the tale of...

Watched a movie earlier this week called Miss Potter, about Beatrix Potter. You know, she's that lady that wrote The Tale of Peter Rabbit, and The Tale of Jeremy Fisher. Here's Jeremy:

He's a frog that tries to go fishing, but the fish eats him instead, and then spits him out because his galoshes taste so bad. So "instead of a nice dish of minnows-they had roasted grasshopper with lady-bird sauce; which frogs consider a beautiful treat; but I think it must have been nasty!" THE END

Love it. Love the early 1900's British silliness. Love the watercolor illustrations. Love Jemimah Puddle-duck and Timmy Tiptoes.


Love that earlier this week I was in Alpine and sat down to type on this blog. I had the windows open to let in some breeze. It was about midnight, and I kept getting distracted by this distant scream outside. At first I thought maybe it was the little girl next door, but I kept listening and it didn't sound like a human scream. I figured it would go away, but instead, it just kept getting louder and more frequent, until I was convinced it was some poor animal that was was hurt. I was pretty sure one of the neighbor's horses had either broken a bone, or was giving birth. It was either that, or one of the wild deer had finally eaten enough of our tulips to give himself a belly-ache (not likely). After about a half hour of this screaming becoming more and more insistent, I felt like i was going to cry because of this poor poor animal who was obviously in agony. Why was no one helping it? I couldn't stand it anymore. With maternal instincts in full swing, I got my dad out of bed, we put on sweatshirts and grabbed flashlights and set off across our backyard to the field by our neighbors house. When all of a sudden, we heard the scream again - but coming from the wrong direction - it was in our backyard. Now this was turning into a horror film. What was it? We both froze and waited for the scream again, when it suddenly seemed like a chorus of "screams" was being unleashed on us just a few feet away - we creeped a few feet over , shined the flashlight on our pond, and found this:

It was Jeremy Fisher. And his wife Elizabeth. Who weren't hurt at all. Who are much cuter in watercolor.

Ah, Jeremy Fisher. Don't you know you have to be quiet if you want to catch any fish? Especially when it's past midnight.