Thomas Kinkade Spirit of Christmas

Thomas Kinkade Spirit of ChristmasThomas Kinkade Serenity CoveThomas Kinkade Petals of Hope
necessary.
‘Nice to see the old people enjoying themselves,’ said Miss Flitworth.
Death looked at the eaters. Most of them were younger than Miss Flitworth. There was a giggle from somewhere in the scented darkness beyond the firelight.
‘And the young people,’ Miss Flitworth added, evenly. ‘We used to have a saying about this time of year. Let’s see . . . something like “Corn be ripe, nuts be brown, petticoats up . . .” something.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t time fly, eh?’
YES.! Hwun htwo three four . . .’
Picture a landscape. with the orange light of a crescent moon drifting across it. And, down below, a circle of fire-light in the night. There were the old favourites - the square dances, the reels, the whirling, intricate measures which, if the dancers had carried lights, would have traced out topological complexities beyond the reach of ordinary physics, and the sort of dances that lead perfectly sane people to ‘You know, Bill Door, maybe you were right about the power of positive thinking. I feel a lot better tonight.’YES?Miss Flitworth looked speculatively at the dance floor. ‘I used to be a great dancer when I was a gel. I could dance anyone off their feet. I could dance down the moon. I could dance the sun up.’She reached up and removed the bands that held her hair in its tight bun, and shook it out in a waterfall of white.band’s awning, the lead fiddler nodded to his fellow musicians, stuck his fiddle under his chin, and pounded on the boards with his foot - ‘Hwun! Htwo