The text and paintings on The Trowbridge Chronicles are taken from the illustrated journal of Violet Trowbridge, a shrew that once lived in a village deep in the Olympic Rain Forest. Each new post will represent a portion of Mrs. Trowbridge’s journal.

Sunday, August 19, 2007


Can you imagine what it must have been like to be the captain and torch bearer of the Royal Hot Air Balloon as it plummeted to earth in a fiery free-fall ...with the emperor of the ancient Trowbridge shrew kingdom aboard? Yet no matter what the situation, it seems that Keno always comes through and saves the day. But how long can his luck hold out? Only time will tell. Our story resumes...

Sunday, August 05, 2007


Our story is slowly inching its way to a possible reunion between Keno and Shrew Khan. It has been many weeks since we have seen Khan. By now he could be missing...or worse. And things don't look so good for the passengers in the Imperial War Balloon either. And you think that YOU are having a bad day...

Meanwhile, back at the rain forest, Mrs. Trowbridge has written a poem about her nighttime walks. She loved walking in the forest at night. Trowbridge shrews are noctural creatures, you know. She wrote a lot of poems in her journal. I should have shared this one with you earlier in the summer, sometime in June, to coordinate with the poem. Perhaps I'll share more of her poetry with you in future episodes. This is one of my favorites...

by Violet Trowbridge

Sometimes at dusk I climb the hill
to watch the stars appear.
The trail is steep, the brook is deep,
the air is crisp and clear.

The sunset casts as eerie spell
upon the earth below.
The peaks are dressed their summer best
in gleaming alpenglow.

The evening sky is lavender
with shades of amber gold.
The sun goes down, the colors fade,
the mountain wind turns cold.

Just o'er the hill the crickets sing
in four-part harmony.
What do I hear just up the creek?
A bullfrog symphony

My special place up near the top
is like a long-lost friend.
It's always there, come foul or fair
around the misty bend.

On nights like this I come to watch
the twinkling starlight show.
The moon climbs high up in the sky.
Its light is soft and low.

The moonbeams dance on drifting tufts
of blowing thistledown.
The flowers gleam like precious stones
upon a monarch's crown.

I gaze across the Milky Way
and dream of days gone by.
Then suddenly a shooting star
streaks across the sky.

The day I met my Woodrow
replays across my mind.
The night that my first litter came,
it follows close behind.

I make my way back down the hill.
My lantern is the moon.
It will be here when I return
some starry night in June.