Identifier: friendlyfacesoft00beth (find matches)
Title: Friendly faces of three nationalities
Year: 1911 (1910s)
Authors: Betham-Edwards, Matilda, 1836-1919
Subjects:
Publisher: London : Chapman and Hall, ltd.
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN

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Amelia Blandford Edwards: "Neither at Creeting nor Baylham, her holiday resorts in Suffolk, had the youthful visitor com- panions of her own age. Few children, perhaps, ever lived less with children. At home in London she was her mother's constant companion, whilst on these country visits she was the pride, the wonder, and, I may add, the terror, of bachelor uncles and maiden aunts. From her love of escapade they never knew what to expect, and the more she tormented the more adorble she became. Upon one occasion she turned the tap of a cask of old harvest beer, and when the trick was discovered, half the contents had run out.At another time she locked up a somewhat precise, elderly aunt for hours in the pantry.These freaks were overlooked on account of the phenomenal acquirements of their niece. A child who had gained the prize for a story at nine years of age could hardly be expected to behave as others ! As we shall see, her exploits were not all of a disturbing nature. One at least is noteworthy among recorded juvenile achievements. Creeting St. Peters, one Creeting of a group, is about a mile and a half from Needham Market, cleanest, neatest of the many neat, clean towns of Suffolk. You might, in local phraseology, eatoff the pavements of that town. The one long winding street is by no means monotonous; beautiful old timbered houses with white or pinkish walls, gables and carol windows break the uniformity, and very striking is the fine old church in dark grey stone."'
Text Appearing After Image:
Amelia Blandford Edwards: "Needham Market no longer possessing a market, and therefore generally called Needham, is, I should say, little changed from those early days. The principal modern building is the handsome railway station fronting the Swan Inn, formerly posting-house, bicycling head-quarters at the present time. It is a delightful old inn, and, except for paper and paint, must be just what it was when the London coach set down the little three-year-old Amelia and her parents; for she had paid several visits to Suffolk before the meeting described above. Both inside and out, the place recalls the past. You lose your way in the numerous passages, coming now upon a low-roofed, wainscoted parlour, now upon an enormous room used as a ballroom by Georgian beaux and beauties. The house fronts the quiet street, but close behind where the stable yard ends, the country begins. You can gather cow-slips, marsh marigolds and wild roses within a stones throw of your modest but cosy quarters; landlord and landlady welcoming you as a friend, yourself no mere number but a personality, an individual. Such at least was the case twenty years ago.

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