Forsooth, an old man takes his leave, and into the depths of the forest he doth go.
And the sights and sounds thereof, into his mind do they soak, soaking deeply. It is as though his mind and heart were woolen cloaks, dipped into a cold rushing stream, absorbing the wonderful delight of nature in all its purity. Spiritual refreshment at its finest.
And the old man findeth therein much peace and solace, and the woods they serve as strengthening nourishment for his yearning soul. Verily, the forest is a soothing balm, after the terrible suff'ring he didst endure from the mouths of uncountable babes, exacerbated by the indescribable stress caused by his captivity in a room filled with the chaotic to-and-fro pandemonium generated by a noisy multitude of waifs earlier in the day, alas, endured while accompanying his beloved, as doth she always desire.
But now, far from the cries which grate upon his spirit, and the disturbances that destroy his inner peace as doth the crawling of ants and other vermin on sensitive skin, the old man leaves behind his cares, and unreels his feelings of tension, and enjoys the relaxing solitude of the forest. The trail he didst follow is known as Paines Run. While thereon, one is never far from the cold but soothing gurgle of said lively stream.
"Watch and beware, old man, watch and beware", comes a warning from the rushing waters, "for darkness doth approach nigh." Ah, the woods and all nature doth know too well: the hour be only a single one, perhaps two at most, before the sun layeth down its light for the eve. A less-experienced walker would do well to venture not far from his carriage at this time of day. The old man did look and he beheld: the fleeting sunlight no longer shines in the depths and hollows wherein the waters lie; only a sliver doth illumine the tops of distant mountains. The day is far gone.
But the old man is experienced and wise, and he knoweth where he can go, and where he cannot, and how far he may venture before the night cometh. He doth press onward, lured into the stillness, a peace broken only by the spry antics of the waters as they jump, skip over, and brush past the rocks and boulders which would impede their flight to the valley below.
Alas, the large rocks themselves, they doth provide for the old man a safe passage, a dry passage, to the far side of the stream. Once, twice, thrice, and even more, the old man is able to cross and reach the far side, picking his way from stone to stone, to and fro, following the trail as it weaves a giant braid, intertwining its path with that traced by the hyperactive attention-deficit water.
His familiar and trusty walking-stick held firmly in his grasp, the old man is surefooted as he steps from dry stone to wet stone to dry. He removes not his boots, his hosiery, nor raises the cuff of his sturdy trousers. Yet his feet stay dry, his hair stays dry, and even the bag upon his back stays dry, so experienced is he in conquering the hazards as the trail passes over, again and again, the loud chorus of the cascades within the confines of the streambanks.
Presently, as the trail rises up an approaching ridge, a golden gleam catches the old man's eye: a glimmering ray from the rapidly setting sun, enlightening a tiny patch of moss and lichen growing upon a colorful rock. The old man pauses. He hesitates only a moment, before reaching into the bag upon his back. The unseen forest creatures who may be watching beheld his hand as it emerged from the backpack. For therein, in the cradle of his grasp, he holds a ... Canon SuperShot 950!
Liken'd unto a distant spark of lightning a half-day's journey away, the tiny strobe embedded in the upper portion of his camera suddenly burst forth a momentary shock of false daylight, snapping into the darkened ravine like the strike of a heron capturing a troutling, the artificial daylight extracting for but a fraction of a second the glory of those bright colors that a moment before were locked so tightly away for the night.
Walking on, the solitude elicits in the old man a sense of pleasure, of joy, of euphoria. A mile? Nay. Say two? Perhaps. Even three. But no more.
The old man consults the face of his shiny timepiece locked about his wrist, and therefrom he determines that the travel has run its course, the end has been reached, he must now reverse his track, he must go no further, lest the wiles of the night overtake him, and his beloved spouse back home worry greatly for his return. He reluctantly obeys the necessity wrought by the spinning earth as the grayness of nightfall becomes deeper, deeper, an unstoppable tide washing away the hues and auras of the nature he enjoys.
Hastening onward down the ravine, the old man speedily races the night which threatens to overtake him. With sure but careful step, he safely crosses the stream once again, counting the sixth time on this particular journey that his path embraced that of the enchanting waters. "Hurry, hurry", the waters entreat, for the darkness is nigh unto thee...
A clearing? An overlook? Nay, 'tis the end of the forest. Stopping again for a moment before stepping into the conveyance that shall transport him home, the old man once more raises his magic box. He captures the last throes of the sun's cavorting, as it empties the remainder of its daily palette of light and color, knowing that upon the morrow it once again shall have a new supply with which to paint the world.
The old man now entreats the reader, "Clicketh upon this image, I praythee, and study closely the foreground. What see-est thou?" Indeed, what see-est thou?
Behold, the sun is now gone. Night has come. As the gold and purple give way to the darker violet, the old man takes a moment to busy himself tinkering and fiddling with the settings on his magic box. Given the lateness of the hour, it is likely a captured image will produce only blackness rather than the faithful vision of what the old man has seen. As a workman carefully crafting a masterpiece, he directs his fingers to twist the dials and knobs, and amazingly, the box is able to capture one final scene before the stars announce the advent of complete and utter darkness. Alas, the landscape fades to black.
The old man departs the joy of woodland for home. Once safely within the confines of his abode, he greets his beloved, and together they dine on fowl which she has prepared in a fine manner, accompanied by green peas and golden corn kissed by a touch of butter. After the refreshing repast, they together silently give thanks for the much-improved state of the haughty feline mistress of the house, whose health has, for the moment at least, returned in complete measure.
Oblivious to the spiritual renewal of the old man, the cat seems to say,... "In your face, pal. Now where's my kitty-treat?" As cats are wont to do.
"Watch and beware, old man, watch and beware", comes a warning from the rushing waters, "for darkness doth approach nigh." Ah, the woods and all nature doth know too well: the hour be only a single one, perhaps two at most, before the sun layeth down its light for the eve. A less-experienced walker would do well to venture not far from his carriage at this time of day. The old man did look and he beheld: the fleeting sunlight no longer shines in the depths and hollows wherein the waters lie; only a sliver doth illumine the tops of distant mountains. The day is far gone.
But the old man is experienced and wise, and he knoweth where he can go, and where he cannot, and how far he may venture before the night cometh. He doth press onward, lured into the stillness, a peace broken only by the spry antics of the waters as they jump, skip over, and brush past the rocks and boulders which would impede their flight to the valley below.
Alas, the large rocks themselves, they doth provide for the old man a safe passage, a dry passage, to the far side of the stream. Once, twice, thrice, and even more, the old man is able to cross and reach the far side, picking his way from stone to stone, to and fro, following the trail as it weaves a giant braid, intertwining its path with that traced by the hyperactive attention-deficit water.
His familiar and trusty walking-stick held firmly in his grasp, the old man is surefooted as he steps from dry stone to wet stone to dry. He removes not his boots, his hosiery, nor raises the cuff of his sturdy trousers. Yet his feet stay dry, his hair stays dry, and even the bag upon his back stays dry, so experienced is he in conquering the hazards as the trail passes over, again and again, the loud chorus of the cascades within the confines of the streambanks.
Presently, as the trail rises up an approaching ridge, a golden gleam catches the old man's eye: a glimmering ray from the rapidly setting sun, enlightening a tiny patch of moss and lichen growing upon a colorful rock. The old man pauses. He hesitates only a moment, before reaching into the bag upon his back. The unseen forest creatures who may be watching beheld his hand as it emerged from the backpack. For therein, in the cradle of his grasp, he holds a ... Canon SuperShot 950!
Liken'd unto a distant spark of lightning a half-day's journey away, the tiny strobe embedded in the upper portion of his camera suddenly burst forth a momentary shock of false daylight, snapping into the darkened ravine like the strike of a heron capturing a troutling, the artificial daylight extracting for but a fraction of a second the glory of those bright colors that a moment before were locked so tightly away for the night.
Walking on, the solitude elicits in the old man a sense of pleasure, of joy, of euphoria. A mile? Nay. Say two? Perhaps. Even three. But no more.
The old man consults the face of his shiny timepiece locked about his wrist, and therefrom he determines that the travel has run its course, the end has been reached, he must now reverse his track, he must go no further, lest the wiles of the night overtake him, and his beloved spouse back home worry greatly for his return. He reluctantly obeys the necessity wrought by the spinning earth as the grayness of nightfall becomes deeper, deeper, an unstoppable tide washing away the hues and auras of the nature he enjoys.
Hastening onward down the ravine, the old man speedily races the night which threatens to overtake him. With sure but careful step, he safely crosses the stream once again, counting the sixth time on this particular journey that his path embraced that of the enchanting waters. "Hurry, hurry", the waters entreat, for the darkness is nigh unto thee...
A clearing? An overlook? Nay, 'tis the end of the forest. Stopping again for a moment before stepping into the conveyance that shall transport him home, the old man once more raises his magic box. He captures the last throes of the sun's cavorting, as it empties the remainder of its daily palette of light and color, knowing that upon the morrow it once again shall have a new supply with which to paint the world.
The old man now entreats the reader, "Clicketh upon this image, I praythee, and study closely the foreground. What see-est thou?" Indeed, what see-est thou?
Behold, the sun is now gone. Night has come. As the gold and purple give way to the darker violet, the old man takes a moment to busy himself tinkering and fiddling with the settings on his magic box. Given the lateness of the hour, it is likely a captured image will produce only blackness rather than the faithful vision of what the old man has seen. As a workman carefully crafting a masterpiece, he directs his fingers to twist the dials and knobs, and amazingly, the box is able to capture one final scene before the stars announce the advent of complete and utter darkness. Alas, the landscape fades to black.
The old man departs the joy of woodland for home. Once safely within the confines of his abode, he greets his beloved, and together they dine on fowl which she has prepared in a fine manner, accompanied by green peas and golden corn kissed by a touch of butter. After the refreshing repast, they together silently give thanks for the much-improved state of the haughty feline mistress of the house, whose health has, for the moment at least, returned in complete measure.
Oblivious to the spiritual renewal of the old man, the cat seems to say,... "In your face, pal. Now where's my kitty-treat?" As cats are wont to do.
3 comments:
Hmmm, on a scale of 1 to 10, I give your attempt at early modern English a 7.5. Not bad. And kitty looks very skinny. :(
Pshaw. I think it is a perfect 10. Okay, minus a half a point for the cat quote at the end.
I give the photography a perfect 10.
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