butterbobbin: (PIE.)
I've had these floating around for YEARS. I remember the book I copied them from, but not what it was called... that made no sense.

***

I'm hungry, so I think I'll take
A bite or two of lunch,
A pizza and a chocolate cake,
Some peanut butter crunch,
A healthy slice of apple pie,
A pound or so of ham,
A stack of waffles (two feet high)
With boysenberry jam.

I'll follow with a dozen eggs
(I'll scramble them, I guess)
And six or seven turkey legs
(I could not do with less),
Some rhino roast and hippo stew
And fresh fillet of horse,
Then rest a minute (maybe two)
And start the second course.

*

Daddy fixed the breakfast.
he made us each a waffle.
It looked like gravel pudding.
It tasted something awful.

"Ha, ha," he said, "I'll try again.
This time I'll get it right."
But what I got was in between
Bituminous and anthracite.

"A little too well done? Oh well,
I'll have to start all over."
That time what landed on my plate
Looked like a manhole cover.

I tried to cut it with a fork:
The fork gave off a spark.
I tried a knife and twisted it
Into a question mark.

I tried it with a hack-saw,
I tried it with a torch.
It didn't even make a dent.
It didn't even scorch.

The next time Dad gets breakfast
When Mom is sleeping late,
I think I'll skip the waffles.
I'd sooner eat the plate.

*

Celery, raw,
Develops the jaw.
But celery, stewed,
Is more quietly chewed.
butterbobbin: (Default)
Harvey, N. Dak,
Oct 17, 1933

Dear Arlene:
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Sugar is sweet
And so are "you"

I'm glad to know you and I hope we see a lot of each other this year. Geraldine [somebody]

[APOSTROPHE "ABUSE" ALERT!!]

***

Harvey, N. Dak.
Nov. 13, 1933

Dear Arlene,

Love is like a deck of cards.
When you're in love, its hearts
When you're engaged its diamonds
When you're married its clubs
And when you're dead its spades

Your friend
Amelia

[Just bizarre.]

***

Harvey N.D.
March 24, 34

Dear Arlene
Roses are red
Violets are blue
Horses neck, do you? (ha ha)
Your Pal
Milo Stafford.

[Naughty, naughty. But he ended up marrying her.]

***

Fessenden, N. Dak.
November 15, 1934

Dear Arlene,
I love you little.
I love you mighty.
I like your pajamas
next to my nighty.
Now don't get excited
Now " " misled
for I mean on the clothe
line and not in Bed.

I will always remember you as a pretty blushing school girl.

Just Lyle Rudel

[My personal favourite. Seriously. ]
butterbobbin: (squeebaba)
ABRAHAM DAVENPORT, by John Greenleaf Whittier

In the old days (a custom laid aside
With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent
Their wisest men to make the public laws.
And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound
Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas,
Waved over by the woods of Rippowams,
And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths,
Stamford sent up to the councils of the State
Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport.

'Twas on a May-day of the far old year
Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell
Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring,
Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon,
A horror of great darkness, like the night
In day of which the Norland sagas tell, —
The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky
Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim
Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs
The crater's sides from the red hell below.
Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls
Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars
Lowed, and looked homeward ; bats on leathern wings
Flitted abroad ; the sounds of labor died;
Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp
To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter
The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ
Might look from the rent clouds, not as He looked
A loving guest at Bethany, but stern
As Justice and inexorable Law.

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,
Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,
Trembling beneath their legislative robes.
'It is the Lord's Great Day ! Let us adjourn,'
Some said; and then, as if with one accord,
All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
The intolerable hush. ' This well may be
The Day of Judgment which the world awaits;
But be it so or not, I only know
My present duty, and my Lord's command
To occupy till He come. So at the post
Where He hath set me in his providence,
I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face, —
No faithless servant frightened from my task,
But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls ;
And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,
Let God do his work, we will see to ours.
Bring in the candles.' And they brought them in.

Then by the flaring lights the Speaker read,
Albeit with husky voice and shaking hands,
An act to amend an act to regulate
The shad and alewive fisheries. Whereupon
Wisely and well spake Abraham Davenport,
Straight to the question, with no figures of speech
Save the ten Arab signs, yet not without
The shrewd dry humor natural to the man:
His awe-struck colleagues listening all the while,
Between the pauses of his argument,
To hear the thunder of the wrath of God
Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud.

And there he stands in memory to this day,
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
Against the background of unnatural dark,
A witness to the ages as they pass,
That simple duty hath no place for fear.
butterbobbin: (squeebaba)
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=177412&l=ff561&id=560930252

^^More photos of kitten

We want to name it Spot. [livejournal.com profile] paularidgeway continues to argue that this is not a good name for a cat with no spots. Does nobody comprehend the brilliance of naming a cat Spot? Especially an orange cat?

Felis catus is your taxonomic nomenclature,
An endothermic quadruped, carnivorous by nature;
Your visual, olfactory, and auditory senses
Contribute to your hunting skills and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your sub-vocal oscillations,
A singular development of cat communications
That obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
For a rhythmic stroking of your fur to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents,
You would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aid in locomotion
It often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

Oh Spot, the complex levels of behavior you display
Connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array;
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.
butterbobbin: (Default)
The bride, white of hair, is stooped over her cane,
Her faltering footsteps need guiding.
While down the church aisle,
With a wan, toothless smile,
The groom in his wheelchair comes riding.

Now “Who is this elderly couple?” you ask.
You’ll find when you’ve closely explored it,
That here is that rare, most conservative pair,
Who waited 'til they could afford it.





So, what about the new beta profile page?
butterbobbin: (Default)
I must not little things despise,
For much from little things may rise;
And every moment, every mite,
Is of some worth when used aright.
- c. 1860, anon.

Walking, and other out-of-door exercises, cannot be too much recommended to young people. Even skating, driving hoop, and other boyish sports, may be practised to great advantage by little girls, provided they can be pursued within the inclosure of a garden, or court; in the street, they would, of course, be highly improper. It is true, such games are rather violent, and sometimes noisy; but they tend to form a vigorous constitution; and girls who are habitually lady-like,will never allow themselves to be rude and vulgar, even in play. - Mrs Child, The Girl's Own Book, 1848

It's amazing what you don't know until you find out. - Bill Gurvitch, 1995

Whatever an author puts between the two covers of his book is public property; whatever of himself he does not put there is his private property, as much as if he had never written a word. - Gail Hamilton, "Country Living and Country Thinking", 1862

What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself.... Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man - the biography of the man himself cannot be written. - Mark Twain, "Autobiography"

Without dancing you can never attain a perfectly graceful carriage, which is of the highest importance in life. - Benjamin Disraeli. [I wrote beside this one in my diary, "Weird set of values".]
butterbobbin: (writing)
1. I'm not so sure I like the new Firefox. It's not the layout, per se. It's the way you start typing an address in navigation bar and it tries to fill it in with a very busy list of possibilities. And I can't figure out how to turn it off. Also I don't like the disconnection of the tabs from the page it is for... because I am famous for closing tabs I don't mean to close the old way. I'm not even wanting to imagine the devastation these tabs will cost me.

2. I made $87 in the herbal front today. Blah.

3. I am the mother of an immensely beautiful and delicious peach pie.

We had a little episode this morning whilst cutting up the peaches for this pie. I was going to include my last lonely nectarine because it was about ready to start giving up the ghost if I didn't use it. I cut it in half. A fuzzy head poked out of the pit as it all crumbled apart.

Somebody in the kitchen squealed and did the ritual I Found a Worm in My Nectarine Dance - no names given.

The other person in the house insisted on EATING the nectarine because, said person claimed, the worm was in the PIT, the worm was REMOVED, and the nectarine itself wasn't affected at all, and we mustn't waste a good nectarine.

Yeah. Well, as long as it didn't end up in my pie. Although I still had to hear all sorts of squirm-inducing stories about eggs being laid in the pit so the worm grew up in the pit. And other things of the same vein. EW.

What number was I ready for... oh yeah.

4. The Calf-Path, by Sam Foss

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;

II.
But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day,
By a lone dog that passed that way.
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep;
And drew the flock behind him too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade.
Through those old woods a path was made.

III.
And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about;
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf.
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.

IV.
This forest path became a lane,
that bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half,
They trod the footsteps of that calf.

V.
The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this,
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half,
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.

VI.
Each day a hundred thousand rout,
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went,
The traffic of a continent.
A Hundred thousand men were led,
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent,
To well-established precedent.

VII.
A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind;
And work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move.
But how the wise old wood gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach -
But I am not ordained to preach.

^^Shawn Boonstra read the above, minus the last stanza, in his sermon about the Sabbath. Which I was listening to whilst herbing.

5. Check the mail time.

6. Oh, and I could barely get myself dragged out of bed this morning.

Poetry.

May. 20th, 2008 04:10 pm
butterbobbin: (Default)
Oh! Spring in the city!
It sets my heart beating!
It goes to my head
like the tang of the sea!
When down the wet pavements,
young March flings her greeting,
With wild, whistled songs
full of hoydenish glee.

Oh blue is her bonnet,
with plumes soft and cloudy!
And grey is her gown
with a silvery sheen,
And through the long rent,
where she tore it, the rowdy,
Peeps out her bright petticoat,
emerald green.

- Lorin F Deland, Life at the Lees, 1916

***

In all that you are called to do,
Endeavour to XL;
For XLNC is a thing
That rarely fails to tell.
Who puzzles much Z is wrong,
Yet be not over dull,
For it must be a wretched thing
To have an MT skull.

- W.M., The Birthday Gift, 1861

(I'm confused about the fifth line of this one. Anyone?)

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