name of Carlo, and by the Honourable Cornelius, whose skill in throwing stones was as phenomenal as his ignorance of Latin quantities. The play was invariably opened by old Reynolds, the ancient and bow-legged gardener, groom and man of all work at the vicarage.
"Please sir, there's Simon Gunn's cat in the sparrergrass." The information was accompanied by a sort of chuckle of evil satisfaction which at once roused the sleeping passions of the Reverend Augustin Ambrose.
"Dear me, Reynolds, then why don't you turn her out?" and without waiting for an answer, the excellent vicar would spring from his seat and rush down the lawn in the direction of the beds, closely followed by the Honourable Cornelius, who picked up stones from the gravel path as he ran, and whose long legs made short work of the iron fence at the bottom of the garden. Meanwhile the aged Reynolds let Carlo loose from the yard and the hunt was prosecuted with great boldness and ingenuity. The vicar's object was to get the cat out of the asp
This is F. Marion Crawford's only novel to be set solely in England. Taking place almost entirely in the English countryside, this bucolic romance begins with witty good humor and turns into a more serious tale of romance and . . . responsibility.
It may not be Crawford's best book. It is rarely listed in critical studies of his time, and never (well, almost never) afterward. But it is my favorite of his books. It is the one I most often give as a gift. It is the one I return to most often.
Charm. That's the word I think of when I think of "A Tale of a Lonely Parish." It's a charming book. It should be a "cult classic" of Anglophile readers. Why is it not? Because it was written by an American best known for his Italian romances? Perhaps.
But try it. I'm not going to analyze it as literature, here. I'm an enthusiast of this book. So what you get, this time from me, is advertising! Praise.
Precisely what the book deserves, if you ask me.