh exclaimed with wide, innocent eyes like an adorable woodland creature in a Disney cartoon. I wondered what he was up to. I wanted to slap him. But then I would be forced to explain to my mom why I’d slapped the adorable woodland creature.