The father is a dustman and the mother a washerwoman, but because they are poor the children find even greater opportunities for adventure in their ordinary lives.

    It tells of an ordinary American family overtaken by the devastating epidemic of the Spanish influenza of 1918. The book begins on the day before the armistice in a small midwestern town, and the events are seen from the perspective, in turn, of eight-year-old Peter Morison--called Bunny; of his older brother, Robert; and of their father. They are witnesses to a domestic tragedy that is written with beauty and a quite magnificent tenderness. William Maxwell has been described by The Washington Post as "one of America's most distinguished and distinctive stylists." John Updike has said that "Maxwell's voice is one of the wisest in American fiction; it is, as well, one of the kindest." The Times Literary Supplement declares that "Maxwell offers us scrupulously executed, moving landscapes of America's twentieth century, and they do not fade." The Saturday Review said,"They Came Like Swallows is one of those rare tales in which child-hood is reflected in the simplicity and intensity of its own experience."

    He is so lazy that he always misses school and spends all his time in bed. He is so lazy that eventually his family forgets about him and moves away…without him. Alone and scared, Walter heads out into the world to search for his family. He travels through a dark forest and soon meets a turtle and some frogs. Walter decides to create a new home on Mouse Island. His froggy friends live nearby, and Walter tries to teach them things. With his own island—and friends who depend on him—Walter must learn to take care of himself. There is no time to be lazy! But will Walter ever see his family again? First published in 1937 and back in print for the first time in decades with Marjorie Flack’s own illustrations, this is a classic tale of adventure and friendship, and the importance of perseverance. An introduction from noted librarian Nancy Pearl is included.

    Book by Albert Payson Terhune

    These had to be sorted carefully because he had a habit of writing on whatever scrap of paper was handy--backs of envelopes, tax memoranda, or small pads of paper which he could hold in his hands on days when they were too lame for the big ones. We talked daily about his father and mother and I knew perfectly the material he had in mind to use. Then I found, as I read and sorted the manuscripts, not only had he told it to me, but that he had written it down. Clarence had done all but the last chores involved in preparing a manuscript for a typist. All that remained to be done was the mechanical job of piecing together the incidents so that they could be copied. His work on his father and mother was finished. There was one exception: Mother's last home was so characteristic of her and meant so much to her that, following notes, and copying from Clarence's diary, I inserted a description of her last days. When he was alive Clarence used to speak of what the interest of his friends, his brother George Parmly Day and his wife, and Mr. Knopf and his staff had meant to him. It would not be fair to publish this book without thanking them for their continuing kindness; and also thanking two of his friends especially: Mrs. Alice Duer Miller and Mrs. Katharine S. White, for their ever-ready and helpful criticism.? --Katherine B. Day CONTENTS: Mother Reads My Article to FatherMother and Father MeetFather Visits the WarFather's Methods of CourtshipGrandpa Assists at a S?anceMother Shows Us OffNoble BoysMother Gives Father a SurpriseFather Buys Us a BoatMother on HorsebackMother and Bessie Skinner's RingFather Brightens the SickroomMother Gets an AllowanceFather and Old Mother EarthFather Invests in a LiveryMother and Our Wicked MareFather's Troublesome NeighbourMother Makes a Mustard PlasterMother and Pug Dogs and Rubber TreesMother Plays Her RoleFather's Home DisappearsMother Travels AloneMother and the Servant ProblemMother's Last Home a selection from the first chapter: MOTHER READS MY ARTICLE TO FATHER? There has been some discussion in the Day family, among its members and friends, of the things that I say about Father and Mother. One of their objections is that in several places I haven't been accurate. I have tried to be, but memories are sometimes inexact, and mine is no exception. However, these pieces have been subjected to a great deal of scrutiny, helpful and otherwise, from members of the family who have sometimes remembered things differently. Cousin Julia for instance insists that Mother's musicales occurred in the evening, whereas I have described one as taking place in the late afternoon. I feel sure that in this case I am right, for we used to write each other long letters about family doings and these have given me contemporary accounts of the scenes I've described. Other scenes have come down through the years as family anecdotes. Since I was an actor in most of them they have remained dramatically printed on my mind. Besides, any memories of two such persons as Father and Mother are bound to be vivid. The other family objection is that in printing these stories I have not been decently reticent. My feeling was that these two persons were so utterly themselves, so completely natural and true, that the only good way to tell about them was to paint them just as they were. The first article I printed about them was written one night when I needed an extra paragraph for a column which I was occasionally writing, that year, for the literary supplement of the New York Evening Post.

    There were thousands of women who had been condemned to become distressed gentlefolk, dependent for their livelihood (unless they had been fortunate enough to inherit wealth) to seek work as governesses and companions, often in families that did not treat them well. When they could not find work they were reduced to virtual penury. In the opening, 1936, chapter the question is asked: ‘But – how does it happen? How does it happen?’The finger of blame in Alas, Poor Lady is cast less at the men (since the system favoured them in all respects why would they seek to change it?) but at the matriarch who is too lazy, too unthinking to want to change things for her numerous daughters. It is Mrs Scrimgeour in her large house in Kensington who is the real culprit, being selfish, evasive and lacking in any concern for her daughters beyond that of trying to make sure they fulfil society’s expectations of them. She fails to train them to be attractive to men or to find ways of occupying themselves; the most important thing, her daughters wearily accept, is that ‘a family of your own, one saw, saved your face’.