E.B.White Essays

E.B.White Essays-77
The pigs I have raised have lived in a faded building which once was an icehouse.

The pigs I have raised have lived in a faded building which once was an icehouse.There is a pleasant yard to move about in, shaded by an apple tree which overhangs the low rail fence.The loss we felt was not the loss of ham but the loss of pig.

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White is one of those authors who I just can't help but find interesting, for one reason or another. White, the author of such beloved classics as Charlotte's Web, Stuart Little, and The Trumpet of the Swan, was born in Mount Vernon, New York.

He won countless awards, including the 1971 National Medal for Literature and the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award, which commended him for making a "substantial and lasting contribution to literature for children." During his lifetime, many young readers asked Mr. In a letter written to be sent to his fans, he answered, "No, they are imaginary tales .

A friend recommended this essay collection to me after seeing a picture I had posted of a raccoon in a hollow tree on our property. Sometimes his writing just hits the spot; sometimes he brings me a good solid belly-laugh like ... He graduated from Cornell University in 1921 and, five or six years later, joined the staff of The New Yorker magazine, then in its infancy.

The particular essay she had in mind is titled Coon Tree . He died on October 1, 1985, and was survived by his son and three grandchildren. White's essays have appeared in Harper's magazine, and some of his other books are: One Man's Meat, The Second Tree from the Corner, Letters of E.

The dinner date seemed a familiar conflict: I move in a desultory society and often a week or two will roll by without my going to anybody's house to dinner or anyone's coming to mine, but when an occasion does arise, and I am summoned, something usually turns up (an hour or two in advance) to make all human intercourse seem vastly inappropriate.

I have come to believe that there is in hostesses a special power of divination, and that they deliberately arrange dinners to coincide with pig failure or some other sort of failure.

Once in a while something slips—one of the actors goes up in his lines and the whole performance stumbles and halts. This was slapstick—the sort of dramatic treatment which instantly appealed to my old dachshund, Fred, who joined the vigil, held the bag, and, when all was over, presided at the interment.

When we slid the body into the grave, we both were shaken to the core.

I spent several days and nights in mid-September with an ailing pig and I feel driven to account for this stretch of time, more particularly since the pig died at last, and I lived, and things might easily have gone the other way round and none left to do the accounting.

Even now, so close to the event, I cannot recall the hours sharply and am not ready to say whether death came on the third night or the fourth night.

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