Issue #18: Added failing test

13 years ago · 0e6fc93a27
--- a/hyde/tests/ext/test_sorter.py
+++ b/hyde/tests/ext/test_sorter.py
@@ -276,3 +276,37 @@ class TestSorter(object):
           q = PyQuery(text)

           assert q('span.latest').text() == 'YayYayYay'

 class TestSorterMeta(object):

   def setUp(self):
       TEST_SITE.make()
       TEST_SITE.parent.child_folder(
                   'sites/test_sorter').copy_contents_to(TEST_SITE)

   def tearDown(self):
       TEST_SITE.delete()

   def test_walk_resources_sorted_by_index(self):
       s = Site(TEST_SITE)
       s.load()
       config = {
        "index": {
            "attr": ['meta.index', 'name']
        }
       }
       s.config.sorter = Expando(config)
       SorterPlugin(s).begin_site()

       assert hasattr(s.content, 'walk_resources_sorted_by_index')
       expected = ["angry-post.html",
                   "another-sad-post.html",
                   "happy-post.html"]

       pages = [page.name for page in
               s.content.walk_resources_sorted_by_kind()]

       assert pages == sorted(expected, key=lambda f: (File(f).kind, f))



--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/404.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/404.html
@@ -0,0 +1,22 @@
 <!doctype html>
 <title>not found</title>

 <style>
 body { text-align: center;}
 h1 { font-size: 50px; }
 body { font: 20px Constantia, 'Hoefler Text',  "Adobe Caslon Pro", Baskerville, Georgia, Times, serif; color: #999; text-shadow: 2px 2px 2px rgba(200, 200, 200, 0.5); }
 ::-moz-selection{ background:#FF5E99; color:#fff; }
 ::selection { background:#FF5E99; color:#fff; } 
 details { display:block; }
 a { color: rgb(36, 109, 56); text-decoration:none; }
 a:hover { color: rgb(96, 73, 141) ; text-shadow: 2px 2px 2px rgba(36, 109, 56, 0.5); }
 span[frown] { transform: rotate(90deg); display:inline-block; color: #bbb; }
 </style>




 <details>
  <summary><h1>Not found</h1></summary>
  <p><span frown>:(</span></p>
 </details>
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/about.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/about.html
@@ -0,0 +1,8 @@
 {% extends "base.html" %}

 {% block main %}
    Hi!

    I am a test template to make sure jinja2 generation works well with hyde.
    {{resource.name}}
 {% endblock %}
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/apple-touch-icon.png
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/apple-touch-icon.png
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/2010/december/merry-christmas.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/2010/december/merry-christmas.html
@@ -0,0 +1,9 @@
 {% extends "blog/post.html" %}

 {% block article %}
    {{ lipsum() }}
 {% endblock %}

 {% block aside %}
    {{ lipsum() }}
 {% endblock %}
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/angry-post.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/angry-post.html
@@ -0,0 +1,131 @@
 ---
 title: An Angry Post
 description: >
    Temper. Temper. Temper.
 created: !!timestamp '2011-01-01 10:00:00'
 index: 1
 ---

 {% mark excerpt -%}

 To complete the character-study of Mr. Worple, he was a man of extremely
 uncertain temper, and his general tendency was to think that Corky was a poor
 chump and that whatever step he took in any direction on his own account, was
 just another proof of his innate idiocy. I should imagine Jeeves feels very
 much the same about me.

 {%- endmark %}

 So when Corky trickled into my apartment one afternoon, shooing a girl in
 front of him, and said, "Bertie, I want you to meet my fiancée, Miss Singer,"
 the aspect of the matter which hit me first was precisely the one which he had
 come to consult me about. The very first words I spoke were, "Corky, how about
 your uncle?"

 The poor chap gave one of those mirthless laughs. He was looking anxious and
 worried, like a man who has done the murder all right but can't think what the
 deuce to do with the body.

 "We're so scared, Mr. Wooster," said the girl. "We were hoping that you might
 suggest a way of breaking it to him."

 Muriel Singer was one of those very quiet, appealing girls who have a way of
 looking at you with their big eyes as if they thought you were the greatest
 thing on earth and wondered that you hadn't got on to it yet yourself. She sat
 there in a sort of shrinking way, looking at me as if she were saying to
 herself, "Oh, I do hope this great strong man isn't going to hurt me." She
 gave a fellow a protective kind of feeling, made him want to stroke her hand
 and say, "There, there, little one!" or words to that effect. She made me feel
 that there was nothing I wouldn't do for her. She was rather like one of those
 innocent-tasting American drinks which creep imperceptibly into your system so
 that, before you know what you're doing, you're starting out to reform the
 world by force if necessary and pausing on your way to tell the large man in
 the corner that, if he looks at you like that, you will knock his head off.
 What I mean is, she made me feel alert and dashing, like a jolly old
 knight-errant or something of that kind. I felt that I was with her in this
 thing to the limit.

 "I don't see why your uncle shouldn't be most awfully bucked," I said to
 Corky. "He will think Miss Singer the ideal wife for you."

 Corky declined to cheer up.

 "You don't know him. Even if he did like Muriel he wouldn't admit it. That's
 the sort of pig-headed guy he is. It would be a matter of principle with him
 to kick. All he would consider would be that I had gone and taken an important
 step without asking his advice, and he would raise Cain automatically. He's
 always done it."

 I strained the old bean to meet this emergency.

 "You want to work it so that he makes Miss Singer's acquaintance without
 knowing that you know her. Then you come along"

 "But how can I work it that way?"

 I saw his point. That was the catch.

 "There's only one thing to do," I said.

 "What's that?"

 "Leave it to Jeeves."

 And I rang the bell.

 "Sir?" said Jeeves, kind of manifesting himself. One of the rummy things about
 Jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come
 into a room. He's like one of those weird chappies in India who dissolve
 themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way
 and assemble the parts again just where they want them. I've got a cousin
 who's what they call a Theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the
 thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed
 in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.

 The moment I saw the man standing there, registering respectful attention, a
 weight seemed to roll off my mind. I felt like a lost child who spots his
 father in the offing. There was something about him that gave me confidence.

 Jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces. His eye gleams
 with the light of pure intelligence.

 "Jeeves, we want your advice."

 "Very good, sir."

 I boiled down Corky's painful case into a few well-chosen words.

 "So you see what it amount to, Jeeves. We want you to suggest some way by
 which Mr. Worple can make Miss Singer's acquaintance without getting on to the
 fact that Mr. Corcoran already knows her. Understand?"

 "Perfectly, sir."

 "Well, try to think of something."

 "I have thought of something already, sir."

 "You have!"

 "The scheme I would suggest cannot fail of success, but it has what may seem
 to you a drawback, sir, in that it requires a certain financial outlay."

 "He means," I translated to Corky, "that he has got a pippin of an idea, but
 it's going to cost a bit."

 Naturally the poor chap's face dropped, for this seemed to dish the whole
 thing. But I was still under the influence of the girl's melting gaze, and I
 saw that this was where I started in as a knight-errant.

 "You can count on me for all that sort of thing, Corky," I said. "Only too
 glad. Carry on, Jeeves."

 "I would suggest, sir, that Mr. Corcoran take advantage of Mr. Worple's
 attachment to ornithology."

 "How on earth did you know that he was fond of birds?"


 [My Man Jeeves by PG Wodehouse][MMJ]

 [MMJ]: http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8164/pg8164.html
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/another-sad-post.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/another-sad-post.html
@@ -0,0 +1,85 @@
 ---
 title: Another Sad Post
 description: >
    Something else sad happened.
 created: !!timestamp '2011-03-01 10:00:00'
 index: 2
 ---

 {% mark excerpt -%}

 I went and dressed sadly. It will show you pretty well how pipped I was when I
 tell you that I near as a toucher put on a white tie with a dinner-jacket. I
 sallied out for a bit of food more to pass the time than because I wanted it.
 It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill of fare with poor old Bicky headed
 for the breadline.

 {%- endmark %}

 When I got back old Chiswick had gone to bed, but Bicky was there, hunched up
 in an arm-chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette hanging out of the
 corner of his mouth and a more or less glassy stare in his eyes. He had the
 aspect of one who had been soaked with what the newspaper chappies call "some
 blunt instrument."

 "This is a bit thick, old thing—what!" I said.

 He picked up his glass and drained it feverishly, overlooking the fact that it
 hadn't anything in it.

 "I'm done, Bertie!" he said.

 He had another go at the glass. It didn't seem to do him any good.

 "If only this had happened a week later, Bertie! My next month's money was due
 to roll in on Saturday. I could have worked a wheeze I've been reading about
 in the magazine advertisements. It seems that you can make a dashed amount of
 money if you can only collect a few dollars and start a chicken-farm. Jolly
 sound scheme, Bertie! Say you buy a hen—call it one hen for the sake of
 argument. It lays an egg every day of the week. You sell the eggs seven for
 twenty-five cents. Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit practically twenty-five
 cents on every seven eggs. Or look at it another way: Suppose you have a dozen
 eggs. Each of the hens has a dozen chickens. The chickens grow up and have
 more chickens. Why, in no time you'd have the place covered knee-deep in hens,
 all laying eggs, at twenty-five cents for every seven. You'd make a fortune.
 Jolly life, too, keeping hens!" He had begun to get quite worked up at the
 thought of it, but he slopped back in his chair at this juncture with a good
 deal of gloom. "But, of course, it's no good," he said, "because I haven't the
 cash."

 "You've only to say the word, you know, Bicky, old top."

 "Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I'm not going to sponge on you."

 That's always the way in this world. The chappies you'd like to lend money to
 won't let you, whereas the chappies you don't want to lend it to will do
 everything except actually stand you on your head and lift the specie out of
 your pockets. As a lad who has always rolled tolerably free in the right
 stuff, I've had lots of experience of the second class. Many's the time, back
 in London, I've hurried along Piccadilly and felt the hot breath of the
 toucher on the back of my neck and heard his sharp, excited yapping as he
 closed in on me. I've simply spent my life scattering largesse to blighters I
 didn't care a hang for; yet here was I now, dripping doubloons and pieces of
 eight and longing to hand them over, and Bicky, poor fish, absolutely on his
 uppers, not taking any at any price.

 "Well, there's only one hope, then."

 "What's that?"

 "Jeeves."

 "Sir?"

 There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full of zeal. In this matter of
 shimmering into rooms the chappie is rummy to a degree. You're sitting in the
 old armchair, thinking of this and that, and then suddenly you look up, and
 there he is. He moves from point to point with as little uproar as a jelly
 fish. The thing startled poor old Bicky considerably. He rose from his seat
 like a rocketing pheasant. I'm used to Jeeves now, but often in the days when
 he first came to me I've bitten my tongue freely on finding him unexpectedly
 in my midst.

 [My Man Jeeves by PG Wodehouse][MMJ]

 [MMJ]: http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8164/pg8164.html
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/happy-post.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/happy-post.html
@@ -0,0 +1,142 @@
 ---
 title: A Happy Post
 description: >
    Smile. Laugh.
 created: !!timestamp '2011-02-01 10:00:00'
 index: 3
 ---

 {% mark excerpt -%}

 Lady Malvern was a hearty, happy, healthy, overpowering sort of dashed female,
 not so very tall but making up for it by measuring about six feet from the
 O.P. to the Prompt Side.

 {%- endmark %}

 She fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had
 been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight
 about the hips that season. She had bright, bulging eyes and a lot of yellow
 hair, and when she spoke she showed about fifty-seven front teeth. She was one
 of those women who kind of numb a fellow's faculties. She made me feel as if I
 were ten years old and had been brought into the drawing-room in my Sunday
 clothes to say how-d'you-do. Altogether by no means the sort of thing a
 chappie would wish to find in his sitting-room before breakfast.

 Motty, the son, was about twenty-three, tall and thin and meek-looking. He had
 the same yellow hair as his mother, but he wore it plastered down and parted
 in the middle. His eyes bulged, too, but they weren't bright. They were a dull
 grey with pink rims. His chin gave up the struggle about half-way down, and he
 didn't appear to have any eyelashes. A mild, furtive, sheepish sort of
 blighter, in short.

 "Awfully glad to see you," I said. "So you've popped over, eh? Making a long
 stay in America?"

 "About a month. Your aunt gave me your address and told me to be sure and call
 on you."

 I was glad to hear this, as it showed that Aunt Agatha was beginning to come
 round a bit. There had been some unpleasantness a year before, when she had
 sent me over to New York to disentangle my Cousin Gussie from the clutches of
 a girl on the music-hall stage. When I tell you that by the time I had
 finished my operations, Gussie had not only married the girl but had gone on
 the stage himself, and was doing well, you'll understand that Aunt Agatha was
 upset to no small extent. I simply hadn't dared go back and face her, and it
 was a relief to find that time had healed the wound and all that sort of thing
 enough to make her tell her pals to look me up. What I mean is, much as I
 liked America, I didn't want to have England barred to me for the rest of my
 natural; and, believe me, England is a jolly sight too small for anyone to
 live in with Aunt Agatha, if she's really on the warpath. So I braced on
 hearing these kind words and smiled genially on the assemblage.

 "Your aunt said that you would do anything that was in your power to be of
 assistance to us."

 "Rather? Oh, rather! Absolutely!"

 "Thank you so much. I want you to put dear Motty up for a little while."

 I didn't get this for a moment.

 "Put him up? For my clubs?"

 "No, no! Darling Motty is essentially a home bird. Aren't you, Motty darling?"

 Motty, who was sucking the knob of his stick, uncorked himself.

 "Yes, mother," he said, and corked himself up again.

 "I should not like him to belong to clubs. I mean put him up here. Have him to
 live with you while I am away."

 These frightful words trickled out of her like honey. The woman simply didn't
 seem to understand the ghastly nature of her proposal. I gave Motty the swift
 east-to-west. He was sitting with his mouth nuzzling the stick, blinking at
 the wall. The thought of having this planted on me for an indefinite period
 appalled me. Absolutely appalled me, don't you know. I was just starting to
 say that the shot wasn't on the board at any price, and that the first sign
 Motty gave of trying to nestle into my little home I would yell for the
 police, when she went on, rolling placidly over me, as it were.

 There was something about this woman that sapped a chappie's will-power.

 "I am leaving New York by the midday train, as I have to pay a visit to
 Sing-Sing prison. I am extremely interested in prison conditions in America.
 After that I work my way gradually across to the coast, visiting the points of
 interest on the journey. You see, Mr. Wooster, I am in America principally on
 business. No doubt you read my book, India and the Indians? My publishers are
 anxious for me to write a companion volume on the United States. I shall not
 be able to spend more than a month in the country, as I have to get back for
 the season, but a month should be ample. I was less than a month in India, and
 my dear friend Sir Roger Cremorne wrote his America from Within after a stay
 of only two weeks. I should love to take dear Motty with me, but the poor boy
 gets so sick when he travels by train. I shall have to pick him up on my
 return."

 From where I sat I could see Jeeves in the dining-room, laying the
 breakfast-table. I wished I could have had a minute with him alone. I felt
 certain that he would have been able to think of some way of putting a stop to
 this woman.

 "It will be such a relief to know that Motty is safe with you, Mr. Wooster. I
 know what the temptations of a great city are. Hitherto dear Motty has been
 sheltered from them. He has lived quietly with me in the country. I know that
 you will look after him carefully, Mr. Wooster. He will give very little
 trouble." She talked about the poor blighter as if he wasn't there. Not that
 Motty seemed to mind. He had stopped chewing his walking-stick and was sitting
 there with his mouth open. "He is a vegetarian and a teetotaller and is
 devoted to reading. Give him a nice book and he will be quite contented." She
 got up. "Thank you so much, Mr. Wooster! I don't know what I should have done
 without your help. Come, Motty! We have just time to see a few of the sights
 before my train goes. But I shall have to rely on you for most of my
 information about New York, darling. Be sure to keep your eyes open and take
 notes of your impressions! It will be such a help. Good-bye, Mr. Wooster. I
 will send Motty back early in the afternoon."

 They went out, and I howled for Jeeves.

 "Jeeves! What about it?"

 "Sir?"

 "What's to be done? You heard it all, didn't you? You were in the dining-room
 most of the time. That pill is coming to stay here."

 "Pill, sir?"

 "The excrescence."

 "I beg your pardon, sir?"

 I looked at Jeeves sharply. This sort of thing wasn't like him. It was as if
 he were deliberately trying to give me the pip. Then I understood. The man was
 really upset about that tie. He was trying to get his own back.

 "Lord Pershore will be staying here from to-night, Jeeves," I said coldly.

 "Very good, sir. Breakfast is ready, sir."

 [My Man Jeeves by PG Wodehouse][MMJ]

 [MMJ]: http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8164/pg8164.html
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/sad-post.html
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/blog/sad-post.html
@@ -0,0 +1,90 @@
 ---
 title: A Sad Post
 description: >
    Something sad happened.
 created: !!timestamp '2010-12-01 10:00:00'
 ---

 {% mark image -%}

 ![A Dark Image]([[!!images/dark.png]])

 {%- endmark %}

 {% mark excerpt -%}

 I went and dressed sadly. It will show you pretty well how pipped I was when I
 tell you that I near as a toucher put on a white tie with a dinner-jacket. I
 sallied out for a bit of food more to pass the time than because I wanted it.
 It seemed brutal to be wading into the bill of fare with poor old Bicky headed
 for the breadline.

 {%- endmark %}

 When I got back old Chiswick had gone to bed, but Bicky was there, hunched up
 in an arm-chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette hanging out of the
 corner of his mouth and a more or less glassy stare in his eyes. He had the
 aspect of one who had been soaked with what the newspaper chappies call "some
 blunt instrument."

 "This is a bit thick, old thing—what!" I said.

 He picked up his glass and drained it feverishly, overlooking the fact that it
 hadn't anything in it.

 "I'm done, Bertie!" he said.

 He had another go at the glass. It didn't seem to do him any good.

 "If only this had happened a week later, Bertie! My next month's money was due
 to roll in on Saturday. I could have worked a wheeze I've been reading about
 in the magazine advertisements. It seems that you can make a dashed amount of
 money if you can only collect a few dollars and start a chicken-farm. Jolly
 sound scheme, Bertie! Say you buy a hen—call it one hen for the sake of
 argument. It lays an egg every day of the week. You sell the eggs seven for
 twenty-five cents. Keep of hen costs nothing. Profit practically twenty-five
 cents on every seven eggs. Or look at it another way: Suppose you have a dozen
 eggs. Each of the hens has a dozen chickens. The chickens grow up and have
 more chickens. Why, in no time you'd have the place covered knee-deep in hens,
 all laying eggs, at twenty-five cents for every seven. You'd make a fortune.
 Jolly life, too, keeping hens!" He had begun to get quite worked up at the
 thought of it, but he slopped back in his chair at this juncture with a good
 deal of gloom. "But, of course, it's no good," he said, "because I haven't the
 cash."

 "You've only to say the word, you know, Bicky, old top."

 "Thanks awfully, Bertie, but I'm not going to sponge on you."

 That's always the way in this world. The chappies you'd like to lend money to
 won't let you, whereas the chappies you don't want to lend it to will do
 everything except actually stand you on your head and lift the specie out of
 your pockets. As a lad who has always rolled tolerably free in the right
 stuff, I've had lots of experience of the second class. Many's the time, back
 in London, I've hurried along Piccadilly and felt the hot breath of the
 toucher on the back of my neck and heard his sharp, excited yapping as he
 closed in on me. I've simply spent my life scattering largesse to blighters I
 didn't care a hang for; yet here was I now, dripping doubloons and pieces of
 eight and longing to hand them over, and Bicky, poor fish, absolutely on his
 uppers, not taking any at any price.

 "Well, there's only one hope, then."

 "What's that?"

 "Jeeves."

 "Sir?"

 There was Jeeves, standing behind me, full of zeal. In this matter of
 shimmering into rooms the chappie is rummy to a degree. You're sitting in the
 old armchair, thinking of this and that, and then suddenly you look up, and
 there he is. He moves from point to point with as little uproar as a jelly
 fish. The thing startled poor old Bicky considerably. He rose from his seat
 like a rocketing pheasant. I'm used to Jeeves now, but often in the days when
 he first came to me I've bitten my tongue freely on finding him unexpectedly
 in my midst.

 [My Man Jeeves by PG Wodehouse][MMJ]

 [MMJ]: http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8164/pg8164.html
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/crossdomain.xml
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/crossdomain.xml
@@ -0,0 +1,25 @@
 <?xml version="1.0"?>
 <!DOCTYPE cross-domain-policy SYSTEM "http://www.adobe.com/xml/dtds/cross-domain-policy.dtd">
 <cross-domain-policy>


 <!-- Read this: www.adobe.com/devnet/articles/crossdomain_policy_file_spec.html -->

 <!-- Most restrictive policy: -->
    <site-control permitted-cross-domain-policies="none"/>



 <!-- Least restrictive policy: -->
 <!--
    <site-control permitted-cross-domain-policies="all"/>
    <allow-access-from domain="*" to-ports="*" secure="false"/>
    <allow-http-request-headers-from domain="*" headers="*" secure="false"/>
 -->
 <!--
  If you host a crossdomain.xml file with allow-access-from domain=“*”
  and don’t understand all of the points described here, you probably
  have a nasty security vulnerability. ~ simon willison
 -->

 </cross-domain-policy>
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/favicon.ico
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/favicon.ico
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/media/css/site.css
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/media/css/site.css
@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
 body{
    margin: 0 auto;
    width: 960px;
 }
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/robots.txt
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/content/robots.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
 # www.robotstxt.org/
 # www.google.com/support/webmasters/bin/answer.py?hl=en&answer=156449

 User-agent: *

--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/layout/root.j2
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/layout/root.j2
@@ -0,0 +1,7 @@
 <html>
    <body>
        {% block content -%}

        {%- endblock %}
    </body>
 </html>
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/layout/tagged_posts.j2
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/layout/tagged_posts.j2
@@ -0,0 +1,8 @@
 <h1>Posts tagged: {{ tag }} in {{ node.name|title }}</h1>
 <ul>
 {% for resource in walker() -%}
 <li>
 <a href="{{ content_url(resource.url) }}">{{ resource.meta.title }}</a>
 </li>
 {%- endfor %}
 </ul>
--- a/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/site.yaml
+++ b/hyde/tests/sites/test_sorter/site.yaml
@@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
 mode: development
 media_root: media # Relative path from content folder.
 media_url: /media # URL where the media files are served from.
 base_url: / # The base url for autogenerated links.
 plugins:
    - hyde.ext.plugins.meta.MetaPlugin
    - hyde.ext.plugins.auto_extend.AutoExtendPlugin
    - hyde.ext.plugins.sorter.SorterPlugin
    - hyde.ext.plugins.textlinks.TextlinksPlugin
 meta:
    nodemeta: meta.yaml
    created: !!timestamp 2010-01-01 00:00:00
    extends: root.j2
    default_block: content