NYC Cab Drivers

The most amazing thing happened last night. About 11 pm my cell phone rang, I looked at the display and it was my niece’s phone. She lives in New York City. To my surprise, when I answered the voice on the other end was not my niece, but a man. He asked, with an accent, do you know Molly. When I said yes he explained that he had just dropped her off at what I knew was near where she lives and that Molly had left her cell phone in his cab. I assured him that I would call her and hung up. I called the house phone hoping that she had had time to get up to her apartment and sure enough they answered. . I explained and they called her phone, arranged to meet the cabbie who had been circling the block and retrieved the cell phone. The true spirit of Christmas lives in a cab driver in NYC.

No Character, Less Creed

by Albert W. Mathews

He wrote his Character and his Creed,
Upon the surface of a mustard seed,
When finished and he looked it o’er
He found sufficient room for more.

He planted the seed with more or less toil,
Hoping in time, it would spring from the soil,
But old Mother Earth refused to give birth,
To the seed of a man of such little worth,

What he chose to write was little indeed,
But it killed the germ of that little seed,

Moral:
So be sure to write your Character and Creed
Upon something larger than a mustard seed.

Sent in by A.V. Malden, Mass

A great Quote

You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich.
You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong.
You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift.
You cannot lift the wage earner up by pulling the wage payer down.
You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred.
You cannot build character and courage by taking away people’s initiative and independence.
You cannot help people permanently by doing for them, what they could and should do for themselves.

……..Abraham Lincoln

Molly’s Sweater

Molly’s sweater is coming along nicely, but I must chuckle at the pattern. The math just does not work. The pattern is shaped in the back, there are 3 darts, a decrease on each side = 6 per decrease row for 3 different rows. The beginning number of stitches is 120 and the end number is supposed to be 114. Does anyone see anything wrong with that math?

I now have the body done to the armpits.  I corrected the math error by adding two in the center back at about shoulder blade height in pattern with the waist shaping, I think it will not ever be noticable and may add to the look.  It is working up really fast and I think I may make a pink one for Sara with some yarn that I bought that didn’t give me the look for the pattern I had chosen.  This might be just the ticket!  Let you know

You Never Miss The Water

Author Unknown

When a child I lived at Lincoln with my parents on the farm
And lessons that my mother taught me have never lost their charm.
Oft would she take me on her knee when tired of childish play,
And as she press’d me to her breast, I’ve heard her gently say:

Chorus,
Waste not, want not, is a maxim I would teach;
Let your watchword be Dispatch, and practice what you preach.
Do not let your chances like sunbeams pass you by,
For you never mill the water till the well runs dry.

As years rolled on I grew to be a mischief-making boy,
Destruction scented my only sport, it was my only joy;
And well do I remember when ofttimes will chastised,
How he sat beside me then my father thus advised,

When I arrived at manhood and embarked in public life,
I found it was a rugged road, bestrewn with care and strife;
I speculated foolishly, my losses were severe,
But still still a tiny voice kept whisp’ring in my ear.

Then I studied strict economy, and found to my surprise,
My funds instead of sinking full soon began to rise;
I grasped each chance and always struck the iron while ’twas hot.
I seized my opportunities and never once forgot,

Knitting

I have been in a knitting rut, really bored with making the baby sweaters that I seem to require. Friends keep having grandbabies. I have made several of the zip up the back hooded ones and a couple of Scandinavian ones as well a  couple of jersey patterns. I was thrilled when I was in NYC for my yearly trip to visit a friend and my family, my niece asked me to make her a sweater that she liked but didn’t feel up to attempting it. It should go fast, bulky yarn ( a nice soft Cascadia washable wool), is knit in the round and has owls in the yoke. I gave her the task of finding the buttons for the owls eyes as she lives in NYC and has a better choice than I would have in NC. I’ll post a picture when it is finished.

What the Choir Sang About The New Bonnet

A foolish little maiden bought a foolish little bonnet,
With a ribbon and a feather and a bit of lace upon it;
And the other maidens of the little town might know it
She thought she’d go to meeting next Sunday just to show it.

But though the little bonnet was scarce larger than a dime
The getting of it settled proved to be a work of time;
So when “twas fairly tied all the bells had stopped their ringing,
And when she came to meeting, sure enough, the folks were singing.

So the foolish little maiden stood and waited at the door,
And she shook her ruffles out behind and smoothed them out before,
“Hallelujah, hallelujah!” sang the choir above her head -
“Hardly knew you, hardly knew you!” were the words she thought they said.

This made the little maiden feel so very, very cross
That she gave her little mouth a twist and her little head a toss;
For she thought the very hymn they sang was all about her bonnet!
With the ribbon, and the feather, and the bit of lace upon it.

And she would not wait to listen to the sermon or the prayer.
But pattered down the silent street and hurried up the stair
Till she’d reached her little bureau, and in a bandbox on it,
Had hidden safe from critic’s eye her foolish little bonnet.

Which proves, my little maidens, that each you will find
In every Sabbath service but an echo of your mind;
And that the little head that’s filled with silly little airs,
Will never get a blessing from sermons or from prayers.

The Dying Ranger

The sun was sinking in the West
And fell with lingering ray
Through the branches of a forest
Where a wounded ranger lay;
Beneath the shade of a palmetto
And the sunset silvery sky,
Far away from his home in Texas
They laid him down to die.

A group had gathered round him,
His comrades in the fight,
A tear rolled down each manly cheek
As he bid a last good night.
One tried and true companion
Was kneeling by his side,
To stop his life-blood flowing,
But alas, in vain he tried.

When to stop the life-blood flowing
He found ’twas all in vain
The tears rolled down each man’s cheek
Like light showers of rain,
Up spoke the noble ranger;
“Boys, weep no more for me.
I am crossing the deep waters
To a country that is free.”

“Draw closer to me, comrades,
And listen to what I say.
I am going to tell a story
While my spirit hastens away,
Way back in Northwest Texas,
That good old Lone Star State,
There is one that for my coming
With a weary heart will wait.”

“A fair young girl, my sister,
My only joy, my pride
She was my friend from boyhood,
I had no one left beside,
I have loved her as a brother,
And with a father’s care,
I have strove from grief and sorrow
Her gentle heart to spare.”

“My mother, she lies sleeping
Beneath the churchyard sod.
And many a day has passed away
Since her spirit fled to God.
My father, he lies sleeping
Beneath the deep blue sea,
I have no other kindred,
There are none but Nell and me.

“But our country was invaded
And they called for volunteers;
She threw her arms around me,
Then burst into tears,
Saying, “Go, my darling brother,
Drive those traitors from our shore,
My heart may need your presence,
But others need you more”

“It is true I love my country,
For her I gave my all.
If it hadn’t been for my sister
I would be content to fall,
I am dying, comrades, dying,
She will never see me more,
But in vain she’ll wait my coming
By our little cabin door.”

“Comrades, gather closer
And listen to my dying prayer,
Who will be to her as a brother
And shield her with a brother’s care?”
Up spoke the noble rangers,
They answered one and all;
“We will be to her as brothers
Till the last one does fall.”

One glad smile of pleasure
O’er the ranger’s face was spread;
One dark, convulsive shadow
And the ranger boy was dead,
Far from his darling sister
We laid him down to rest
With his saddle for a pillow
And his gun across his breast.

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!