Beston is such a beautiful writer. I was struck by how much of his commentary on moving away from being part of nature, written in 1948, are so relevant today just by substituting technology for industry. His descriptions of the weather moving across the landscape are magical. ( )

Nothing could be as good as "The Outermost House." But Beston turns his eyes, ears, mind, and heart to his beloved Chimney Farm in the Maine woods. He takes us through a year, from glassy blue snow shadows, to the pond ice groaning as it begins to loosen, through that first spring-ish day when a window can be opened, letting in "a few flies who look in need of kind words and vitamins." A hot summer, the young farming men stripped to the waist and crusted with hayseeds and sweat. Then the autumn, and the ritual of "housing up," where spare rooms are closed and used to store apples and potatoes, the summer kitchen gear relocated back into the winter kitchen and the woodstove is set back in its hearth to warm the reduced living quarters. It's intimate, with the details of observation only Beston can see and put into words: the soft pat of huge snowflakes on the windows, how to remove a dire ink stain from a handwoven tablecloth, how neighbor children are dispersed to other people's houses to do their homework by lamplight and occupy the house while the owners are gathered for a social evening. A lovely portrait of a home, a landscape, and a community, if perhaps without the broader scope of ocean, climate, and the earth as a whole he shows us from the cape. ( )