The Cremation of Sam McGee BY ROBERT W. SERVICE There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell." On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request." Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains." A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee. There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains." Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing. And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin. Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May." And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum." Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee. Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky. I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide. And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm-- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm." There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee. This one brother Tom and I memorized in high school. Of all the departments at the Jesuit school for boys, English was tops.
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I Have a Rendezvous with Death
BY ALAN SEEGER I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air-- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear ... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. Source: A Treasury of War Poetry (1917) classic science fiction Does the story bring to mind a parable? https://www.drbo.org/chapter/49018.htm He was born Chicago 1926, graduated from Berkeley HS 1949, attended UC Berkeley for three months, Sept. 1949-Nov. 1949, and left, had his first story published 1952, and died 30 years later in 1982. Self-described religious anarchist and ‘acosmic panentheist’, he opposed communism, Malthusianism, and eugenics, and was pro-life.
I add my interpretation without reading any online analysis and give some biographical details, too, but let the story itself guide you. O farmers, more than happy if they’ve realised their blessings,
for whom Earth unprompted, supreme in justice, pours out a rich livelihood from her soil, far from the clash of armies! If no tall mansion with proud entrance disgorges a tide of guests at dawn, if they don’t gaze at doors inlaid with tortoiseshell, clothes threaded with gold, or bronzes from Ephyra, if their white wool’s not dipped in Assyrian dyes, nor the clear oil they use spoiled by rosemary, still there’s no lack of tranquil peace, life without deceit, rich in many things, the quiet of broad estates (caves, and natural lakes, and cool valleys, the cattle lowing, and sweet sleep under the trees): they have glades in the woods, and haunts of game, a youth of patient effort, accustomed to hardship, worship of the gods, and respect for old age: Justice, as she left the Earth, planted her last steps among them. As for me, may the sweet Muses, supreme above all, O fortunatos nimium, sua si bona norint, agricolas! quibus ipsa procul discordibus armis fundit humo facilem victum iustissima tellus. si non ingentem foribus domus alta superbis mane salutantum totis vomit aedibus undam, nec varios inhiant pulchra testudine postis inlusasque auro uestis Ephyreiaque aera, alba neque Assyrio fucatur lana veneno, nec casia liquidi corrumpitur usus olivi; at secura quies et nescia fallere vita, diues opum uariarum, at latis otia fundis, speluncae vivique lacus, at frigida tempe mugitusque boum mollesque sub arbore somni non absunt; illic saltus ac lustra ferarum et patiens operum exiguoque adsueta iuventus, sacra deum sanctique patres; extrema per illos Iustitia excedens terris vestigia fecit, BKII: 458-542 The Joys of True Life Publius Vergilius Maro, b. Cisalpine Gaul 70 BC, d. Brindisi, Italy 19 BC The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Be careful about blaming the devil for anything: faults are internal. Yes, I pray the St. Michael prayer at every Mass, but I give it no further thought, and you will find few words on the devil in the blog, nor will you find much on prophecy or predictions. If you need an exorcism, go to a Catholic priest. That’s all I have to say. The lines are known by almost everyone, but few recognize Shakespeare’s recusancy in Julius Caesar. Good writers disguise their thoughts. Marcus Junius Brutus, born c. 85 BC, died 42 BC, COD suicide, murdered Julius Caesar on March 15, 44 BC. (Oremus Let us pray, related word oration)
Mark Antony's Oration over the Body of Caesar George Edward Robertson (1864–1926) Hartlepool Museums and Heritage Service Date: c. 1894–1895 Medium: oil on canvas Measurements: H 134 x W 193 cm Accession number: HAPMG: 1920.55 Acquisition method: gift, 1920 Mark holds Caesar’s will, and the only man who looks at the body and is truly horrified is the hooded monk standing behind Mark and hiding from the crowd. The monk holds himself up with a hand on Mark’s right arm and stands at his right hand. Who is at God’s right hand? “After moving to Germany with George Henry Lewes in 1854, Evans wrote to a friend explaining her views on the relationship: ‘Light and easily broken ties are what I neither desire theoretically nor could live for practically. Women who are satisfied with such ties do not act as I have done — they obtain what they desire and are still invited to dinner.’” -George Eliot, pen name for Mary Ann Evans, author of The Mill on the Floss, 1863, an excellent novel that has been dramatized many times. Sounds like Fani Willis. She is still invited to dinner, but she is no novelist, no giant. thriftbooks.com part 2, sad and beautiful, best movie on brother-sister loyalty
Root: derived from the Latin verb cavillari, to raise silly objections. Usage: “Tradition-minded Catholics, let us not cavil with each other.”
When I was a boy, we had a telephone.
I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. There was nothing she did not know. “Information Please” was her name, and she could supply anyone’s number and the correct time. My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting the neighbor next door. Houses in San Francisco are built up against each other. Amusing myself in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, and there was no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the niche in the hallway. I held the receiver to my ear, and said, “Information, please.” A click or two and a small but clear voice spoke into my ear, “Information.” “I hurt my finger.” Tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. “Isn’t your mother home?” “Nobody’s home except me.” “Are you bleeding?” the voice asked. “No,” I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.” “Can you open the freezer?” she asked. I said I could. “Then hold an ice cube to your finger.” After that, I called “Information Please” for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk eats fruit and nuts. Then there was the time, Petey, our parakeet, died. I called “Information Please” and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds sing so beautifully and bring joy to all the families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?” She must have sensed my deep concern and said quietly, “Bobby, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.” Somehow, I felt better. Another day I was on the telephone, “Information, please.” “Information.” “How do I spell fixed?” As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often in moments of doubt, I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated how kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy. My cousins, Nancy and Vickie, answered calls from The Black Telephone. The Charge of the Light Brigade BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON I Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. II “Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Someone had blundered. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. III Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred. IV Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. V Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. VI When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred! Photo by Time Life Pictures/Mansell/The LIFE Picture Collection via Getty Images Click on his name for a twenty-minute read about a difficult life (family, male friends, marriage).
Today is Poe's birthday. Love that lonely man, more because he was so lonely.
From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring-- From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone-- And all I lov’d--I lov’d alone-- Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From ev’ry depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still-- From the torrent, or the fountain-- From the red cliff of the mountain-- From the sun that ’round me roll’d In its autumn tint of gold-- From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by-- From the thunder, and the storm-- And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view-- "Alone" Presenting a new novel from a friend - available on Amazon. He has two other books on policing.
https://www.adamplantinga.com/ This version is "as a center at the scent of a quail" and another version is "He was as quiet as a hunting dog when it is near a bird." Let's go with Robert's, for he has a name worthy of screams. While feeding, one quail bears the responsibility of acting as a lookout. If danger arises, the quail cries out to the others.
I’d rather live by poetry read, Or bawdy conversation with a friend and be fed, Or in a booth next to Mass, And ask needs be met by my manservant outclass, Thereunder the watchful eye of Jeeves To drift away in the eves. The Crucifixion, tempera on wood, by Paolo Veneziano, c. 1340/45; in the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C. 31 cm × 38 cm strong action verbs; just enough adjectives; no wasted words; false clues; taut plot; surprise “The book is a biography, but not only a biography. It reconstructs the almost unknown life of Francis Morgan (1857–1935), a Catholic priest of Anglo-Spanish origin, who was involved in the sherry trade and was guardian and ‘second father’ of author J.R.R. Tolkien. “There is one aspect of Tolkien’s biography that has been barely investigated so far: his early years and the lasting relationship of Tolkien (who was orphaned as a child) with his guardian, Father Francis Morgan.” He became legal guardian of the Tolkien brothers after the death of their mother, Mabel Tolkien, in 1904. Written by Michael Flowers for the Tolkien Society website on April 4, 2018, Luna Press Publishing, Edinburgh. Father Morgan was a priest of the Birmingham Oratory, run by religious Cardinal Saint John Henry Newman founded. From the National Catholic Register-
The video goes into four categories: Faith, English, Music, and Art. Alexander gave me Writing Dice for Christmas. The dice are nine in number and serve as inspiration for creative writing. The dice are made by Two Tumbleweeds LLC www.twotumbleweeds.co.
Christmas gift for children. “With Lego mini figures Fulton and Cynthia as their guides, they’ll explore God’s plan of salvation and learn that the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist is at the very heart of our faith.” … and much more
The word hero comes from the Latin heros, which in turn is from the Greek ἥρως (hērōs), meaning “protector” or “defender”.
Major Charles Joseph Watters, Catholic priest, chaplain in the US Army, was awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously. On an extension of his tour, during the Battle of Đắk Tô, Watters rescued many wounded men from enemy fire but was killed by a friendly bomb strike. He died on Nov. 19, 1967. Latin lesson for the day.
Touted as the longest word, floccinaucinihilipilification comes from Latin.
Um, no one worthy of such a long word is insignificant. Not really. Dictionary says rare. So what? Use it to wipe your opponent off the map. Example: The candidate treated his opponent with humiliating (that word). Pronunciation: uh, try it phonetically, accent on next-to-last syllable. If no one on the internet appreciates this post, I know Alexander (the Great) will. I'm going to twist his arm to get him to pronounce it, or disarm him. Facere is all over the Roman Missal. image courtesy of peakpx.com A fine poem manifesting Longfellow's faith and poetic power importuned me to republish on account of the days, which are shortening. I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o’er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O’er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1845 Scroll down to “Hear the completed program in the player below:” and listen to appealing southern accents.
https://blogs.loc.gov/folklife/2019/07/arthur-miller-a-view-from-the-field/ Words that sent Americans to the dictionary most often in 2023 were pyrrhic, sustainability, saleratus (main ingredient in baking powder), oligarchy, uncanny, canny, blasé, and metaphor.
Metaphors are stronger comparisons that renounce connectors, such as like and as, and directly equate one thing to another. The characteristics of one thing “carry over.” Origin: Greek meta, meaning “over,” and pherō, meaning “to carry.” Example: recusant Shakespeare’s As You Like It -- “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.” “Willie, though I didn’t really like your plays, excepting Julius Caesar, you were syntactical.” |
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