Books with author Eleanor Farjeon

When Gypsy and Ginger got married--Oh, but before that I ought to say that those were not their names.Hers was the name of the most beautiful of women, and his the name ofthe most victorious of men. But they were not a bit like that really.Parents make these mistakes, and the false prophecies they invent fortheir infants at the font continue to be their delusions through life.But nobody else’s. As they grow up the children find their level, andare called according to their deserts. And so Gypsy was called Gypsybecause his hair wasn’t really quite as black as a gypsy’s; and Gingerwas called Ginger because her hair was the sort of hair that those whoadore it love to insult. It was anything but ginger; or rather, itwas everything besides. Such as mace, and cinnamon, and nutmeg, andcayenne, and ochre, and burnt sienna, and vandyke brown and a touch ofchrome no. 3; and one hair, named Vivien, was pure vermilion. It wasa ridiculous mixture really, and resembled the palette of an artisttrying to paint beechwoods in Autumn. No, it didn’t; it resembled thebeechwoods. In thinking of Ginger’s hair you must begin again, and washout all the above colours, which are not really colours, but paints.Ginger’s hair, like all the colours of earth and sky, was made offire and light. That is why colours can never be painted. I’m sorryto have gone on so long about Ginger’s hair, but I couldn’t help it;yet I should have been able to, for the hair itself was short. Whenshe combed it over her head and face it hung as low as her upper lip,and so on all the way round, very smooth on the top, very thick at thebottom, and doing a lovely serpentine in and out just below the levelof her eyebrows. When it got to her lip it did another one in, andnever came out again. . .

Every night when the children were tucked up in bed, the Old Nurse would pull out a pair of stockings from the mending-basket and while she threaded her needle she would look in her memory for a story that fitted the size of the hole. The children always stopped their bickering at once, for none of them wanted to miss her extraordinary stories of princes and princesses, Greek gods, sea captains and other wonderful characters she had come across in her hundreds of years as a children's nurse. All the tales were so entrancing that the boys could hardly be blamed for sometimes making large holes on purpose, so that they'd have a long story to match!This is a charming collection of bedtime fairytale stories, with evocative line drawings by Edward Ardizzone.

Mother Codling lived in a windmill in Norfolk near the sea. Her husband the miller had been dead for a number of years, during which Mother Codling had kept the mill and her family going. The sails went round, and the corn was ground, and the little Codlings were clothed and fed. The mill-stones turned the red-gold grains of wheat into fine white flour, while time turned Mother Codling's children from babies into little girls and boys; and the fine white flour was changed in the oven to plump loaves of bread, while the girls and boys were changed by the passing years into healthy young men and women.The Silver Curlew, is one of Eleanor Farjeon's finest works. First published in 1953, it is an intriguing re-telling of the classic story, 'Rumpelstiltskin'. Mother Codling lives with her children in a small, Norfolk windmill. They grind their own flour, and live off the land. Being near the sea, the Codlings also supplement their diet with fish caught by their neighbour, Charlee.One day, the Codlngs receive a surprise visit from the king of Norwich, who insists that eighteen year old Doll Codling must spin a certain amount of flax for him, or he will cut off her head.Doll, terrified of dying, makes a deal with a spindle-imp, in order to save herself and her family. The only clincher is, that he returns to the castle when Doll's daughter is born and insists that he take the newborn child as payment for his work. Doll, and her younger sister Poll, try desperately to find out what the imp's name is so that they can keep the baby.

Little boy, little boy, what is the matter?Madam, the sea has been turned into batter!Eleanor Farjeon’s delightful London nursery rhymes are known and loved all over the world, and told with characteristic humour and playfulness. Reimagine London with these charming and timeless rhymes for all ages.A charming, surprisingly funny collection that will be loved by adults and children alike.