Four Angels Round My Bed

Crib of the Infant Jesus, 15th Century.  Metropolitan Museum of Art

Every night when I put my mom to bed, I say this prayer:

God bless this house from roof to floor
The twelve apostles guard the door.

Four great angels round my bed
Two my feet and two my head.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John
Bless the bed that I lie on.

Sometimes I am really tired and say the meal blessing without realizing it, which prompts my mother to giggle, which makes me laugh, which makes it harder to remember the prayer I am supposed to be saying.  Usually she'll prompt me after I make a few false starts.

Anyway, in trying to learn more about the prayer, I discovered that the most common version goes like this:

Four corners to my bed,

Four angels round my head;

One to watch and one to pray

And two to bear my soul away.

Apparently the one I am saying is an amalgamation of several different prayers, but we like it that way, so I am okay with that.  The way I learned it from a children's prayer book includes this ending:

Now I lay me down to sleep, 

I pray the Lord my soul to keep, 

If any danger come to me, 

Sweet Jesus Christ deliver me.

And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

The Crib of the Infant Jesus photo above reminded me of the prayer.  I saw it in the Met's twitter feed and was immediately enchanted.  Here's the description of the crib from the museum's web site:

Miniature cradles for the Christ Child were popular devotional objects in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and were venerated, especially in convents, where they were often presented to women taking their vows. This splendid cradle comes from the Grand Béguinage of Louvain, Belgium, established for lay women in the twelfth century. It is decorated with carved representations of the Nativity and the Adoration of the Magi on either end. The biblical family tree of Christ is illustrated on the embroidered coverlet.

There are eight other photos, including close-ups of the head and foot board carvings.  Take a look.

Receipt for a Happy Childhood: A Lovely List of Children's Poems

Last month, an anonymous commenter asked if I would provide her a list of the poems included in Day and Night and Other Dreams, a book of children's poetry that I wrote about here.  She explained that the book was one of her childhood favorites, and she was having a hard time finding a copy.  Although I am late responding, I am glad to provide the titles of the poems.  Better yet, this little book has meant so much to me and Emma, I am also going to include the poems themselves.  Here is a link to a CD Baby page where you can purchase the mp3 recordings.    I hope you enjoy this, and that you find someone wonder-full with whom to share it.  Most of all, I hope that renewed interest in this book and accompanying music tape will encourage its some publisher to make it available again along with a CD of the music.

I apologize for all the formatting errors.  I don't have the patience just now to fix them.


Day and Night and Other Dreams: Table of Contents

Girls and Boys Come Out to Play. . .Anonymous
Spring. . .William Blake
Somewhere. . .Walter de la Mare
Where Go the Boats?. . .Robert Louis Stevenson
My Shadow. . .Robert Louis Stevenson
Little White Lily. . .George MacDonald
General Store. . .Rachel Field
The Peaceable Kingdom. . .Traditional Shaker
The Throstle. . .Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Clock-a-Clay. . .John Clare
I've Been Roaming. . .George Darley
A Swing Song. . .William Allingham
Evening Song. . .Fannie Stearns Davis
Lady Moon. . .Lord Houghton
The Land of Nod. . .Robert Louis Stevenson
Last Song. . .James Guthrie

Girls and Boys Come Out to Play
Anonymous


Girls and boys come out to play,
The moon doth shine as bright as day,
Leave your supper, and leave your sleep,
And come with your playfellows into the street;
Come with a whoop, or come with a call,
Come with a goodwill, or not at all.
Up the ladder and down the wall,
A halfpenny loaf will serve us all.
You find milk, and I'll find flour,
And we'll have a pudding in half an hour!


Spring
William Blake

Sound the flute!

Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and Night;
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in Sky,
Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the Year.


Little boy
Full of joy,
Little girl
Sweet and Small;
Cock does crow,
So do you;
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the Year.


Little Lamb
Here I am;
Come and lick
My white neck;
Let me pull
Your soft Wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft Face,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the Year.


Somewhere

Walter de la Mare

Could you tell me the way to Somewhere—
Somewhere, Somewhere,
I have heard of a place called Somewhere—
But know not where it can be.
It makes no difference,
Whether or not
I go in dreams
Or trudge on foot:
Would you tell me the way to Somewhere,
The Somewhere meant for me.


There’s a little old house in Somewhere—
Somewhere, Somewhere,
A queer little place with a Cat and a Mouse—
Just room enough for three.
A kitchen, a larder,
A bin for bread,
A string of candles,
Or stars instead,
A table, a chair,
And a four-post bed—
There’s room for us all in Somewhere,
For the Cat and the Mouse and Me.


I want to be off to Somewhere,
To far, lone, lovely Somewhere,
No matter where Somewhere be.
It makes no difference
Whether or not
I go in dreams
Or trudge on foot,
Or this time to-morrow
How far I’ve got,
Summer or Winter,
Cold, or hot,
Where, or When,
Or Why, or What—
Please, tell me the way to Somewhere—
Somewhere, Somewhere;
Somewhere, Somewhere, Somewhere, Somewhere—
The Somewhere meant for me! 


Where Go the Boats?
Robert Louis Stevenson


Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand.
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.


Green leaves a-floating,
Castles of the foam,
Boats of mine a-boating--
Where will all come home?


On goes the river
And out past the mill,
Away down the valley,
Away down the hill.


Away down the river
A hundred miles or more,
Other little children
Shall bring my boats ashore.


My Shadow
Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—

Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;

I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like an errant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

Little White Lily

George MacDonald

Little white Lily
Sat by a stone,
Drooping and Waiting
Till the sun shone.
Little White Lily
Sunshine has fed;
Little White Lily
Is lifting her head.


Little White Lily
Said, "It is good;
Little White Lily's
Clothing and food."
Little White Lily
Dressed like a bride!
Shining with whiteness,
And crown'd beside!


Little White Lily
Droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little White Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.


Little White Lily
Said, "Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have nice rain;
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;
Heat cannot burn me,
My veins are so full."


Little White Lily
Smells very sweet;
On her head sunshine,
Rain at her feet.
Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain!
Little White Lily
Is happy again!


General Store
Rachel Field


Someday I'm going to have a store
With tinkly bells hung over the door,
With real glass cases and counters wide
And drawers all spilly with things inside.
There'll be a little of everything:
Bolts of calico, balls of string;
Jars of peppermint, tins of tea,
Potatoes and kettles and crockery;


Seeds in packets, scissors bright;
Kegs of sugar, brown and white;
Sarsaparilla for picnic lunches;
Bananas and rubber boots in bunches.
I'll fix the window and dust each shelf,
And take the money in all myself.
It will be my store and I will say:
"What can I do for you today?"


The Peaceable Kingdom
Traditional Shaker abecedarious


Alligator, Beetle, Porcupine, Whale,
Bobolink, Panther, Dragonfly, Snail,
Crocodile, Monkey, Buffalo, Hare,
Dromedary, Leopard, Mud Turtle, Bear,
Elephant, Badger, Pelican, Ox,
Flying Fish, Reindeer, Anaconda, Fox,
Guinea Pig, Dolphin, Antelope, Goose,
Hummingbird, Weasel, Pickerel, Moose.
Ibex, Rhinoceros, Owl, Kangaroo,
Jackal, Opossum, Toad, Cockatoo,
Kingfisher, Peacock, Anteater, Bat,
Lizard, Ichneumon, Honeybee, Rat.
Mockingbird, Camel, Grasshopper, Mouse,
Nightingale, Spider, Octopus, Grouse,
Ocelot, Pheasant, Wolverine, Auk,
Periwinkle, Ermine, Katydid, Hawk.
Quail, Hippopotamus, Armadillo, Moth,
Rattlesnake, Lion, Woodpecker, Sloth,
Salamander, Goldfinch, Angleworm, Dog,
Tiger, Flamingo, Scorpion, Frog.
Unicorn, Ostrich, Nautilus, Mole,
Viper, Gorilla, Basilisk, Sole,
Whippoorwill, Beaver, Centipede, Fawn,
Xanthos, Canary, Polliwog, Swan.
Yellowhammer, Eagle, Hyena, Lark,
Zebra, Chameleon, Butterfly, Shark.


The Throstle
Alfred, Lord Tennyson


"Summer is coming, summer is coming,
I know it, I know it, I know it.
Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"
Yes, my wild little Poet.


Sing the new year in under the blue.
Last year you sang it so gladly.
"New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new
That you should carol so madly?


"Love again, song again, nest again, young again,"
Never a prophet so crazy!"
And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,
See there is hardly a daisy.


"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!"
O warble unchidden unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear.
And all the winters are hidden.


Clock-a-Clay
John Clare


In the cowslip pips I lie
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies
Pearled wi' dew like fishes' eyes.
Here I lie, a clock-a-clay,
Waiting for the time o' day.


While grassy forests quake surprise,
And the wild wind sobs and sighs,
My gold home rocks as like to fall
On its pillar green and tall;
When the parting rain drives by
Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry.


Day by day and night by night
All the week I hide from sight.
In the cowslips pips I lie,
In rain and dew still warm and dry.
Day and night, and night and day,
Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay.


My home it shakes in wind and showers,
Pale green pillar topped wi' flowers,
Bending at the wild wind's breath
Till I touch the grass beneath.
Here I live, lone clock-a-clay,
Watching for the time of day.





I've Been Roaming

George Darley


I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the meadow-dew is sweet,
And like a queen I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
O'er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I'm coming
With its blossoms in my hair.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I'm coming
To my bower back again.

Evening Song
Fannie Stearns Davis

Little Child, Good Child, go to sleep.
The tree-toads purr and the peepers peep
Under the apple-tree grass grows deep;
Little Child, Good Child, go to sleep!


Big star out in the orange west;
Orioles swing in their Gypsy nest;
Soft wind singing what you love best;
Rest till the sun-rise; rest, Child, rest!


Swift dreams swarm in a silver flight._
Hand in hand with the sleepy Night
Lie down soft with your eyelids tight._
Hush, Child, little Child!._Goodnight._

Lady Moon
Lord Houghton


"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?"
"Over the Sea."
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?"
"All that love me."
"Are you not tired with rolling, and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale and so sad, as forever
Wishing to weep?"
"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me:
You are too bold;
I must obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I'm told."
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?"
"Over the Sea."
"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?"
"All that love me."


The Land of Nod
Robert Louis Stevenson


From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.


All by myself I have to go,
With none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain-sides of dreams.


The strangest things are there for me
Both things to eat and things to see,
And many frightening sights abroad
Till morning in the land of Nod.


Try as I like to find the way,
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.


Last Song
James Guthrie


To the Sun
Who has shone
All day,
To the Moon
Who has gone
Awa,
To the milk-white,
Silk-white,
Lily-white Star
A fond goodnight
Wherever you are.

For the Lovesick Maiden: A Scotch Song and Halloween Custom

From Traditional Scottish Songs:

My Mother Bids Me Bind My Hair


by Anne Hume (1742-1841)
Also set to music by Haydn


My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my bodice blue.

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?"
Alas! I scarce can go or creep
While Lubin is away.

’Tis sad to think the days are gone
When those we love were near;
I sit upon this mossy stone
And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,
And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
Now Lubin is away.


A Halloween Custom From Catholic Cuisine:

From the Scotch we have the recipe for Salainn Bannock. In Cooking for Christ, Florence Berger tells us that this cake was "made by Scotch lassies especially for Halloween. They stir about six teaspoons of salt into the dough so it is scarcely edible, eat it, and then, without a word or drink of water, they climb into bed to dream of their future husbands."

Day and Night and Other Dreams

Sometimes you find a children's book that is so special, you never outgrow it.

Day and Night and Other Dreams, a slim volume of classic children's poetry, is one such book. It came with a cassette tape of the poems set to music sung by the Matanovic family, Nancy Rumbel, and friends. I bought the book/tape set for Emma when she was four years old after discovering it in a clearance bin for three or four dollars. I was attracted by the soft pink cover of the book, the romantic front cover illustration, and the description: "Performed by a Fine and Curious Company of Singers and Players".

So sweet and pure and joyful is the singing on the companion tape, that I believe it scooped up the poems like so many magical seeds and planted them deep in Emma's soul, establishing a secret bounty there of childlike joy and innocence that continues to sustain her, even now that she is 17. She still listens to the tape, still sings the songs in the midst of her daily activities, still lingers over the classical paintings illustrating the book, still finds new connections with the poems.

For instance, after a horrible experience of being dangerously dehydrated while she was in Italy this summer, she had new insight into "Little White Lily" by George MacDonald; these two verses particularly fit:

Little white Lily

Droopeth with pain,

Waiting and waiting

For the wet rain.

Little white Lily

Holdeth her cup;

Rain is fast falling

And filling it up.



Little white Lily

Said, "Good again,

When I am thirsty

To have nice rain;

Now I am stronger,

Now I am cool;

Heat cannot burn me,

My veins are so full!"


Despite their power, I don't think these poems could have become part of her the way they have if we had not been living on 18 acres of mostly-wooded property in Louisiana--with a full complement of wild and domesticated animals--for the most important years of Emma's childhood. The poetry and the music and the wildness seemed to join hands and form an enchanted circle that moved protectively around her, while she, barefoot and fairy like, danced in its center.

As she "danced", I re-connected with my own childhood in the woods, which I wrote about in A Place of Enchantment.

It is strange to think how much Day and Night enriches our lives, and yet it was only by chance that it found its way to us, I think. . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From the beginning, my favorite song has been "I've Been Roaming" because it seemed to describe Emma so perfectly. I discovered last week that it actually was first published in a book called Lilian of the Vale. I read a portion of it before and after Lilian sings "I've Been Roaming," and was amazed at how much Lilian reminded me of my Emmaline, even down to escaping through her window at night to wander in the moonlight. As her mother, I worry and scold her for this. It's my job. Secretly, though, the girl in me, the girl of the woods and bayou, dreams of joining her. In our nightgowns, holding hands, we would go singing through the newly-mown hayfield to dive into the moon floating ghostlike on the quiet pond.

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?"

"Over the Sea."

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?"

"All that love me."

I've Been Roaming

She was impatient of confinement and often when her mother had seen her to bed, on going into her room an hour after it would be found empty and Lilian escaped unseen to wander by moonlight in the valley.









I've Been Roaming

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the meadow-dew is sweet,
And like a queen I'm coming
With its pearls upon my feet.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
O'er red rose and lily fair,
And like a sylph I'm coming
With its blossoms in my hair.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Where the honeysuckle creeps,
And like a bee I'm coming
With its kisses on my lips.

I've been roaming, I've been roaming,
Over hill and over plain,
And like a bird I'm coming
To my bower back again.

Quote and poem from Lilian of the Vale by George Darley.

Beauty in the Balance

Emma and I are always looking for guidance about how young traditional Catholic ladies should dress. Generally we have found more help from studying old paintings than from anything we have read. However, I was delighted to find this exception, a poem by B. L. Wainscott , posted on the traditional Catholic blog, Durendal.

Spring and Birds

Audubon print closeup from the Maryland State Law Library.


In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin`s breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;
In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish`d dove; In the Spring a young man`s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

I don't know why Tennyson didn't say anything about Blue Jays and string in Spring.

As I washed dishes yesterday morning, I watched intently as a blue jay struggled to pull free a long piece of feed bag string that had wrapped around a crepe myrtle. The paper strip that had been stitched to the top of the feed bag with the string was still attached, adding an intriguing complexity to the quest. The jay pulled mightily, rearing back on the branch. Then it jumped to a different branch and worked from another angle. The bird really wanted that string, for nesting purposes I suppose.

I watched another minute, and then I thought I would just have to stop and get a picture. I dried my hands, grabbed my camera, carefully turned the front door knob, and slowly, slowly eased the door open.

CREEEEEEAK!

The blue jay winged away, leaving the prized string and its gaily swinging paper strip.

That made two of us who didn't get what we came for.

Luckily, French Garden House's husband succeeded where I did not. He captured beautiful photos of a hummingbird mama and her nest of two eggs. It feels strange to see the little mother setting contentedly--no blurred motion of wings in the sweet scene, just the quiet expectancy of incubation.

Emma cleaned and sanitized her incubator yesterday and will spend the next two days stabilizing the temperature before filling it with Barred Rock eggs. She will begin her own quiet expectancy, waiting for the day when a single chirp becomes a choir of new life, all yellow and fluffy.

To Enthrall or Edify, That is the Question

This is my favorite illustration of Keats' poem, La Belle Dame Sans Merci. My heart goes out to the poor knight, held "in thrall" by the "faery song" of the beautiful lady without mercy.

Not just in the world of faery but in real life too, young ladies wield much power over young men, for good or ill. The way girls dress plays a big role in this determination. It is relatively easy to meet the minimum requirements of modesty with off-the-rack clothing. It is when young ladies try to go to the next level and wear clothes that edify others that dressing gets much more difficult. Yet the edifying part is worth striving for, because when she accomplishes it, it lifts young men up.


"To a great extent the level of any civilization is the level of its womanhood. When a man loves a woman, he has to become worthy of her. The higher her virtue, the more her character, the more devoted she is to truth, justice, goodness, the more a man has to aspire to be worthy of her. The history of civilization could actually be written in terms of the level of its women.”-- Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen


"A woman’s heart should be so lost in God that a man needs to seek Him in order to find her."--Author unknown


Credits: Both quotes were found on A Trail of Flowers.

Art: The Missal by John William Waterhouse

Row Me Softer Home

"Emily Dickinson is another heroine for me. I don't know where she came from. She's a good argument for just living at home with the door shut."--Jane Campion, Director of Bright Star, in this Barnes & Noble interview.

I don't know about keeping the door shut, but the memories I cherish most are of staying home with the children when we lived "in the woods" in Louisiana, watching them explore their little world.

Here is an Emily Dickinson poem that I remember fondly from Nathaniel's and Emma's grammar school days. They took such delight in memorizing it. It was about the same time that we had hatched goslings, and the two of them spent many happy afternoons leading their fuzzy yellow charges around our property to puddles and ponds, catching baby frogs for the goslings to gobble up "raw".

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

La Belle Dame Sans Merci read by Ben Whishaw

Behold Thy Mother, Knitting

"During the Fourteenth Century, paintings of the Madonna and Child began to introduce imaginative suggestions of the domestic background of the Holy Family. A few of them show Mary knitting."

So begins an excerpt from A History of Hand Knitting by Richard Rutt, that is featured in the spring edition of Knitting Traditions. This publication overflows with wonderful articles on historical knitting. I especially enjoyed the story of a 16th-century glove that was knitted by a princess and given as a token to her true love. But "A Mother's Care: The Knitting Madonnas" is my favorite. It is illustrated with a stunning photograph of Ambrogio Lorenzetti's "The Holy Family", taken by Christoph von Virag.

The copy below does not come near von Virag's quality in depicting the painting's rich color. It also does not show the top of the frame, which forms a gable over the Holy Family's home.

The Holy Family by Ambrogio Lorenzetti, c. 1345
Abegg-Stiftung Collection, Riggisberg, Switzerland
"Mary knitting in the round with four needles."

I longed to see all the examples that the author mentions. Here's what I found:


Madonna dell'Umiltà by Vitale degli Equi, c. 1353
Museo Poldi Pezzoli, Milan
"Mary is shown knitting a floral pattern in two colors, three or more needles."


Altarolo by Tommaso da Modena, before 1349
Pinacoteca Nazionale, Bologna
"Mary knits in the round on five needles."
According to the museum's English translation, the knitting Madonna is the third scene in the central area of the piece. See a detail photo here.

The Buxtehude Altar by Master Bertram of Minden c. 1400,
It's from the right wing of the altarpiece painted for the Benedictine nuns of Buxtehude.
"Mary is knitting a crimson shirt on four needles."

Seeing these Knitting Madonna paintings reminded me that Mary is not only our Mother, she is our model for domestic happiness as expressed so perfectly in this poem:

The Housewife's Prayer

by Blanche Mary Kelly

Lady, who with tender word
Didst keep the house of Christ the Lord,
Who didst set forth the bread and wine
Before the Living Wheat and Vine,
Reverently didst make the bed
Whereon was laid the Holy Head
That such a cruel pillow prest
For our behoof, on Calvary's crest;
Be beside me while I go
About my labors to and fro.
Speed the wheel and speed the loom,
Guide the needle and the broom,
Make my bread rise sweet and light,
Make my cheese come foamy white,
Yellow may my butter be
As cowslips blowing on the lea.
Homely though my tasks and small,
Be beside me at them all.
Then when I shall stand to face
Jesu in the judgment place,
To me thy gracious help afford,
Who are the Handmaid of the Lord.

A Poem for Candlemas Eve

From The Hymns and Carols of Christmas:

Down With The Rosemary, And So
Candlemas Eve
(February 1st)

Words: Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

Poem 5 of 7 of Christmas Customs from Herrick

Source: William Henry Husk, Songs of the Nativity (London: John Camden Hotten, 1868)

Down with the rosemary, and so
Down with the bays and mistletoe;
Down with the holly, ivy, all
Wherewith ye deck's the Christmas hall;
That so the superstitious find
Not one least branch there left behind:
For look! How many leaves there be
Neglected there, Maids, trust to me,
So many goblins you shall see.

Husk's Note:

On this day the Christmas ceremonies, which had lingered on after Twelfth-day, finally closed, and all traces of them were removed. The custom long prevailed, and there must be many still living who can remember the evergreens with which our churches were decorated at Christmas, remaining until Candlemas [February 2nd].

Cheesy Poetry

While perusing cheesemaking supplies online, I stumbled upon a choice tidbit at the New England Cheesemaking Supply Company. It is part of a poem about a cheese. I searched for the complete poem but couldn't find it. Oh, well. The excerpt made me happy. I hope it makes you happy too:

Brie Ode: "Comparing Brie to the moon: Brie is often likened to the moon because it is so white, so large and round, and thin as men in bygone ages imagined the moon to be. An excerpt from the 17th Century ode by St. Amant, known in France as the poet of good living:

Brie alone deserves that we
Should record her praises in letters of gold.
Gold, I say, and with good reason
Since it is with gold that one must compare
This cheese to which I now pay homage.
It is yellow as the gold worshipped by man,
But without its anxiety
For one has only to press it with one's fingers
For it to split its sides with laughter
And run over with fat.
Why, then, is it not endless
As indeed its circular form is endless?
And why must its full moon, eternally appealing,
Wane to a crescent?"

Too Cozy by the Fire

Yesterday a tremendous front blew through here. Cooler and cooler air moved in after it, and by 8:00 last night, Emma and I realized that it was time for the first fire of the season.

We set out our teacups and saucers, poured the boiling water in, and while the tea was steeping, Emma chose a book to read aloud, and I snatched our log carrier from beside the fireplace and hurried out into night air that seemed to be filled with cold, bony fingers, all of them sifting through my hair and picking autumnal tunes upon my back.

Feeling carefully in the dark for a good selection of small, medium, and large logs, I envisioned the roaring fire to come, the awesome comfort of spending an evening with my dear daughter beside the family hearth.

The fecund spark quickly multiplied into hungry flames. Soon we had a briskly burning fire. With our tea and great anticipation, we settled onto facing couches in front of it. Emma opened the Tennyson and began to read. Everything was perfect. I took one sip of my tea. Delicious!

And then I fell asleep.

This morning I waked on the couch, alone. The hearth was cold, and by Emma's former place on the couch--beside the abandoned Tennyson--lay Chesterton's What's Wrong with the World? Poor Emma! I wonder if she found the answer to the problem of mothers who fall asleep just when leisure begins.

Remembering the Dead: All Souls Day

From Godey's Lady's Book, January 1858

O Leave Her to Her Grief!

by Charles Mackay


O leave her to her grief,
Nor urge her to forget:
All art is vain to soothe her pain;
She mourns her loved one yet.

The storm will run its course;
And not till clouds have burst
Shall light appear, serene and clear,
And glorious as at first.

O leave her till she weep;
And when the tear-drops flow,
Let Pity's word, soft-stealing, heard,
Be music to her woe.

And water'd by those tears,
A little flower shall bloom;
A blossom fair for love to wear,
A hope beyond the tomb.