She sweeps with many-colored brooms,
And leaves the shreds behind;
Oh, housewife in the evening west,
Come back, and dust the pond!
You dropped a purple ravelling in,
You dropped an amber thread;
And now you’ve littered all the East
With duds of emerald!
And still she plies her spotted brooms,
And still the aprons fly,
Till brooms fade softly into stars -
And then I come away.
In need of a joke, I checked to see what special day it was, today. At this point, every day of the calendar is something-day; while only a few of these are national holidays, and some others Federal Observances, many others are recognized by a state or local government, or simply announced by some organization. Yesterday was Arbor Day in Nebraska, for instance; but one may also find various claims that it was National Jelly Bean Day, as decided by… well, people who sell jelly beans, one presumes. And tomorrow is National Hairball Awareness Day… but of course, you knew that.
Today, however was William Shakespeare’s (roughly) 445th birthday, as well as Talk Like Shakespeare Day, by no less an authority than that of the mayor of Chicago (PDF). The day has its own website, which is certainly the mark of a significant occasion.
Anyway the site lists some simple tips on how to speak like Shakespeare; and while you might quibble with a few of them, this one is simply bad:
Men are Sirrah, ladies are Mistress, and your friends are all called Cousin.
People often take “sirrah” as a quaint form of “sir”… but it isn’t quite. “Sirrah” is used to address one’s inferior, or to insult a man by suggesting that he’s beneath you. Going about calling men “sirrah” all day is rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. This is a surprising misuse, as the site seems to be the work of the Chicago Shakespeare Theater.
Due to the overwhelming response to We Are Seven (and the fact that I wanted to post something today, but didn’t get around to writing it), I am moved to offer another favorite poem of mine, The Skeleton in Armor.
It is interesting to note this poem was inspired by the discovery of a remarkable skeleton in Massachusetts, in 1832. Regrettably, it probably wasn’t that of a Viking… Read more »
The other night, a friend mentioned a desire to write about “the beautiful things in the world”. The first thing which came to my mind, as I thought about it, was this poem, one of my favorites. Read more »
This is my favorite very, very short story. It’s from Parables and Paradoxes.
I ran past the first watchman. Then I was horrified, ran back again and said to the watchman: “I ran through here while you were looking the other way.” The watchman gazed ahead of him and said nothing. “I suppose I really oughtn’t to have done it,” I said. The watchman still said nothing. “Does your silence indicate permission to pass?”
Long books on morality have said less.
Picking up The Lord of the Rings, or looking up something about it online, is dangerous; I frequently get nothing done the rest of the day. However many times one reads it, however, some things some things remain unclear. It’s very hard to tell how the songs are supposed to go, for instance.
It’s remarkable what you can learn from YouTube, however. Here, the Professor himself gives a stirring reading of the chant of the Ents as they go to make war on Isengard. It’s much better than anything I’d imagined reading it, and what had seemed one of the least remarkable poems in the book is now one of my favorites.
Current events brought this amusing passage to mind. From Nicholas Nickleby, by Charles Dickens:
As for Nicholas, he lived a single man on the patrimonial estate until he grew tired of living alone, and then he took to wife the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman with a dower of one thousand pounds. This good lady bore him two children, a son and a daughter, and when the son was about nineteen, and the daughter fourteen, as near as we can guess–impartial records of young ladies’ ages being, before the passing of the new act, nowhere preserved in the registries of this country–Mr Nickleby looked about him for the means of repairing his capital, now sadly reduced by this increase in his family, and the expenses of their education.
‘Speculate with it,’ said Mrs Nickleby.
‘Spec–u–late, my dear?’ said Mr Nickleby, as though in doubt.
‘Why not?’ asked Mrs Nickleby.
‘Because, my dear, if we SHOULD lose it,’ rejoined Mr Nickleby, who was a slow and time-taking speaker, ‘if we SHOULD lose it, we shall no longer be able to live, my dear.’
‘Fiddle,’ said Mrs Nickleby.
‘I am not altogether sure of that, my dear,’ said Mr Nickleby.
‘There’s Nicholas,’ pursued the lady, ‘quite a young man–it’s time he was in the way of doing something for himself; and Kate too, poor girl, without a penny in the world. Think of your brother! Would he be what he is, if he hadn’t speculated?’
‘That’s true,’ replied Mr Nickleby. ‘Very good, my dear. Yes. I WILL speculate, my dear.’
Speculation is a round game; the players see little or nothing of their cards at first starting; gains MAY be great–and so may losses. The run of luck went against Mr Nickleby. A mania prevailed, a bubble burst, four stock-brokers took villa residences at Florence, four hundred nobodies were ruined, and among them Mr Nickleby.
Pointing out that Colonel Jeff Cooper was a good writer shouldn’t be necessary; however I cannot ever recall meeting someone who knew of him that was not a gun enthusiast. There is a great deal of interest in his work beyond the nature and use of small arms (on which he was one of the world’s great experts): Cooper’s writing is about competence, confidence, self-reliance, and courage.
Jeff Cooper’s Commentaries are an easy start. They comprise 13 years of monthly newsletters, each a series of short reflections, and are available for free online. They’re exceptionally interesting, and follow no particular order — picking a random starting point and spending a bit of spare time reading is always rewarding.
It’s difficult to choose a characteristic quotation; most of the entries are quotable. So I’ll conclude with one which will be useful to me a few years hence:
We can debate at length about a boy’s first gun. There are all sorts of opinions about this and many of them have merit, but in my view, the kid’s first firearm should be a single-shot 22 fitted with aperture sights and a butt-cuff. If the boy is a respectable citizen, intelligent and well disciplined, he may be turned loose with a single-shot 22 (by himself) with perfect safety, as long as he has memorized The Four Rules. I do not think there is any reason to assume that all children are idiots. That many of them are is more of a reflection upon their parents than upon themselves.
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