Leonie Swann's Three Bags Full

 

George Glenn, an Irish shepherd, has been found dead in his pasturage with a spade driven through his chest. Miss Maple, the cleverest sheep in Glennkill, and possibly the world, says, "I think we ought to find out what kind of human. We owe old George that. If a fierce dogtook one of our lambs he always tried to find the culprit. Anyway, he was our shepherd. No one had a right to stick a spade in him. That's wolfish behavior."

Turns out there's a suitable list of suspects: an earlier unsolved murder in the village, the drug trade passing through since Glennkill is on the coast, George had a complicated love life. The elements of a decent mystery story are there.

The gimmick, of course, is the sheep, and when I got the book from the library, I wasn't entirely sure I was going to read it. There are a number of ways it could have veered off into ridiculousness. But it does pretty well. The sheep still feel sheep-like, and the different point of view is fun. In fact, if you were looking for an easy-reading, but pretty perfect example of defamiliarization, this would do nicely. 

The sheep also fill the Watson role in an interesting way. Watson sees and fails to understand; it's important to keep the story hidden; the sheep, who live with humans, see them pretty closely and quite often fail to understand the things humans do. (How can they not smell that!) 

It's my visit to Ireland for the year...

 

...but the novel orignally came out in German in 2005, and was translated by the late, great Anthea Bell.  I'm not sure now where I saw mention of the book, but there's a movie version just come out titled The Sheep Detectives, so I'm sure it had something to do with that.

More Weather

#315

He fumbles at your Soul

As Players at the Keys

Before they drop full Music on --

He stuns you by degrees --

Prepares your brittle Nature

For the Ethereal Blow

By fainter Hammers -- further heard --

Then nearer -- Then so slow --

Your Breath has time to straighten --

Your Brain -- to bubble Cool --

Deals -- One -- imperial -- Thunderbolt --

That scalps your naked Soul --

 

When Winds take Forests in their Paws --

The Universe -- is still --

 

-Emily Dickinson

 

It's possible thunderstorm weather for us, sticky, though now there's a breeze picking up.  Fainter Hammers have indeed been further heard. So far not any nearer. It's still possible any actual rain will blow right past us.

 

Emily Dickinson, of course, didn't title her poems with numbers--they had no titles--and the numbers I use come from the Thomas H. Johnson edition of 1955. It's popular and it's what I have. He numbers the poems in the order he believes they were composed. Last week's poem was number #316, and he assigns them both to 1862. Assuming his dating is right, she was working out a theme at the time. And just what was the weather like in Amherst in June of 1862?

The Wind

 

#316

The Wind didn't come from the Orchard -- today --

Further than that ---

Nor stop to play with the Hay --

Nor joggle a Hat --

He's a transitive Fellow -- very --

Rely on that --

 

If He leave a Bur at the Door

We know He has climbed a Fir --

But the Fir is Where -- Declare --

Were you ever there?

 

If He brings Odors of Clovers --

And that is His business -- not Ours --

Then He has been with the Mowers --

Whetting away the Hours

To sweet pauses of Hay --

His Way -- of a June Day --

 

If He fling Sand, and Pebble --

Little Boys Hats -- and Stubble --

With an occasional Steeple --

And a hoarse "Get out of the way, I say,"

Who'd be the fool to stay?

Would you -- Say --

Would you be the fool to stay?

 

-Emily Dickinson

 

This just seemed to fit the season. The wind frequently leaves Bur/pine cones on our doorstep, though I moved this one up a couple of steps to get the door in. We know where those come from: there's a giant pine tree in our front yard, so I Declare I have been there. Our backyard Orchard is two apples and a pear--none of which bear much fruit, alas, too shady and too many squirrels--but if we get blossom smells, which we did last night, it's from the lilac bushes of our neighbors to the north.

 

The Mowers have been busy this season, and we get plenty of Clover smell, too. So far--fortunately--no occasional Steeple has landed in our front yard, though the Anglican church is only a block away...