All Things Wise and Wonderful (All Creatures Great and Small)
Readers adored James Herriot's tales of his life as a Yorkshire animal doctor in All Creatures Great and Small and All Things Bright and Beautiful. Now here's a third delightful volume of memoirs rich with Herriot's own brand of humor, insight, and wisdom.
In the midst of World War II, James is training for the Royal Air Force, while going home to Yorkshire whenever possible to see his very pregnant wife, Helen. Musing on past adventures through the dales, visiting with old friends, and introducing scores of new and amusing characters―animal and human alike―Herriot enthralls with his uncanny ability to spin a most engaging and heartfelt yarn.
Millions of readers have delighted in the wonderful storytelling and everyday miracles of James Herriot in the over thirty years since his delightful animal stories were first introduced to the world.
Westerman her dog when she arrives. I don’t know just when she’ll come.” He scooped out a spoonful of jam. “You can keep an eye on the patient and do a bit of studying, too. It’s about time you had a night at home.” Tristan nodded. “Right, I’ll do that.” But I could see he wasn’t enthusiastic. When Siegfried had driven away Tristan rubbed his chin and gazed reflectively through the french window into the darkening garden. “This is distinctly awkward, Jim.” “Why?” “Well, Lydia has tonight off
grass, then he went into a sort o’ fit.” “How do you mean?” “Just kind of seized up and toppled over on ’is side. He lay there for a bit gaspin’ and slaverin’. Ah’ll tell ye, I thought he was a goner.” His eyes widened and a corner of his mouth twitched at the memory. “How long did that last?” “Nobbut a few seconds. Then he got up and you’d say there was nowt wrong with ’im.” “But he did it again?” “Aye, time and time again. Drove me near daft. But in between ’e was normal. Normal, Mr.
outside the town and it was a fair walk from here, but I looked down at the blunt toes of my boots sticking from the purple striped trousers. The RAF hadn’t only taught me to fly, they had taught me to march, and a few miles didn’t bother me. I took a fresh grip on my cardboard case, turned towards the exit from the square and set off, left-right, left-right, left-right on the road for home. A Biography of James Herriot James Herriot (1916–1995) was the pen name of James Alfred “Alf”
Road when a woman ran waving into the road. “Oh, Mr. Herriot,” she cried when I stopped. “I was just goin’ to t’phone box when I saw you.” I pulled up by the kerb. “It’s Mrs. Clifford, isn’t it?” “Yes, Johnny’s just come in and Fergus ’as gone queer. Collapsed and laid on t’floor.” “Oh no!” An icy chill drove through me and for a moment I stared at her, unable to move. Then I threw open the car door and hurried after Johnny’s mother into the end cottage. I halted abruptly in the little room
too, were doing their bit with fierce side glances and I could almost feel the waves of antagonism beating against me. My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a bookie and his clerk. The bookie dropped into a chair opposite me and tipped out a huge leather bag on to the table. I had never seen so much money in my life. I peered at the man over a mountain of fivers and pounds and ten-shilling notes while little streams and tributaries of coins ran down its flanks. The two of them