I seem to be making a habit of these Just-Because posts, don’t I? They just creep up on me, I’m afraid. And scribblers cannot help but scribble, that is a widely known and understood fact. But getting on with the original reason for this post, which would be, after a fashion and one book-ramble, the New Year.
Don’t you just love when a passage of some book you have read jumps out when you’re looking for the right words, and fits the situation so perfectly it might have been written especially for that precise moment?
I do, anyway. Especially when it has been some time since I read it, and I am then presented with the pleasure of being delighted by it all over again.
Such was the case with this.
The New Year, naturally enough, keeps coming to mind, and with it, a passage out of one of my favourite books in the whole world… (Yes, I have a very great lot of Favourite Books, but that does not make them individually any less so ;)
And if you have not read it, you must remedy it at once, because this is one of the loveliest things that ever was written! So much so that I may start a wee corner just especially for book reviews to live in, because this is making me want somewhere to wax long-winded about it…
Seriously, you guys, this book is gold. And to tempt you into tasting and seeing for yourselves… Also because it fits today so well…
I present you with a wee excerpt of:
Pixie O’ Shaughnessy, by George De Horne Vaizy.
“Prithee, silence!” he said. That was all—“Prithee, silence!” and at the sound there was another flutter of excitement among the guests.
The hands of the clock pointed to four minutes to twelve, and it was evident that the last item in the charming programme was about to take place. Ladies moved about on tiptoe, mounting the first steps of the staircase, or standing on stools to ensure a better view. Men moved politely to the rear. There was a minute’s preoccupation, and when the general gaze was once more turned to the doorway, it was seen that a significant change had taken place in the scene.
Against a background of screens stood the figure of an old man—a very old man, it would appear, since his back was bowed and his head and beard white as the snow on the ground outside. His brown cloak hung in tatters, and he leant heavily upon his staff. A deep-toned “Ah–h!” sounded through the assembly, and showed that the onlookers were at no loss to understand the character which he was intended to represent. “The Old Year,” murmured one voice after another.
Then a solemn hush fell over all as the clock ticked out the last minutes, and through the opened door came a blast of icy air and a few flakes of snow, blown inwards by the wind. Only another minute, and then there it came—the slow, solemn chiming of the clock on the tower. One, two, three. Good-bye, Old Year! What if you have brought troubles in your wake, you have brought blessings too, and sunny summer hours! Four, five, six—Dear old friend, we are sorrier to part with thee than we knew! We have not appreciated thee enough, made enough of thy opportunities. If we have ever reproached thee, thou hast cause to reproach us now. Seven, eight, nine. Going so soon? We were used to thee, and had been long companions, and of the new and untried there is always a dread. Good-bye, Old Year! Take with thee our blessings and our thanks, our sorrowful regrets for all wherein we have been amiss. Ten, eleven, twelve.
It is here! The New Year has come, and to greet its arrival such a clashing of bells, such an outburst of strange and jangling sounds as fairly deafened the listening ears. Molly, grinning from ear to ear, was running the broom-handle up and down the row of bells outside the servants’ hall. Mike was belabouring the gong as if his life depended on his exertions. The stable-boy was blowing shrilly through a tin whistle, and the fat old cook was dashing trays of empty mustard-tins on the stone floor, and going off into peals of laughter between each movement.
Perhaps it was owing to the stunning effect of this sudden noise that what had happened at the doorway seemed to have something of the quickness of magic to the astonished onlookers, but a good deal of the credit was still due to the castors on which the screens had been mounted, to an ingenious arrangement of strings, and to many and careful rehearsals. Certain it is that, whereas at one moment the figure of the Old Year was visible to all, at the next he had disappeared, and the sound of that last long chime had hardly died away before another figure stood in his place. No need to ask the name of the visitor. It was once more patent to the most obtuse beholder. A small, girlish figure with dark locks falling loosely over the shoulders, with a straight white gown reaching midway between the knees and the ankles, and showing little bare feet encased in sandals. A few white blossoms were held loosely in one hand, and in the other a long white scroll—the page on which was to be inscribed the history of an untried path.”
If you are familiar with the book… You may remember a certain line that comes in very shortly after the wee miss of a “New Year” turns back into the main character, albeit still in costume.
“Be careful, it won’t rub out.”
Pixie, of course, meant the scroll itself, because someone was about to write on it. But it holds equal significance with the real New Year, I think!
I don’t usually do resolutions, I’m much too apt to make a thousand wholeheartedly, and drop them by Day Three. I do better with outlines to grow inside, paths instead of walls. And I think… This year’s may look a bit like those words.
Be careful. Make everything matter, think twice and you won’t need that eraser nearly so much, Emi. Listen more than you talk, see openly instead of getting stuck in your own head… And be deliberate about life. There is a difference between an impossible stain and a dye that won’t run, (I know, I’m terrible about using word pictures to mean things X-) and that’s deliberation.
So here’s to the New Year, and everything it holds. May it be one of dyes, and not stains…. Patchwork pieces, and not just patched holes. Weeds that turn out to be beauties that just happen not to grow in neat rows… An unseen thread of purpose running through the midst of the chaos, and the quiet peace of knowing it’s there, especially in the silent times.
Because, to quote Paul Overstreet…
“God Is Good, All The Time! He Puts A Song Of Praise In This Heart Of Mine…”
He really does.
A blessed year to you, kindreds.
~Emily
