How Little We Know

How little we know of each other,
As we pass through the journey of life,
With its struggles, its fears, its temptation
Its heartbreaking cares and its strife.

How little we know of each other,
That woman of fashion who sneers
At the poor girl betrayed and abandoned
And left to her sins and her tears.

May ere the sun rises tomorrow
Have the mask rudely torn from her face,
And sink from the heights of her glory
To the dark shades of shame and disgrace.

How little we know of each other,
That man who today passes by
With honor and pride of possession
And holding his proud head on high
May carry a dread secret within him
Which makes his bosom a hell
And he sooner or later a felon
May writhe in a prisoner’s cell.

How little we know of each other,
Of ourselves too little we know
We are all weak when under temptation,
All subject to error and woe.
Then let blessed charity rule us;
Let us put away envy and spite,
For the skeleton grim in our closet
May some day be brought to light.

One Woman’s Work

(By Emma Endicott Marean)
“Who having little, yet hath all.”
A narrow sphere – how can you call it so?
Three pairs of baby eyes look up in mine,
And seem the gates through which a light divine
Transfigures my life with tenderest glow.
Because I cannot paint with artist skill
The changing colors of the sea or sky.
Because I cannot write of visions high
And move you all with pain or joy at will.
Because to learning’s shrine no gifts I bring,
Nor take a foremost stand for woman’s cause,
Because I trust unquestioning the laws,
That bring us snow in Winter, birds in Spring
You think my life is circumscribed and cold
In what should make it helpful, rich and strong.
Ah, friend! these happy days are none too long
For all the loving duties that they hold
Nor has the art you love been all denied,
For loveliest pictures every day I see
In childhood’s careless grace and movements free
From waking morn till dreamy eventide.
My Edith’s braids, now brown, now golden bright,
Imprison tints no artist’s brush has known;
The baby’s beep-blue eyes, that meet my own
In living beauty mock all painted light
Nor do you know, my friend, the critics bond
We story tellers in the children find -
What store of wisdom and of wit combined
We need to point a moral new or old.
And in reforms are we not learning late
A still, small voice need not be all in vain?
These childish hands may bring the greater gain
If I am willing now to simply wait.
And what in science or philosophy
Can pass in interest the baby heart,
Seeking in untried ways to take it’s part
For good or ill in life’s great mystery?
God help us mothers all to live aright,
And may our homes all truth and love enfold
Since life for us no loftier aims can hold
Than leading little children in the light!

Old Rosin, The Beau

I live for the good of my Nation,
And my sons are all growing low,
But I hope that my next generation
Will resemble old Rosin, the beau,
I’ve traveled this country all over,
And now to the next I will go,
For I know that good quarters await me,
To welcome old Rosin, the beau.

In the gay round of pleasure I’ve traveled,
Now will I behind leave a foe;
And when my companions are jovial,
They will drink to old Rosin, the beau.
But my life is now drawn to a closing,
And all will at last be so,
So we’ll take a bull bumper at parting,
To the name of old Rosin, the beau.

When I’m dead and laid out on the counter,
The people all making a show,
Just sprinkle plain whisky and water
On the corpse of old Rosin, the beau
I’ll have to be buried, I reckon,
And the ladies will all want to know,
And they’ll lift up the lid of my coffin,
Saying, “Here lies old Rosin, the beau.”

O, when to my grave I am going,
The children will all want to go;
They’ll run to the doors and the windows,
Saying, “There goes old Rosin, the beau.”
Then pick me out six trusty fellows,
And let them all stand in a row,
And dig a big hole in a circle,
And in it toss Rosin, the beau.

The shape me out two little donochs,
Place one at my head and my toe,
And do not forget to scratch on it,
The name of old Rosin, the beau.
Then let those six trusty good fellows,
O! let them all stand in a row,
And rake down that big-bellied bottle,
And drink to old Rosin, the beau

Sent in by I.V.S., Wollaston, MAss

Barney McCoy

I am going far away, Norah, darling;
And leaving such an angel far behind;
It will break my heart in two, which I fondly gave to you,
And no other one so loving, kind and true.

Chorus:
Then come to my arms, Norah, darling,
Bid your friends in dear old Ireland goodby.
And it’s happy we will be, in that dear land of the free,
Living happy with your Barney McCoy.

I would go with you , Barney, darling,
But the reason why I told you oft before,
It would break my poor mother’s heart if from her I had to part,
And go roaming with you Barney McCoy.

I am going far away, Norah, darling,
Just as sure as there is a God that I adore,
But remember what I say, that until the judgement day,
You will never see your Barney any more.

I would go with you, Barney, darling,
If my mother and the rest of them were there,
For I know we would be blest in that dear land of the West,
Living happy with you, Barney McCoy.

I am going far away, Norah, darling,
And the ship is now anchored at the bay,
And the before tomorrow you will hear the signal gun,
So be ready – it will carry us away.

The Dying Fisherman’s Song, or He Raving of Sir Rupt

‘Twas midnight on the ocean,
Not a street car was in sight,
The sun was shining brightly,
For it rained all day that night.

‘Twas a Summer’s day in Winter,
The rain was snowing fast,
As a barefoot girl with shoes on,
Stood sitting in the grass.

‘Twas evening and the rising sun
Was setting in the West,
And all the fishes in the trees
Were cuddled in their nests.

The rain was pouring down,
The sun was shining bright,
And everything that you could see
Was hidden out of sight.

The organ peeled potatoes,
Lard was rendered by the choir,
When the sexton rang the dishrag
Someone set the church on fire.

“Holy smokes!” the teacher shouted,
As he madly tore his hair,
Now his head resembles Heaven,
For there is no parting there.

A Visit From St. Nicholas

Probably the most famous poem in the world – one that has been translated into as many languages, it is said, as the Bible, is best known as “The Night Before Christmas,” although the author, Dr. Clement Clarke Moore, called it “A Visit from St. Nicholas.”
This poem was written in 1822 and first appeared in print in the Troy, NY Sentinel in 1823. Dr. Moore was a translator of Greek and Hebrew, a noted authority on theology and the author of many books on theology – which are long forgotten, but this poem, which he worte for his two daughters, will live forever:

“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mama in her ‘kerchief and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap;
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on hte breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the luster of midday to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted and called them by name;
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet, on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away!dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew,
With a sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes – how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the bead of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke of it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose,
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

The Land of the Leal

I’m wearin’ awa’, Jean
Like snawreaths in thaw, Jean,
I’m wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.
There’s nae sorrow there, Jean;
There’s neither cauld nor care, Jean;
The day is aye fair,
In the land o’ the leal,

Ye aye were leal and true, Jean,
Your tasks ended noo, Jean
And I’ll welcome you
To the land o’ the leal,
Our bonnie bairn’s there, Jean
Whe was baith gude and fair, Jean;
And we grudged her sair,
To the land o’ the leal.

Then dry that tearfu’ e’e, Jean;
My soul langs to be free, Jean
And angels wait on me,
To the land o’ the leal,
Now fair ye weel, my ain, Jean;
This world’s care is vain, Jean;
We’ll meet and aye be fain,
In the land o’ the leal

Sent in by H. M. B., Revere

Big Oops

I knitted two sweaters on the way to Vermont and back. On the white one (of course) I spilled a couple of drops of tea. When we got home, I decided to pretreat the sweater before putting it in the wash. The yarn was “Canon Simply Soft Eco”, a synthetic blend. Knowing that I could not use any product with bleach in it, I use Oxyclean. In a very few minutes the sweater had turned bright yellow in the spots where I had sprayed the Oxyclean. I have not been able to wash the stains out. Needless to say I am rather upset that the sweater was ruined! It represented only about $10 in yarn but at least 15 hours of knitting. I checked the label of both the Oxyclean and the yarn. There is no warning about the application of the spot treater on acrylic/polyester blends, in fact one of the recommended uses is for upholstery: just the general warning to test on an inconspicious spot. The yarn had no warning about spot removers, not even bleach. Needless to say it will be the last sweater I will make out of that yarn, especially for kids.

Memory Lane

Ever once in a while, everyone needs to take a trip down memory lane. I did it this last month as I created a video for my son’s 40th birthday. I mourned the slides that were too degraded to keep and was amazed by all the fun we had raising our children. The video is only about 17 minutes long but there are a ton of memories in his first 40 years.

Tunbridge Fair

This year we went to the Tunbridge Fair Friday afternoon and evening. The weather had been rainy – as usual – but it cleared as the afternoon progressed. I love the antiques on the hill and wandered through the exhibit halls. I missed my buddy Nate – didn’t play any of the midway games the he likes so much. The food at Tunbridge is amazing, one can eat as healthy or as unhealthy as one wants. I chose a combination – bar-b-que fresh ham sandwich, an ear of corn and a fried dough drizzled with maple cream. Of course the guys went for french fries, onion rings and sweet potato fries. My brother had bought me a maple cremee in Jeffersonville on the way to register the cars for the British Invasion so I opted not to get one at the Maple Barn. I bought my fair button for my hat, I am missing only one, the one shaped like the state of Vermont. We did the whole fair, watch a little tractor pulling and had a great time.

Old Tractors