B. M. Croker – författare

Excerpt: "One sultry September afternoon, some years ago, my brother Ronald and I, being tired and dusty, found a temporary resting-place on the parapet of a little old bridge that spanned a sleepy stream. Through a thin silk blouse a comforting sun beat upon my back, and I was serenely conscious of an unusual sense of happiness and well-being - though I owed little to my surroundings. In all England it would have been difficult to find a more featureless and monotonous outlook than the prospect that lay stretched before us. A series of flat, marshy fields, exhibiting here a space of willowy green, and there a patch of black soil, enclosed by ragged hedges or deep, dark dykes. Occasionally a few lonely and distorted trees, or a humped-up cluster of red roofs, varied the scene, which gradually faded until sky and horizon seemed to melt away into one pale blur. "What a region!" exclaimed Ronnie, as he tossed away the stump of a cigarette."

Excerpt: "A Tall grey-haired soldier, with a professionally straight back, stood looking out of an upper window in the "Rag" one wet October afternoon. His hands were buried in his pockets, and his face was clothed with an expression of almost mediaeval gloom. The worldly wise mask their emotions so that those who run may not read, but Colonel Doran had lived so many years among a primitive race that he made no effort to conceal his feelings, and all the world was welcome to see that he was bored to death. To tell the truth, he had been too long in the East to appreciate club life. Other men were undoubtedly contented, interested, occupied; it was different in his case. The palatial dignity, solemnity, luxury of the place failed to stir his pride; even its traditions left him as cold as the marble statue on the great staircase. He would have felt ten times more at home in a Bombay chair, on a brick verandah, with the old Pioneer in his hands and a "Trichy" in his mouth."

Excerpt: "As a child, Letty had promised to be rather pretty, and Mrs. Fenchurch believed that with her own social advantages, she would marry her off ere long; but before arriving at this happy period, she resolved to make the poor relation useful in the house. She should dust china, arrange flowers, pour out tea, help in the garden, and take over the Mothers'' Sewing Club. Her own hands were more than full both at home and abroad (indeed, the influence of Mrs. Fenchurch now radiated far and wide), she was secretary here, treasurer and chairwoman there, and was often sorely pressed for time. Oh yes, Letty would have her uses but all the same a girl in the house - a girl, who was always en evidence, to whom one must be a sort of model and sheep dog, would undoubtedly be an intolerable nuisance."

In B.M. Croker''s pre-WWI tale of the Orient, Englishman Douglass Shafto travels to Burma. Along the way he meets Sophy, falls completely in love, and so begins the story of their adventures in the exotic lands of the East. This tale weaves through drug lords and high society; through great cities and desolate countryside; Douglass and Sophy then tackle the dangers and trials of The Great War. As they try to keep their love alive, their family safe, and their lives secure, the The Road To Mandalay is a classic story of its time, one which it would be impossible to tell today. (Amazon)

Excerpt: ""Kismiss," as the natives call it, is anything but a jovial and merry season to me, and I Heartily sympathize with those prudent souls who flee from the station or cantonment, and bury themselves afar off in the jungle, until the festive season has been succeeded by the practical New Year! Christmas in India is an expensive anniversary to a needy subaltern such as I am."

Excerpt: "It was the middle of March in the North-West Provinces, and the hot weather had despatched several heralds to Ramghur, announcing its imminent approach. Punkahs were swinging lazily in barrack rooms, the annual ice notice had made a round of the station, many families had quitted the sweltering cantonments for the misty Himalayas, and the brain fever bird had arrived! Moreover, the red-capped tennis boys were on half-pay, the polo ground was abandoned, the club reading-room had cancelled all the ladies'' papers, and its long dim verandah presented a melancholy vista of empty chairs. Outside in the gardens, and all over the district, cork trees, acacias, and stately teak upheld their naked branches, as if in agonised appeal to a pitiless blue sky, whilst their leaves, crisp and shrivelled, choked the neighbouring nullahs, or were chased up and down the dusty plains and roads by a howling hot wind. At a corner where two of these roads met, and about a mile from the club, stood a large irregular bungalow, with a thatched roof and walls of a vivid pink complexion, as if it were blushing—as well it might—for its straggling and neglected compound. The gate of this was closed, and through its wooden bars a white-faced shabby little girl was gazing intently. Otherwise the premises appeared to be deserted; the servants were presumably smoking and gossiping in the bazaar, the stables were empty, the very dogs were out. No, there was not a living creature to be seen, except a couple of quarrelsome crows and this solitary child. Although Angel Gascoigne had elevated herself by standing on the second rung of the gate, she was unable to lean comfortably on the top bar, but peered below like some caged creature, for she was remarkably small for her age. Indeed, if any of her acquaintance had been suddenly called upon to name it, they would have answered, "Oh—Angel! She is about six." Nevertheless, it was nine years, and long, long years to Angel, since she had come into the world in a damp little bungalow in distant Dalhousie."

Excerpt: ""Droops the heavy-blossom''d bower; hangs the heavy-fruited tree; Summer isles of Eden lying in dark purple spheres of sea." Locksley Hall. Few travellers penetrate to the Andamans, unless it be an enthusiastic astronomer to witness a rare comet, or an enterprising professor, who happens to be fired with a desire to study the language and the skulls of the aborigines. These islands are as yet sacred from the foot of the globe-trotter, Cook''s tourists ignore them, and they lie in serene semi-savage seclusion, in the midst of the Indian Ocean, dimly known to the great outer world as the chief Indian convict settlement, and the scene of Lord Mayo''s murder in 1872. The inland portions of the great and lesser Andamans have been but cursorily explored, (those who have made the attempt, having learnt by tragic experience that the inhabitants were addicted to cannibalism); but outlying islets, and fringes of the coast, have been opened up by the Indian Government, and appropriated for the benefit of thousands of convicts (chiefly lifers), who are annually poured into Port Blair - from Galle to the Kyber, from Aden to the borders of China, the cry is still they come!"

Excerpt: ""I say, did you hear old pensioner Jones, jawing away to Haji Aboo about the gold reefs, that lie round Tappah? An eager young planter put this question to his companion, as together they—or rather their horses—toiled up a sharp ascent. "Oh yes, I heard him," grunted the other with a shrug. "And what did you think, Ted?" "That the old boy was drunk as usual," was the uncompromising rejoinder. "Filthy Bazaar liquor; some of these days he''ll snuff-out!" "Well, of course it''s Shandy, but I''ve a notion, there is something in his story. No smoke without fire! Eh? He swore that one or two of the estates were chock full of gold." "Oh, there''s gold enough in coffee, if you know how to work it," declared Ted Dawson, an enthusiast at his trade. "Yes, but why not the other sort as well? Imagine two heavy crops—the berry, and the nugget!" urged his partner. "I''ve heard that lame Maistrey—whose ancestors lived here when these hills were opened up—say, that the first planters were granted immense tracts for a mere song, and that one or two of them like Pattador and Fairplains—run right down to the low country, where there are old workings, smothered in jungle." "Bosh!" ejaculated Ted, "I''ve heard these fool stories, but there''s nothing in them;" and he ruthlessly turned from this ever-dazzling subject, to an unromantic discussion on bone manure and sulphate of ammonia."

Captain Mallender comes to old Madras in search of his uncle, once a reputable officer in the Blue Hussars, who disappeared mysteriously about thirty years ago. The blood-curdling reality that awaits Mallender at the end of his hazardous mission is beyond human imagination. (Goodreads)

Excerpt: "The wide hilly street was lined by noble and imposing residences, that looked as if they had quitted country parks and pleasure grounds, and flocked together for company liberally planned gardens celebrated for fruit and roses - sloped away from French Windows at the rear of these mansions, to the very brink of a slow brown canalmonce glorified by fly boats galloping teams and gay passengers, but now abandoned to lethargic barges, bear ing freights of turf and manure. In the good old days the town was peopled by retired oflicers (naval and military), wealthy widows, and well-born spinsters, and actually numbered a baronet, and the brother of a Viscount among its tenants."

Excerpt: "The wide hilly street was lined by noble and imposing residences, that looked as if they had quitted country parks and pleasure grounds, and flocked together for company liberally planned gardens celebrated for fruit and roses - sloped away from French Windows at the rear of these mansions, to the very brink of a slow brown canalmonce glorified by fly boats galloping teams and gay passengers, but now abandoned to lethargic barges, bear ing freights of turf and manure. In the good old days the town was peopled by retired oflicers (naval and military), wealthy widows, and well-born spinsters, and actually numbered a baronet, and the brother of a Viscount among its tenants."

Excerpt: "The wide hilly street was lined by noble and imposing residences, that looked as if they had quitted country parks and pleasure grounds, and flocked together for company liberally planned gardens celebrated for fruit and roses - sloped away from French Windows at the rear of these mansions, to the very brink of a slow brown canalmonce glorified by fly boats galloping teams and gay passengers, but now abandoned to lethargic barges, bear ing freights of turf and manure. In the good old days the town was peopled by retired oflicers (naval and military), wealthy widows, and well-born spinsters, and actually numbered a baronet, and the brother of a Viscount among its tenants."

Odds and Ends is a collection of short stories written by B. M. Croker. This anthology presents a diverse array of narratives, each exploring different aspects of life, society, and human nature. B. M. Croker was an Irish-born British novelist who wrote during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and her works often depicted aspects of British colonial life in India.

Excerpt: "Some years ago, when I was a slim young spin, I came out to India to live with my brother Tom: he and I were members of a large and somewhat impecunious family, and I do not think my mother was sorry to have one of her four grown-up daughters thus taken off her hands. Tom’s wife, Aggie, had been at school with my eldest sister; we had known and liked her all our lives, and regarded her as one of ourselves; and as she and the children were at home when Tom’s letter was received, and his offer accepted, she helped me to choose my slender outfit, with judgment, zeal, and taste; endowed me with several pretty additions to my wardrobe; superintended the fitting of my gowns and the trying on of my hats, with most sympathetic interest, and finally escorted me out to Lucknow, under her own wing, and installed me in the only spare room in her comfortable bungalow in Dilkousha."

Excerpt: "After a day of strenuous social activities, Lady Kesters was enjoying a well-earned rest, reposing at full length on a luxurious Chesterfield, with cushions of old brocade piled at her back and a new French novel in her hand. Nevertheless, her attention wandered from Anatole France; every few minutes she raised her head to listen intently, then, as a little silver clock chimed five thin strokes, she rose, went over to a window, and, with an impatient jerk, pulled aside the blind. She was looking down into Mount Street, W., and endeavouring to penetrate the gloom of a raw evening towards the end of March. It was evident that the lady was expecting some one, for there were two cups and saucers on a well-equipped tea-table, placed between the sofa and a cheerful log fire."

Mr. Croker writes amusingly when he describes Anglo-Indian life at some health station in Hindustan. There are two women in his story, the worldly Mrs. Langshire and the rather vulgar Mrs. Brande. Both are the wives of Indian officials. These ladies have nieces. Mrs. Langshire''s niece is Lalla Paske, Mrs. Brande''s Honor Gordon.

Mr. Croker writes amusingly when he describes Anglo-Indian life at some health station in Hindustan. There are two women in his story, the worldly Mrs. Langshire and the rather vulgar Mrs. Brande. Both are the wives of Indian officials. These ladies have nieces. Mrs. Langshire''s niece is Lalla Paske, Mrs. Brande''s Honor Gordon.

Mr. Croker writes amusingly when he describes Anglo-Indian life at some health station in Hindustan. There are two women in his story, the worldly Mrs. Langshire and the rather vulgar Mrs. Brande. Both are the wives of Indian officials. These ladies have nieces. Mrs. Langshire''s niece is Lalla Paske, Mrs. Brande''s Honor Gordon.

B. M. Croker's book "To Let" provides a fascinating look into colonial India's social and political climate. The story examines issues of class, gender, power, and the effects of colonialism on both the colonizers and the colonized. The rich natural surroundings, the vibrant social scene, and the complex relationships between the British colonists and Indian indigenous are all vividly described in this account of life in colonial India. The book also explores the politics of the forthcoming Viceroy's visit and the ensuing tensions, illuminating the intricate power relationships that existed in colonial India.A well written and captivating book, "To Let" provides a complex and interesting depiction of life in colonial India. Anyone interested in Indian history and the legacy of colonialism should study it since it makes a significant addition to the canon of colonial literature.