The story of one year, the eighth, in the life of a happy, normal but imaginative little boy, growing up with his two sisters and his dog, Hamlet, in the Cornish cathedral town of Polchester-by-the-sea, thirty years ago. A delightfully humorous chronicle, told with an affection and understanding which mark it as autobiography.
been seen by all eyes at work for the last six months, sometimes, indeed, under the cloak of attempted secrecy, but more often--because weariness or ill-temper made them careless--in the full light of day.
His interest was centred almost entirely in the "shoppy" parcel, which by its shape might be "soldiers"; but he knew the rules of the game, and disregarding the large, ostentatious brown-papered thing, he went magnificently for the two small incoherent bundles.
He opened them. A flat green table-centre with a red pattern of roses, a thick table-napkin ring worked in yellow worsted, these were revealed.
"Oh!" he cried, "just what I wanted." (Father always said that on his birthday.)
"Is it?" said Mary and Helen.
"Mine's the ring," said Mary. "It's dirty rather, but it would have got dirty, anyway, afterwards." She watched anxiously to see whether he preferred Helen's.
He watched them nervously, lest he should be expected to kiss them. He wiped his mouth with his han
Sweet, gentle, exceedingly well-written book about a year in the life of a small English boy. While not as boisterous as "Penrod" or as exciting as "Tom Sawyer," Walpole's "Jeremy" is still an important entry in this genre and serves one enormous purpose: it introduces us to the characters and situations that he continues in two followup books that are far, far better reads -- "Jeremey and Hamlet" and "Jeremy at Crale."
Hugh Walpole has, unfortunately, dropped off the modern literary radar screen, and that's a shame, because few writers have been able to hang words together so powerfully or evocatively as he.