Tuesday, 16 June 2015

The Pickwick Portfolio - June Issue

   Well here it is at long last folks!! Terribly sorry for the delay; our most humble thanks for your patience.
                -Mr. Sam Weller

The Pickwick Portfolio
June 2015
In this issue:
  • A Comparison of the Quarter and Thoroughbred Horse” by Sam Weller
  • An Unforgettable Vacation” by Augustus Snodgrass
  • Horse Breeds” by Sam Weller
  • Summer” by Augustus Snodgrass
  • The Sea Lion and the Walrus” by Augustus Snodgrass
  • Quotes to Note – compiled by Augustus Snodgrass, Sam Weller, and Samuel Pickwick
  • Note-able Composers 
    “Robert Schumann” compiled by Tracy Tupman
    Igor Stravinsky” compiled by Augustus Snodgrass
    Alexina Louie” compiled by Augustus Snodgrass
  • Kitchen Korner 
     “Kool-Aid Slurpies” by Nathaniel Winkle
    Diana Barry’s Favorite Raspberry Cordial” by Sam Weller
  • Non-Sensical Notions – compiled by Nathaniel Winkle and Sam Weller
  • Story Time – “The Open Window” by Saki (H. H. Munro)
  • Poet’s Corner 
     “Shooting Star” by Nathaniel Winkle
    Invictus” by William Ernest Henley
    I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth
    Little Orphant Annie” by James Whitcomb Riley
    The Lady of Shalott” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
    Eldorado” by Edgar Allan Poe
  • Ad designed by Sam Weller
This paper is part of a club called the “Pickwick Club.” The Pickwick Portfolio, as this paper is called, is designed for the good of the readers. Its purpose is to serve as a paper of news, entertainment, and fun. Please be sure to check out our two new sections, “Kitchen Korner” and “Nonsensical Notions,” and the special article written specifically for this month’s issue, “Summer,” written by myself. Enjoy!
Augustus Snodgrass


by Sam Weller
The Quarter Horse and Thoroughbred are both very famous breeds for many reasons. Both breeds are excellent racers, and each has their own racing association. The Quarter Horse is calm, sensible, and excellent around children. Thoroughbreds are also good with people, though they can be quick and touchy, due to their love of speed and will to run. Both are good at any type of English riding, including dressage, jumping, eventing, hunting, and more. The Quarter Horse, breed in the U.S. and used often to aid the cowboys, is also very good at Western sports like roping, barrel racing, and any other rodeo events, and here the breeds differ, as the Thoroughbred, breed in England for racing, is not skilled in any of these practises. All in all, though, despite their similarities and differences, both are wonderfully well-rounded, multi-purpose horses.

by Augustus Snodgrass
Although I have been on many vacations before, I remember the best vacation I have ever had, a trip to a Florida beach. My dad had rented a condo consisting of two bedrooms (one for my parents and one for us three kids), a bathroom, a kitchen, a dining area, and a living room. It was all very nicely decorated with the theme being that of the beach and water. The view from our porch and windows was exceptional with palm trees framing the beautiful waves and endless blue. Very often one would hear the sound of a picture being taken, perhaps more so during sunset than during the day. The structure of our living space was also very enjoyable, as we had fun being able to peek down into the kitchen from upstairs. Also, when the windows were open, the mild, cool breeze would sweep through the house. Though the beach water was rather cold, we especially enjoyed swimming in the heated pool just outside our room. Every day, our schedule consisted basically of getting up, eating breakfast, doing a little school, going swimming, eating lunch, maybe doing a bit more school, going swimming, eating supper, maybe going swimming again, and going to bed. The odd days, we may have gone to a restaurant, but usually we stayed at our condo and relaxed. Though our vacation did not consist of many exciting outings, it was all very fun and enjoyable. In fact, it was the best vacation I have ever had!

by Sam Weller
There are many different types of breeds of horses, but what exactly is a breed anyway? What makes them different? Where did they originate from? Well, let’s start at the beginning. All horses are in the Equidae family, a part of the Equus genus, and classified into breeds under the heading of Equus caballus, so all horses are, in the end, related; however, because they have lived in different parts of the world in different climates and for different uses, they have adapted and developed to their way of life. For instance, a horse that lived in the desert, in a hot climate, would probably look a little different from a horse that lived in the mountains, in a more northern climate. The desert horse would be more adapt to heat and would have a lot of stamina. It also would be able to go without food or water for longer. The mountain horse would be stronger and broader, since it has to climb up and down mountains. It would have developed a thicker coat, because of the cooler weather. Maybe it would have bigger lungs or a stronger respiratory system for the high altitudes, so it is obvious horses developed differences, because of their climates. These different breeds of horses are called natural breeds. There are also man-made breeds. Man-made means that we have taken the different qualities of other breeds (natural or man-made) and bred them in a logical way in order to create new breeds. An example of this is the Hanoverian, which was bred with Thoroughbreds and Holsteins for about thirty years. This long time span of breeding ensured that the breed remained pure and only had those two bloodlines. Later on, more Thoroughbred blood was introduced, in order to make the breed lighter and better for riding. This is just one example of a man-made breed. There are hundreds of breeds, some natural, some man-made, but all a part of the beautiful Equus caballus.

by Augustus Snodgrass
Summer is here, and it will be here only for about three months! Summer is the time when family or friends get together to have fellowship with one another and to enjoy the warm and sunny weather. On weekends, your neighborhood may be filled with cars and people, for everyone is hosting summer parties. Many communities will have events for adults and children. Summer is also the time when parents actually take the time to play with their children. You might see a father playing ball with his son, or a family having a picnic in a park together. Everyone wants to get out and enjoy the warmth after a cold, hard winter! We must enjoy and relish it while it is here! It will not be here long!

Sea lions and walruses have some similarities and differences. Both of them are mammals and members of the seal family. They also both travel in groups to protect themselves. Although they have four flippers which they use to walk on land, they are also both fast, skillful swimmers. Walruses and sea lions also have enemies. Killer whales, polar bears, and men are just a few of them. Both of these seals are curious and sociable. Sea lions and walruses are difficult to identify and are often mistaken for each other.
While the sea lion and the walrus have many likenesses, they are different. The following are a few examples: the sea lion eats squid, small fish, and sea birds; walruses, on the other hand, eat clams, crabs, and mollusks. The walrus is very heavy, sometimes weighing up to a ton; but the sea lion is very small in comparison to its friend, for it usually only weighs between five hundred and seven hundred pounds. The sea lion has a very graceful neck; the walrus has a short, massive one with coarse whiskers and two tusks. Sea lions are often trained, but the walrus lives in the arctic regions and rarely comes ashore, making it hard to make him comfortable in zoos and circuses; sea lions are found all along coastlines and are most comfortable on land. Can you keep these two seals apart? It is easy to see that the sea lion and walrus are both different and alike.

compiled by Augustus Snodgrass, Sam Weller, and Samuel Pickwick
“I just invent, then wait until man comes around to needing what I’ve invented.” – R. Buckminster Fuller
“Bravery is being the only one who knows you’re afraid.” – Franklin P. Jones
“Quality is pride of workmanship.” – W. Edwards Deming
“It is better to learn late than never.” – Publilius Syrus
“I praise loudly. I blame softly.” – Catherine the Great
“We shall never know all the good that a simple smile can do.” – Mother Teresa
“How do you know you’re going to do something, until you do it?” – J. D. Salinger
“Patience is the art of hoping.” – Luc de Clapiers
“It takes two flints to make a fire.” – Louisa May Alcott
“One should never forbid what one lacks the power to prevent.” – Napoleon Bonaparte
“A man of personality can formulate ideals, but only a man of character can achieve them.” – Herbert Read
“The first wealth is health.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson
“If you don’t know where you are going, you might wind up someplace else.” – Yogi Berra
“Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.” – Henry Miller
“The more liberty you give away the more you will have.” – Robert Green Ingersoll
Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.” – Dr. Suess
Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.” – Oscar Wilde
You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” – Dr. Suess
A room without books is like a body without a soul.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” – Eleanor Roosevelt, This is My Story
“The best and most beautiful things in the world can’t be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.” – Helen Keller


compiled by Tracy Tupman
Robert Schumann was a brilliant composer of colourful, descriptive music, but did you know that he was also a writer?
Robert Schumann was born in Germany on June 8, 1810, to a man who was a bookseller, publisher and novelist, and to a very passionate mother. While he began to compose by age of seven, Robert eagerly ate up books and expanded his literary knowledge as enthusiastically as he studied and composed music. At age fourteen, he wrote an essay on the aesthetics (enjoyment) of music and contributed to one of his father’s books.
Of course, we cannot forget about his love of music. Although he consistently broke principal rules of musical composition, he created music considered admirable for his age. Best of all, he could capture people’s emotions and characters in his music. In fact, The Universal Journal of Music 1850 supplement mentioned that “…Schumann, as a child, possessed rare taste and talent for portraying feelings and characteristic traits in melody,—ay, he could sketch the different dispositions of his intimate friends by certain figures and passages on the piano so exactly and comically that everyone burst into loud laughter at the similitude of the portrait.” His father, while knowing more of literature than of music, encouraged Schumann’s musical aspirations, but when he died when Schumann was sixteen, he left no one willing to continue supporting Schumann’s music; so for several years, Schumann studied law, but by age twenty he realized that music was his true passion and returned to studying under former teacher Friedrich Wieck. Wieck assured Schumann that after only a few years of study with him, he would be a successful concert pianist.
Alas, Schumann never achieved virtuosity he longed for. His hopes of becoming a concert pianist were dashed when his hand became permanently injured – an injury which may have come from using a certain mechanism to try and isolate and strengthen his fingers. Fortunately for us who are living today, this forced him to focus entirely on composing. In the several years following his injury, he wrote many his best works: lovely small songs (Lieder) and piano music. But over the course of his lifetime, he wrote in almost every genre known to his era, including one opera, orchestral music, choral songs, and chamber works. Some of his best-known works include his Piano Quintet in Eb (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqHdZSAa3C8), Träumerei in F major (possibly the most famous piano work ever written) (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fHlfNYY1YIY) and his orchestral work – of which the overture is the most played portion – the music he set the poem “Manfred” by Bryon to (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QT0xlnSwkQ). He wrote music to many poems, and often created his music to mirror a specific story or a particular, well-known character. In addition, Schumann began a sort of magazine in which both past and present music was discussed, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, and he became as well-known for being a music critic as for music. He married his teacher’s
daughter Clara Wieck against her father’s will in 1840. While Friedrich Wieck was furious at first, he eventually reconciled himself with the young couple, eager to meet his grandchildren. Unlike Schubert, Clara was a very successful concert pianist, who, in spite of her lovely, delicate appearance, managed to juggle several children, concert tours, and household duties.
Sadly, Schumann struggled with a mental illness and spent the last two years of his life in asylum at his own request, after a suicide attempt. The one bright side of his mental troubles was that during the manic periods, he was incredibly focused and productive in his composing, bringing forth a bountiful harvest of music that made up the more desert-like periods of depression.
Even though Schumann’s work was not perfect, and his abilities, at times, fell short of his ambitions, he brought a remarkable enthusiasm and a rare poetic genius to everything he attempted. As a critic he was remarkably astute in some judgments, wildly off the mark in others, and in all cases generous. He never became a great pianist and at times was not even a very good composer, but his entire being was music, informed by dream and fantasy. He was music’s quintessential Romantic, always passionately ardent, always striving for the ideal, and even today, through his music, his dream of music bringing poetry and story to life, lives on.
Note: Sources - Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Schumann, and Npr music: http://www.npr.org/2011/07/18/127038609/the-life-and-music-of-robert-schumann (There are sections where I may have quoted exact phrases, particularly in the final paragraph, where I quoted most of the last paragraph from the npr music article.)

compiled by Augustus Snodgrass
Happy Birthday, Igor Stravinsky!
Igor Fyodorovich Stravinsky (June 17, 1882 – April 6, 1971) was a Russian (and later, a naturalized French and American) composer, pianist and conductor. He is widely considered to be one of the most important and influential composers of the 20th century.
Stravinsky's compositional career was notable for its stylistic diversity. He first achieved international fame with three ballets commissioned by the impresario Sergei Diaghilev and first performed in Paris by Diaghilev's Ballets Russes: The Firebird (1910), Petrushka (1911) and The Rite of Spring (1913). The last of these transformed the way in which subsequent composers thought about rhythmic structure and was largely responsible for Stravinsky's enduring reputation as a musical revolutionary who pushed the boundaries of musical design. His "Russian phase" was followed in the 1920s by a period in which he turned to neoclassical music. The works from this period tended to make use of traditional musical forms (concerto grosso, fugue and symphony). They often paid tribute to the music of earlier masters, such as J.S. Bach and Tchaikovsky. In the 1950s, Stravinsky adopted serial
- 8 -
procedures. His compositions of this period shared traits with examples of his earlier output: rhythmic energy, the construction of extended melodic ideas out of a few two- or three-note cells and clarity of form, of instrumentation and of utterance.
Perhaps one of his most famous pieces of music, Le sacre du pritemps “Scenes of Pagan Russia” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-1oY5PfcSg), was written when Stravinsky was thirty-one years old. Another very famous piece of music composed by Stravinsky, Petrushka (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hfUgAv2Yew4), was written when he was twenty-nine years old.

compiled by Augustus Snodgrass
Happy Birthday, Alexina Louie!
Alexina Louie (born July 30, 1949) is a Canadian composer. She is of Chinese descent who has written many pieces for orchestra, as well as pieces for solo piano.
Perhaps one of her most famous pieces of music, “Distant Memories” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KK7nijcSj5k), was written when Louie was thirty-three years old.
Note: Igor Stravinsky and Alexina Louie biographies from Wikipedia


by Nathaniel Winkle
You will need measuring cups, a blender, white sugar, a packet of Kool Aid (any flavor you choose), at least a dozen ice cubes, and water. Once you have everything together, you can start! Get your measuring cups, take the one that has “1 ½” written on it, fill it up with white sugar, and then dump it into the blender. Next, open your Kool Aid packet and pour the powder into the blender as well. Fill up the 1 cup three times with water (for a total of three cups of water), and add that to the mixture in the blender; then add the ice cubes, and plug in the blender  (be sure to put the lid on), press down the lid with one hand, and with your other hand press the "Crush ice" button. When you're satisfied, press the "Mix" button until well stirred. Serve quickly (while still cold).
Note: From Mennonite Kitchen Cookbook

by Sam Weller
  • 2 packages frozen, unsweetened raspberries (600 g)
  • 1 ¼ cups sugar (300 mL)
  • 4 cups boiling water (1 L)
  • 3 lemons
  • Large saucepan
  • Measuring cups
  • Wooden spoon
  • Potato masher
  • Wire strainer
  1. Put the unthawed raspberries into the saucepan, and add the sugar.
  2. Cook over medium heat, stirring once in a while, for twenty to twenty-five minutes, until all the sugar has dissolved.
  3. With the potato masher, mash the raspberries and syrup thoroughly.
  4. Pour the mixture through the strainer, making sure you extract all the juice. Discard the pulp.
  5. Squeeze two of the lemons, and strain the juice. Add it to the raspberry juice.
  6. Boil four cups of water, and add it to the raspberry juice.
  7. Let the raspberry cordial cool; then chill it in the refrigerator.
  8. When the cordial is ready to serve, float a thin slice of lemon in each glass.
Note: From The Anne of Green Gables Cookbook by Kate Macdonald

compiled by Nathaniel Winkle, Ph.D. in Whimsicality, and Sam Weller, Ph.D. in Puns

Q: Why do bees hum?
A: They don't know the words!
Q: Why did the boy throw a bucket of water out the window?
A: He wanted to see the waterfall.
Q: What did 0 say to 8?
A: "Nice belt!"

Did you hear about the guy whose whole left side was cut off? He's all right now.
I wondered why the baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me.
I'm reading a book about anti-gravity. It's impossible to put down.
I'd tell you a chemistry joke, but I know I wouldn't get a reaction.
I used to be a banker, but I lost interest.
Did you hear about the guy who got hit in the head with a can of soda? He was lucky it was a soft drink.
I don't trust these stairs, because they're always up to something.
Have you ever tried to eat a clock? It's very time consuming.

Q: What kind of coat is always wet when you put it on?
A: A coat of paint
Q: Where is the ocean the deepest?
A: On the bottom
Q: Why can't someone in Maine be buried in Florida?
A: Because he's still living!
  • Use a muffin tin to serve condiments at a BBQ.
  • Clean out an old sunscreen or lotion bottle to hold money, phone and other items safe and discreet at beaches.
  • Need a way to keep your cookbook open and in plain view? If it’s not too small or thick, you can clip it on to a pants hanger or hang it on a cupboard door knob.
  • Clean out an old Chap Stick or lipstick, roll up your emergency money, and stick it in.
Note: Some puns taken from the website Pun of the Day: http://www.punoftheday.com/.


by Saki (H. H. Munro)
“My aunt will be down presently, Mr. Nuttel,” said a very self-possessed young lady of fifteen; “in the meantime you must try and put up with me.”
Framton Nuttel endeavored to say the correct something which should duly flatter the niece of the moment without unduly discounting the aunt that was to come. Privately he doubted more than ever whether these formal visits on a succession of total strangers would do much towards helping the nerve cure which he was supposed to be undergoing.
“I know how it will be,” his sister had said when he was preparing to migrate to this rural retreat; “you will bury yourself down there and not speak to a living soul, and your nerves will be worse than ever from moping. I shall just give you letters of introduction to all the people I know there. Some of them, as far as I can remember, were quite nice.”
Framton wondered whether Mrs. Sappleton, the lady to whom he was presenting one of the letters of introduction came into the nice division.
“Do you know many of the people round here?” asked the niece, when she judged that they had had sufficient silent communion.
“Hardly a soul,” said Framton. “My sister was staying here, at the rectory, you know, some four years ago, and she gave me letters of introduction to some of the people here.”
He made the last statement in a tone of distinct regret.
“Then you know practically nothing about my aunt?” pursued the self-possessed young lady.
“Only her name and address,” admitted the caller. He was wondering whether Mrs. Sappleton was in the married or widowed state. An undefinable something about the room seemed to suggest masculine habitation.
“Her great tragedy happened just three years ago,” said the child; “that would be since your sister’s time.”
“Her tragedy?” asked Framton; somehow in this restful country spot tragedies seemed out of place.
“You may wonder why we keep that window wide open on an October afternoon,” said the niece, indicating a large French window that opened on to a lawn.
   “It is quite warm for the time of the year,” said Framton; “but has that window got anything to do with the tragedy?”
“Out through that window, three years ago to a day, her husband and her two young brothers went off for their day's shooting. They never came back. In crossing the moor to their favorite snipe-shooting ground they were all three engulfed in a treacherous piece of bog. It had been that dreadful wet summer, you know, and places that were safe in other years gave way suddenly without warning. Their bodies were never recovered. That was the dreadful part of it.” Here the child's voice lost its self-possessed note and became falteringly human. “Poor aunt always thinks that they will come back someday, they and the little brown spaniel that was lost with them, and walk in at that window just as they used to do. That is why the window is kept open every evening till it is quite dusk. Poor dear aunt, she has often told me how they went out, her husband with his white waterproof coat over his arm, and Ronnie, her youngest brother, singing ‘Bertie, why do you bound?’ as he always did to tease her, because she said it got on her nerves. Do you know, sometimes on still, quiet evenings like this, I almost get a creepy feeling that they will all walk in through that window--”
She broke off with a little shudder. It was a relief to Framton when the aunt bustled into the room with a whirl of apologies for being late in making her appearance.
“I hope Vera has been amusing you?” she said.
“She has been very interesting,” said Framton.
“I hope you don't mind the open window,” said Mrs. Sappleton briskly; “my husband and brothers will be home directly from shooting, and they always come in this way. They've been out for snipe in the marshes today, so they'll make a fine mess over my poor carpets. So like you menfolk, isn't it?”
She rattled on cheerfully about the shooting and the scarcity of birds, and the prospects for duck in the winter. To Framton it was all purely horrible. He made a desperate but only partially successful effort to turn the talk on to a less ghastly topic, he was conscious that his hostess was giving him only a fragment of her attention, and her eyes were constantly straying past him to the open window and the lawn beyond. It was certainly an unfortunate coincidence that he should have paid his visit on this tragic anniversary.
“The doctors agree in ordering me complete rest, an absence of mental excitement, and avoidance of anything in the nature of violent physical exercise,” announced Framton, who labored under the tolerably widespread delusion that total strangers and chance acquaintances are hungry for the least detail of one's ailments and infirmities, their cause and cure. “On the matter of diet they are not so much in agreement,” he continued.
“No?” said Mrs. Sappleton, in a voice which only replaced a yawn at the last moment. Then she suddenly brightened into alert attention--but not to what Framton was saying.
“Here they are at last!” she cried. “Just in time for tea, and don't they look as if they were muddy up to the eyes!”
Framton shivered slightly and turned towards the niece with a look intended to convey sympathetic comprehension. The child was staring out through the open window with a dazed horror in her eyes. In a chill shock of nameless fear Framton swung round in his seat and looked in the same direction.
In the deepening twilight three figures were walking across the lawn towards the window, they all carried guns under their arms, and one of them was additionally burdened with a white coat hung over his shoulders. A tired brown spaniel kept close at their heels. Noiselessly they neared the house, and then a hoarse young voice chanted out of the dusk: “I said, Bertie, why do you bound?”
Framton grabbed wildly at his stick and hat; the hall door, the gravel drive, and the front gate were dimly noted stages in his headlong retreat. A cyclist coming along the road had to run into the hedge to avoid imminent collision.
“Here we are, my dear,” said the bearer of the white mackintosh, coming in through the window, “fairly muddy, but most of it's dry. Who was that who bolted out as we came up?”
“A most extraordinary man, a Mr. Nuttel,” said Mrs. Sappleton; “could only talk about his illnesses, and dashed off without a word of goodby or apology when you arrived. One would think he had seen a ghost.”
“I expect it was the spaniel,” said the niece calmly; “he told me he had a horror of dogs. He was once hunted into a cemetery somewhere on the banks of the Ganges by a pack of pariah dogs, and had to spend the night in a newly dug grave with the creatures snarling and grinning and foaming just above him. Enough to make anyone lose their nerve.”
Romance at short notice was her specialty.


by Nathaniel Winkle
I wished upon a shooting star,
for my brother a mute guitar,
for my Mom some nice perfume,
for myself my very own room,
for my sister to just shut up,
and for my dad to say yes to a pup.
I wished for a trip to Disneyland
(without my siblings, you understand)
I wished to win the lottery
(but I’m under 18...bye-bye shopping spree!).
I wished for a mega ice cream cone
and my very own telephone.
I do wonder: did I overdo?
Only one wish can come true!
What? The first one little star?
All I am getting is a mute guitar?!!!!!

by William Ernest Henley
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the ludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

*Note: We do not agree with the humanistic views of this poem but believe that, with Christ as the Captain of our soul, the strength this poem talks about can be attained.*

by William Wordsworth
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

by James Whitcomb Riley
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other children, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers,--
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz thist his pants an’ roundabout:--
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you

An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;
An’ wunst, when they was “company,” an’ ole folks wuz there,
She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you


An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts, an’ yer teachurs fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns ‘ll git you


by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro’ the field the road runs by
       To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
       The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
       Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
       The Lady of Shalott

By the margin, willow veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhail’d
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d
       Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
       The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
       Down to tower’d Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers “ ‘Tis the fairy
       Lady of Shalott


There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
       To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
       The Lady of Shalott.
And moving thro’ a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
       Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
       Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
       Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes thro’ the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
       The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
       And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
       The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
       Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
       Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
       As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
       Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
       As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
       Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
       As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash’d into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
       Sang Sir Lancelot
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro’ the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
       She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
       The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
       Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
       The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance—
With a glassy countenance
       Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
       The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right—
The leaves upon her falling light—
Thro’ the noises of the night
       She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
       The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken’d wholly,
       Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
       The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
       Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
       The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross’d themselves for fear,
       All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
       The Lady of Shalott.”
by Edgar Allan Poe
Gaily bedight,
   A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,   
   Had journeyed long,   
   Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.
   But he grew old—
   This knight so bold—   
And o’er his heart a shadow—   
   Fell as he found
   No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.
   And, as his strength   
   Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow—   
   ‘Shadow,’ said he,   
   ‘Where can it be—
This land of Eldorado?’
   ‘Over the Mountains
   Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,   
   Ride, boldly ride,’
   The shade replied,—
‘If you seek for Eldorado!’

Ad designed by Sam Weller

No comments:

Post a Comment