OWL SONG

 

 

The owls are doing their spring routine, singing (if you want to call it that) since January. I know this because there is a decaying silver maple near my bedroom window, and because I am a light sleeper. These are not the small shivery-voiced owls, but the magnificent Great Horned, who has a deep voice. This vocalization always becomes a duet after a few minutes, because invariably another owl shows up, parks (himself? herself?) in a nearby tree and begin a call and response. A-Whoo-Whoo-Whoo! A-Whoo-Whoo-Whoo! Sometimes it goes on for thirty minutes, but I never get tired of it.

Remember those marvelous Farside cartoons, created by a wildlife biologist? I acknowledge that he is the author of these quips, but as I lie there in the moonlit semi-darkness imagining their conversation, it becomes either something along the line of “Hey Baby! Hey Baby!” if they are male and female--or, if male, it's doubtless the classic turf war of taunts and insults:  “You and what army?” 

I love lying there, hearing, even in surroundings mostly cleansed of original flora and fauna, that something of the old natural world survives. More than that, it's still ongoing, and letting me in on the ancient game of love and war as it begins again. After a little, though, as the song continues, I also worry. If any cats are out, I have to get up, navigate the staircase while half asleep and open the door. Usually, whatever feline is out has been prudently hiding on the porch and doesn't waste time getting inside. Bubo Virginianus isn’t nick-named the “winged tiger” for nothing.
 

 

 Also, in the same line, this area is in a migration zone. At certain times of year, we have lots of different birds passaging. Right now, it’s the Snow Geese. If you are lucky enough to see a massed gathering, it’s  a wonder you almost have to see-- and hear--to believe. For a little, out in the spring mud of the fields, there are thousands upon thousands of them. When they fly, wings glancing white against the cold blue of a February high, they, like all geese, call out to one another. Unlike Canada geese, which we have all year, the snow geese have sweet whispery voices, like ghosts slipping overhead through the ragged clouds. It's a sight which lets you know, standing there in that thin sun, that yes, spring is really on the way.
  

 

Nature reminds us of her presence, assuring us that, more as less as the groundhog predicted, winter will soon be just a memory.

 

 

In town, a lawn full of crocus is in bloom, one that was planted by some long-ago owner. Even the tulips and daffodils are giving it the old team try, poking out their green heads. All these “Simple Gifts” from the planet we are lucky enough to live upon fills me with happiness.

 

 

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

All my Historical Novels
http://www.julietwaldron.com


 

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Washington Advises~~From A MASTER PASSION

For George Washington's Birthday, thought I'd offer a snippet from A MASTER PASSION, one which takes place in Morristown, where, for two winters, the Revolutionary Army encamped.

A MASTER PASSION-read more

“Your Excellency.” Hamilton saluted and stepped close to the commander’s desk.

“Ah, Colonel Hamilton.” Confronted by that weary, wintry face, Hamilton feared the worst.

 

 If anything has gone wrong with the rum consignment, I am about to catch hell.

“I have here a letter full of conundrums from Mr. van Pelt.”

The letter was passed. Hamilton speedily scanned it, thanking his lucky stars as he did so. As irksome as this new problem was, it was apothecary supplies, not the all-important rum consignment.

Standing tall, Hamilton summarized in a few brief sentences the recent transactions he’d had with van Pelt so Washington could fully understand where the matter stood. Washington nodded his gray head, listening.

While he talked, Hamilton’s mind darted to a possible solution. This allowed him to conclude with a suggestion. He was relieved when the commander nodded.

“Try it, Colonel. Still, it’s damned hard to do business with our Congress promising—but never quite delivering—the money.”

 

Hamilton nodded emphatically. Lack of funds was the distilled essence of the Continental Army’s troubles.

“Write me a letter to this refractory gentleman. Intimate we’ll have what we need one way or another. Twist his tail a little. We’ll send it off under my signature, first thing in the morning.”

Hamilton seated himself at a nearby writing desk and found paper. Washington appeared grimmer than usual. It had been a long day, and the added strain of socializing with the patriot gentry had made it even longer.

 

If you were an ordinary man, George Washington, you would yawn and stretch, lean back in your chair and close your eyes.

Instead, the General picked up another piece of correspondence and proceeded to study it, grave as a monument. Hamilton tapped his quill on the edge of the inkwell and searched for the words to prod Mr. van Pelt.

Embers of blue and rose glowed upon the hearth, illuminating blackened logs. A winter wind, like a starving dog, snuffled around the corners of the house.

After half an hour, Hamilton had crafted a letter. While he stood at attention, anxious and weary, Washington read it over, nodded, and then signed with a flourish.

“Excellent, Colonel Hamilton. As much and as little as needs to be said. That last sentence, which could be construed as a threat, will probably elicit some action.”

A cold, slight smile of approval curved the General’s lips as he dried the ink with a sprinkle of sand

As Hamilton inwardly heaved a sigh of relief, Washington spoke again.

“One last matter, Colonel.”

Now what? Every muscle in his body begged to go upstairs, to fall into his narrow camp bed, and plummet into unconsciousness.

With precision, Washington folded the letter. He fired wax and let it drip onto the crease, setting his seal precisely. As this went on, there was silence, nothing but wind and crinkling coals. Hamilton was motionless. Washington was a ponderous thinker, and long pauses were common. What the General finally articulated, however, was neither about the commissary or the war.

“You could do far worse, you know, Colonel Hamilton.”

“Sir?”

Washington lifted his head and regarded him levelly. “Than a little winter campaigning, my boy, directed toward capturing the heart of a certain charming newcomer to our assembly.”

With alarm, Hamilton recognized amusement in those cold blue eyes. The “my boy” signaled that the usually distant Washington intended their conversation to be personal...

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

All my Historical Novels

 

A MASTER PASSION is available @

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(Connie Vines)

 

 

Angelica's Diary Excerpt

Originally published as Independent Heart.

 

Angelica Ten Broeck, patriot heiress, writes in her diary a few days after the American defeat at New York, 1776.
   


I still can't believe what I saw outside of Aunt Letitia's parlor windows last night. The whole City south of her house was on fire. We were afraid, and the servants stood before the door with muskets in hand. So much smoke blew about that even inside the house we were coughing. The whole sky turned red, and throngs of people carrying pitiful bundles of clothes ran and wept, driving their cows and horses down the street!

I hadn't believed it could happen, that General Washington could be driven out of New York and that the British would rule here again, but that's what has come to pass.

My Aunt believes that Americans set fire to the City themselves, that British troops were not responsible for this arson. This morning the fires still burn, and we've heard that more than half of the buildings downtown are in ruins. Auntie and I had hot words on the subject at breakfast, but after what I've seen and heard of this war, I confess I am truly not certain of what the truth is. 

It's unimaginable, the things my Uncle Ten Broeck has written of, terrible things being done all up and down our peaceful valley, the looting and burning, the cruel maiming of horses and cattle done by those who must have nothing but evil in their hearts. Everywhere, my Uncle says, men settle old scores with their neighbors, while hiding these dreadful crimes behind politics--as if calling themselves "Loyalist" or "Patriot" can excuse the heinous things they've done. 

Oh why did I ever come to New York? It has turned out exactly as Uncle Jacob warned. I've been a great fool, traveling in the middle of a war! All I want now is to go home, to sail up the river back to Kingston,  but now I am trapped behind the lines of our enemy. My Aunt Letitia says that I--and my inheritance--are safer here, that because my Uncle Jacob is a patriot and defies the British, he will be hanged and his lands forfeited to the Crown. It is better, she says, that I "not be involved in his folly and ruin."

She keeps saying she wants me to marry "a respectable English gentleman" and "leave forever this barbaric place".  She doesn't seem to understand that I am an American, bred in this land and rebel to the bone. Even though General Washington has been defeated, I believe that in the end--somehow, someway--our Cause will triumph and that one day we shall enjoy the blessings of true liberty and peace...

Angel's Flight is the Revolutionary War sister book to the award-winner, Genesee.

~Juliet Waldron~

 

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The White Stag

BLACK MAGIC

Sabine believes she's seen her lost love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The stag lifted his head and she saw how pale he was, like polished ivory. He carried eight fine points; he was as magnificent as those who had seen him had reported.

 

            Dark, large eyes surveyed her. Not an albino, just as reported! She could feel her heart begin to pound from the intensity of his gaze. The creature was at a distance, but his eyes seemed to glow like black coals. His sides heaved. When he rose, the entire herd followed.   All heads turned Sabine’s way. The stag made a huffing noise, his exhalation two cones of steam in the frigid air. The does began to move away from her, back into cover. She felt a terrible longing, the ache of things lost—maybe forever.

 

            “Is that you, my Lord?” She cried aloud, the sound of her voice echoing in this empty place. She opened her arms wide, imploring.

 

            The outline of the creature wavered. For one dizzying instant, Sabine saw a human face suspended between the antlers, the contours weirdly elongated.

 

            With a final snort, the white stag spun and leapt away, crashing into the underbrush after the others.

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

 

Historical Novels at Amazon

 

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A LITTLE RED MAGIC

 
Take a little RED MAGIC to keep out the cold:

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"Why are you doing this?  I don't need a tutor; I need time to ride the manor.  I know how farm things should be.  And," she ended, meeting his eyes, "haven't I‑‑done my duty?"     

          "Splendidly." His arms crossed around her waist and touched his lips to her shoulder.  "But tutoring is not punishment.  Learning should not be confined to childhood."    

          He was so close, a bit whiskery and dusty from the road, but the smell of him, the touch of his hand, rekindled all kinds of memories, not only of the mountain, but of the tenderness between them on the morning he'd gone away.  When he came to a kiss, she let him and promptly felt a thrill at the touch of his mouth.

          "There, there, my cat woman, please stop scratching.  I was thinking about your sweet backside every other minute I was away."         

          "You must excuse me, Herr Graf," Cat muttered, head close against his great chest, "but I'm really getting cold and my arm hurts."

          "My poor Caterina," he said, shifting to a warm rubbing of her long back.  "Damn Heidelburg.  Is it deep?"       

          "Herr Goran says I'll live."      

          "Well, then, you will.  He kept telling me that last year when I thought I was dying, swelled up and covered with pus and leeches and attacked every other hour by surgeons with sharp knives." He pushed back the sleeve of the morning gown to look at her bandage again.  "We'll undo his bandage before you go to bed and I'll look at it again. I've grown to be a pretty fair surgeon myself."

          With as much dignity as she could muster, Cat started to rise. 
         
          "I would like another kiss before you go," Christoph said.      

          "You shouldn't have got the first!  You did--what you did--before you left and then you come back and treat me like a child !  Why do you want to waste my days so that I won't be able to ride and watch over your land as I should?"  Frustration built with every word until she shouted:  "I hate this dreary snow pile and I hate you."  

          He did not let go.  Because the hand he held was attached to her throbbing arm, she couldn't bring herself to jerk that away, either.

              "I think I'm right about bringing Stocke here and I hope that in time you will understand why.  Come on, dear little Cat.  Just for a minute pull in those claws."              

          She found herself against his chest again, cradled in his arms, her mouth repeatedly and softly kissed. 

          "I've been on fire for more of those sweets I stole on the mountain.  Why can’t you believe I'm in love with you?"      

          "Because you say it too easily." Nevertheless in the next instant she was kissing him back with answering warmth. 

          Not only did it feel good, but Cat was beginning to understand that his wanting bestowed upon her a kind of power...         

          "Our marriage is in its seventh month.  Must we go into the New Year quarreling?"   

          "Yes."  In spite of his words, in spite of the warm excitement she experienced in his arms, she still felt cross with him.          

          "By God," he chuckled softly, "the next time we see your Papa I'm going to tell him this is no red filly he's married me to, but a tough little red mule."   

         

~~ Juliet Waldron

 

 RED MAGIC

 

Book #1 of The Magic Colours Series

~~~~

Red Magic

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Mozart Kugeln

The opener of MY MOZART as a kind of Mozart Kugeln sweetie for the Maestro's Birthday,
January 27th

 My Mozart

 

 

"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love you."

"Come, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."

My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness, with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.

Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.

I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year...

 

 

 

 

 

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