The Hollow Land
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The barren, beautiful Cumbrian fells provide the bewitching setting for the adventures of Bell and Harry, two children who find enchanting wonder at every turn, as they explore THE HOLLOW LAND. Everyday challenges give a daring edge to this rural work and play. There are ancient mysteries to explore and uncover, like the case of the Egg Witch, and everyone is curious about the Household Name, a wildly famous Londoner moving in to the jewel of the territory, Light Trees Farm. With painterly ease, Jane Gardam’s stories fly with a marvelous spirit that will delight readers of all ages!
was saying in his mind, back in London). “Oh—here and there. Just about everywhere round here. Plentiful ghost stories in Stainmer and North Westmorland. Deficient in much but plentiful in stories. Some of them old’uns. None I’d say not known to me. Kendals has been here seven hundred years and they say we’ve never done much or made money, but the one thing we do aright is tell stories. Apart from fish, that is, and sweep. They’re all fairly ancient occupations.” “Were there chimneys in the
reference libraries. “Now then— “On a night not unlike this one a couple of hundred years ago there was a knock on a door not unlike the one behind me as I’m sitting. A door at the top of some stone stairs, a flight not unlike that of Light Trees again. The old farmer answered the door and let in an old woman in a long black cloak. She blew in rather than walked in, groaning and complaining. Groaning and complaining about being lost on Stainmer, that was no more of a friendly place then than
the big London lads, though she won’t let on. “It’s a shame for them really. It’s spoiling their summer. They’d wanted to come back and back for five years at least. And all that money they’ve spent on telephones and that.” “Well they don’t have to go,” says Dad. “All’s quiet for them now. Hay-time’s over. They can play their radios full tilt in peace.” “They’ll go and they’ll never come back,” wails Eileen. “Others’ll come,” says my dad. “There’s any amount of incomers without farmhouses
“Farmers never like a view,” said Harry’s mother. “They have too much of it all day. At night they want to get indoors and away from it.” “But don’t their wives want a view? I suppose the poor little things never get asked what they want.” “The wives wouldn’t wait to be asked,” said Mrs. Bateman. “The wives rule the farmhouse. It’s ‘No boots in here’, ‘Wash yourself after that yard’ and ‘Don’t let the dogs in or you stop out with them’ since the beginning of time. No, they don’t want a view
did not move her gaze from Harry and his mother for a moment and she did not move. “Oh I’m so sorry—I’m so sorry. Were you—resting?” “I was reading,” said the woman. “Oh—I’m sorry to disturb—” “Reading my Bible.” “Oh dear. Oh—it was—well, it was eggs.” “Eggs?” “I was told. Back in the village. You sell eggs.” “I do.” “And I’ve run out of eggs. And it’s always scrambled eggs for supper on Sunday. Or tins. We’re—on holiday.” “Where from?” said the steel woman. In time. She