Excellent.

An excellent album ...

I cast no shadow or reflection in the mirror now

I choose to shoot the breeze with trees and smile with skies

In search of wisdom so much wiser than my own ...

The Sheepdogs, "Keep Out of the Storm"

Introduced.

The world was introduced to The Psychedelic Furs on this day in 1980.

"We Love You"...

Happy Birthday, Townes Van Zandt

Townes Van Zandt was born on this day in 1944.

"I'll Be Here in the Morning"...

Small-Production.

Neal's Yard Dairy on the production of three relatively new, small-production Wensleydale cheeses called Stonebeck, Yoredale & Whin Yeats ...

Inexhaustible.

Sargent, Robert Louis Stevenson, 1887

I am told there are people who do not care for maps, and I find it hard to believe.  The names, the shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehistoric footsteps of man still distinctly traceable up hill and down dale, the mills and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the standing tone or the Druidic Circle on the heath; here is an inexhaustible fund of interest for any man with eyes to see or twopence-worth of imagination to understand with!  No child but must remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies.

Somewhat in this way, as I paused upon my map of Treasure Island, the future character of the book began to appear there visibly among imaginary woods; and their brown faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection.  The next thing I knew I had some papers before me and was writing out a list of chapters.  How often have I done so, and the thing gone no further! But there seemed elements of success about this enterprise. 

Robert Louis Stevenson, from "My First Book, Treasure Island"

Jimmy Buffett, "A Pirate Looks at Forty"

Mother, mother ocean, I have heard you call,

Wanted to sail upon your waters

since I was three feet tall.

You've seen it all, you've seen it all.

Watch the men who rode you,

Switch from sails to steam.

And in your belly you hold the treasure

that few have ever seen, most of them dreams,

Most of them dreams.

Yes, I am a pirate two hundred years too late.

The cannons don't thunder there's nothin' to plunder

I'm an over forty victim of fate

Arriving too late, arriving too late ...

Short.

I like Michael Oakeshott's response when a young @sullydish told him that he intended to become a journalist: "I consider the need to know the news every day a form of mental disorder." https://t.co/Xseq00hR8y

— Charles Murray (@charlesmurray) March 3, 2026

Shadows.

The quality that we call beauty must always grow from the realities of life, and our ancestors, forced to live in dark rooms, presently came to discover beauty in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards beauty’s ends ...

In the mansion called literature I would have the eaves deep and the walls dark, I would push back into the shadows the things that come forward too clearly, I would strip away the useless decoration. I do not ask that this be done everywhere, but perhaps we may be allowed at least one mansion where we can turn off the electric lights and see what it is like without them ...

We do not dislike everything that shines, but we do prefer a pensive lustre to a shallow brilliance, a murky light that, whether in a stone or an artifact, bespeaks a sheen of antiquity.  We do love things that bear the marks of grime, soot, and weather, and we love the colours and the sheen that call to mind the past that made them.

Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, from In Praise of Shadows

Tom T. Hall. "Old Dogs, Children, and Watermelon Wine"

I was sittin' in Miami pourin' blended whiskey down

When this old gray black gentleman was cleanin' up the lounge

There wasn't anyone around, 'cept this old man and me

The guy who ran the bar was watchin' Ironsides on TV

Uninvited, he sat down and opened up his mind

On old dogs and children and watermelon wine ...

It's sandwich time.

Protection.

On this day in 1872, President Ulysses S. Grant signed the Yellowstone National Park Protection Act into law, making it the world's first national park ...

For the benefit and enjoyment of the people.

Thanks, Jess. 

Wild.

Spenser, The Shepherd's Calendar: March, 1898

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: MARCH

March month of 'many weathers' wildly comes

In hail and snow and rain and threatning hums

And floods: while often at his cottage door

The shepherd stands to hear the distant roar

Loosd from the rushing mills and river locks

Wi thundering sound and over powering shocks

And headlong hurry thro the meadow brigs

Brushing the leaning sallows fingering twigs

In feathery foam and eddy hissing chase

Rolling a storm oertaken travellers pace

From bank to bank along the meadow leas

Spreading and shining like to little seas

While in the pale sunlight a watery brood

Of swopping white birds flock about the flood

Yet winter seems half weary of its toil

And round the ploughman on the elting soil

Will thread a minutes sunshine wild and warm

Thro the raggd places of the swimming storm

And oft the shepherd in his path will spye

The little daisey in the wet grass lye

That to the peeping sun enlivens gay

Like Labour smiling on an holiday

And where the stunt bank fronts the southern sky

By lanes or brooks where sunbeams love to lye

A cowslip peep will open faintly coy

Soon seen and gatherd by a wandering boy

A tale of spring around the distant haze

Seems muttering pleasures wi the lengthening days

Morn wakens mottld oft wi may day stains

And shower drops hang the grassy sprouting plains

And on the naked thorns of brassy hue

Drip glistning like a summer dream of dew

While from the hill side freshing forest drops

As one might walk upon their thickening tops

And buds wi young hopes promise seemly swells

Where woodman that in wild seclusion dwells

Wi chopping toil the coming spring decieves

Of many dancing shadows flowers and leaves

And in his pathway down the mossy wood

Crushes wi hasty feet full many a bud

Of early primrose yet if timely spied

Shelterd some old half rotten stump beside

The sight will cheer his solitery hour

And urge his feet to stride and save the flower

Muffld in baffles leathern coat and gloves

The hedger toils oft scaring rustling doves

From out the hedgrows who in hunger browze

The chockolate berrys on the ivy boughs

And flocking field fares speckld like the thrush

Picking the red awe from the sweeing bush

That come and go on winters chilling wing

And seem to share no sympathy wi spring

The stooping ditcher in the water stands

Letting the furrowd lakes from off the lands

Or splashing cleans the pasture brooks of mud

Where many a wild weed freshens into bud

And sprouting from the bottom purply green

The water cresses neath the wave is seen

Which the old woman gladly drags to land

Wi reaching long rake in her tottering hand

The ploughman mawls along the doughy sloughs

And often stop their songs to clean their ploughs

From teazing twitch that in the spongy soil

Clings round the colter terryfying toil

The sower striding oer his dirty way

Sinks anckle deep in pudgy sloughs and clay

And oer his heavy hopper stoutly leans

Strewing wi swinging arms the pattering beans

Which soon as aprils milder weather gleams

Will shoot up green between the furroed seams

The driving boy glad when his steps can trace

The swelling edding as a resting place

Slings from his clotted shoes the dirt around

And feign woud rest him on the solid ground

And sings when he can meet the parting green

Of rushy balks that bend the lands between

While close behind em struts the nauntling crow

And daws whose heads seem powderd oer wi snow

To seek the worms-and rooks a noisey guest

That on the wind rockd elms prepares her nest

On the fresh furrow often drops to pull

The twitching roots and gathering sticks and wool

Neath trees whose dead twigs litter to the wind

And gaps where stray sheep left their coats behind

While ground larks on a sweeing clump of rushes

Or on the top twigs of the oddling bushes

Chirp their 'cree creeing' note that sounds of spring

And sky larks meet the sun wi flittering wing

Soon as the morning opes its brightning eye

Large clouds of sturnels blacken thro the sky

From oizer holts about the rushy fen

And reedshaw borders by the river Nen

And wild geese regiments now agen repair

To the wet bosom of broad marshes there

In marching coloms and attention all

Listning and following their ringleaders call

The shepherd boy that hastens now and then

From hail and snow beneath his sheltering den

Of flags or file leavd sedges tyd in sheaves

Or stubble shocks oft as his eye percieves

Sun threads struck out wi momentery smiles

Wi fancy thoughts his lonliness beguiles

Thinking the struggling winter hourly bye

As down the edges of the distant sky

The hailstorm sweeps-and while he stops to strip

The stooping hedgbriar of its lingering hip

He hears the wild geese gabble oer his head

And pleasd wi fancys in his musings bred

He marks the figurd forms in which they flye

And pausing follows wi a wandering eye

Likening their curious march in curves or rows

To every letter which his memory knows

While far above the solitary crane

Swings lonly to unfrozen dykes again

Cranking a jarring mellancholy cry

Thro the wild journey of the cheerless sky

Full oft at early seasons mild and fair

March bids farewell wi garlands in her hair

Of hazzel tassles woodbines hairy sprout

And sloe and wild plumb blossoms peeping out

In thickset knotts of flowers preparing gay

For aprils reign a mockery of may

That soon will glisten on the earnest eye

Like snow white cloaths hung in the sun to drye

The old dame often stills her burring wheel

When the bright sun will thro the window steal

And gleam upon her face and dancing fall

In diamond shadows on the picturd wall

While the white butterflye as in amaze

Will settle on the glossy glass to gaze

And oddling bee oft patting passing bye

As if they care to tell her spring was nigh

And smiling glad to see such things once more

Up she will get and potter to the door

And look upon the trees beneath the eves

Sweet briar and ladslove swelling into leaves

And damsin trees thick notting into bloom

And goosberry blossoms on the bushes come

And stooping down oft views her garden beds

To see the spring flowers pricking out their heads

And from her apron strings she'll often pull

Her sissars out an early bunch to cull

For flower pots on the window board to stand

Where the old hour glass spins its thread of sand

And maids will often mark wi laughing eye

In elder where they hang their cloaths to drye

The sharp eyd robin hop from grain to grain

Singing its little summer notes again

As a sweet pledge of Spring the little lambs

Bleat in the varied weather round their dams

Or hugh molehill or roman mound behind

Like spots of snow lye shelterd from the wind

While the old yoes bold wi paternal cares

Looses their fears and every danger dares

Who if the shepherds dog but turns his eye

And stops behind a moment passing bye

Will stamp draw back and then their threats repeat

Urging defiance wi their stamping feet

And stung wi cares hopes cannot recconsile

They stamp and follow till he leaps a stile

Or skulking from their threats betakes to flight

And wi the master lessens out of sight

Clowns mark the threatning rage of march pass bye

And clouds wear thin and ragged in the sky

While wi less sudden and more lasting smiles

The growing sun their hopes of spring beguiles

Who often at its end remark wi pride

Days lengthen in their visits a 'cocks stride'

Dames clean their candlesticks and set them bye

Glad of the makeshift light that eves supply

The boy returning home at night from toil

Down lane and close oer footbrig gate and style1

Oft trembles into fear and stands to hark

The waking fox renew his short gruff bark

While badgers eccho their dread evening shrieks

And to his thrilling thoughts in terror speaks

And shepherds that wi in their hulks remain

Night after night upon the chilly plain

To watch the dropping lambs that at all hours

Come in the quaking blast like early flowers

Demanding all the shepherds care who find

Warm hedge side spots and take them from the wind

And round their necks in wary caution tyes

Long shreds of rags in red or purple dyes

Thats meant in danger as a safty spell

Like the old yoe that wears a tinkling bell

The sneaking foxes from his thefts to fright

That often seizes the young lambs at night

These when they in their nightly watchings hear

The badgers shrieks can hardly stifle fear

They list the noise from woodlands dark recess

Like helpless shrieking woman in distress

And oft as such fears fancying mystery

Believes the dismal yelling sounds to be

For superstition hath its thousand tales

To people all his midnight woods and vales

And the dread spot from whence the dismal noise

Mars the night musings of their dark employs

Owns its sad tale to realize their fear

At which their hearts in boyhood achd to hear

A maid at night by treacherous love decoyd

Was in that shrieking wood years past destroyd

She went twas said to meet the waiting swain

And home and friends ne'er saw her face again

Mid brakes and thorns that crowded round the dell

And matting weeds that had no tongues to tell

He murderd her alone at dead midnight

While the pale moon threw round her sickly light

And loud shrieks left the thickets slumbers deep

That only scard the little birds from sleep

When the pale murderers terror frowning eye

Told its dread errand that the maid shoud dye

Mid thick black thorns her secret grave was made

And there ere night the murderd girl was laid

When no one saw the deed but god and he

And moonlight sparkling thro the sleeping tree

Around-the red breast might at morning steel

There for the worm to meet his morning meal

In fresh turnd moulds that first beheld the sun

Nor knew the deed that dismal night had done

Such is the tale that superstition gives

And in her midnight memory ever lives

That makes the boy run by wi wild affright

And shepherds startle on their rounds at night

Now love teazd maidens from their droning wheel

At the red hour of sunset sliving steals

From scolding dames to meet their swains agen

Tho water checks their visits oer the plain

They slive where no one sees some wall behind

Or orchard apple trees that stops the wind

To talk about springs pleasures hoveing nigh

And happy rambles when the roads get dry

The insect world now sunbeams higher climb

Oft dream of spring and wake before their time

Blue flyes from straw stacks crawling scarce alive

And bees peep out on slabs before the hive

Stroaking their little legs across their wings

And venturing short flight where the snow drop hings

Its silver bell-and winter aconite

Wi buttercup like flowers that shut at night

And green leaf frilling round their cups of gold

Like tender maiden muffld from the cold

They sip and find their honey dreams are vain

And feebly hasten to their hives again

And butterflys by eager hopes undone

Glad as a child come out to greet the sun

Lost neath the shadow of a sudden shower

Nor left to see tomorrows April flower.

John Clare

Happy Birthday, Frédéric Chopin

When one does a thing, it appears good, otherwise one would not write it. Only later comes reflection, and one discards or accepts the thing. Time is the best censor, and patience a most excellent teacher.

Frédéric Chopin, born on this day in 1810

In 1978, Vladimir Horowitz performed a program of music at The White House (yes, The White House) that included Chopin's Waltz in C-Sharp Minor, Op. 64 ...

Sharper.

A man may say on one side, that to give the people the reins to entertain every man his own opinion, is to scatter and sow division, and, as it were, to lend a hand to augment it, there being no legal impediment or restraint to stop or hinder their career; but, on the other side, a man may also say, that to give the people the reins to entertain every man his own opinion, is to mollify and appease them by facility and toleration, and to dull the point which is whetted and made sharper by singularity, novelty, and difficulty.

Michel de Montaigne, from "On Freedom of Conscience"

Leveler.

I haven't got any special religion this morning. My God is the God of Walkers. If you walk hard enough, you probably don't need any other god. Sluggish and sedentary peoples, such as the Ancient Egyptians, with their concept of an afterlife journey through the Field of Reeds, project onto the next world the journeys they failed to make in this one. As a general rule of biology, migratory species are less aggressive than sedentary ones. 

There is one obvious reason why this should be so. The migration itself, like the pilgrimage, is the hard journey: a "leveler" on which the "fit" survive and stragglers fall by the wayside. The journey thus pre-empts the need for hierarchies and shows of dominance. The "dictators" of the animal kingdom are those who live in an ambience of plenty. The anarchists, as always, are the "gentlemen of the road." 

Bruce Chatwin, from The Songlines

Crazy Horse, "Country Home"

Jimmy Buffett, "Cowboy in the Jungle"

There’s a cowboy in the jungle

And he looks so out of place

With his shrimp skin boots and his cheap cheroots

And his skin as white as paste

Headin’ south to Paraguay

Where the gauchos sing and shout

Now he’s stuck in Portobelo

Since his money all ran out

So he hangs out with the sailors

Night and day they’re raisin’ hell

And his original destination’s just another

Story that he loves to tell

With no plans for the future

He still seems in control

From a bronco ride to a ten foot tide

He just had to learn to roll

Roll with the punches

Play all of his hunches

Made the best of whatever came his way

What he lacked in ambition

He made up with intuition

Plowing straight ahead come what may ...

Fizzing.

Utrillo, Landscape, Pierrefitte, 1907

It is a spring sun, intoxicating as young wine. I sit and dream. My thoughts escape from my head like the foam from a bottle of beer. They are light, and their fizzing amuses me. 

Anatole France, from Le crime de Sylvestre Bonnard

Oswald, "Polwart on the Green"

Le Cigale performs ...

Overthrow.

Steve points to reports of struggling movie-goers.

Remember what Cactus Ed taught us years and years ago ...

How to Overthrow the System: Brew your own beer; Kick in your TV. Kill your own beef, Build your own cabin and piss off the front porch whenever you bloody well feel like it.

This reminds me of a conversation I had with Kurt. 

Happy Birthday, Michel de Montaigne

Unknown, Portrait de Montaigne au Chapeau, 1820

If we call prodigies or miracles whatever our reason cannot reach, how many of these appear continually before our eyes! Let us consider through what clouds and how gropingly we are led to the knowledge of most of the things that are right in our hands; assuredly we shall find that it is rather familiarity than knowledge that takes away their strangeness.  Miracles arise from our ignorance of nature, not from nature itself.

Michel de Montaigne, born on this day in 1533, from Essays, Book 1, chapter 23 

Les chapeaux, c'est important, les enfants.

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Cloud.

The mist of a woody, grape-musty cloud on the tongue.

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Robin Guthrie, "Monument"

Happy Birthday, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Cameron, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1868

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch

Was glorious with the sun's returning march,

And woods were brightened, and soft gales

Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light,

They gathered mid-way round the wooded height,

And, in their fading glory, shone

Like hosts in battle overthrown.

As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance.

Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered lance,

And rocking on the cliff was left

The dark pine blasted, bare, and cleft.

The veil of cloud was lifted, and below

Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow

Was darkened by the forest's shade,

Or glistened in the white cascade;

Where upward, in the mellow blush of day,

The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way.

Henry Wadworth Longfellow, born on this day in 1807, from Sunrise on the Hills

Happy Birthday, Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Renoir, The Farm at Les Collettes, Cagnes, 1914

They tell you that a tree is only a combination of chemical elements. I prefer to believe that God created it, and that it is inhabited by a nymph. 

Pierre-Auguste Renoir was born on this date in 1841

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Released.

Led Zeppelin released their best album, Physical Graffiti, on this day in 1975.

"The Rover/Sick Again" ...

Please.

TO THE HESITATING PURCHASER

 If sailor tales to sailor tunes,

 Storm and adventure, heat and cold,

 If schooners, islands, and maroons,

 And buccaneers, and buried gold,

 And all the old romance, retold

 Exactly in the ancient way,

 Can please, as me they pleased of old,

 The wiser youngsters of today:

 --So be it, and fall on! If not,

 If studious youth no longer crave,

 His ancient appetites forgot,

 Kingston, or Ballantyne the brave,

 Or Cooper of the wood and wave:

 So be it, also! And may I

 And all my pirates share the grave

 Where these and their creations lie!

Robert Louis Stevenson, from Treasure Island

Caerphilly.

Deep summer.

Finishing the last of dinner's accompanying glass of milk, then run as fast as possible through the neighborhood to get into the pick-up baseball game.

That flavor of milk that's still on the tongue ... that's Caerphilly.

Treasures.

On the following morning, the sun darted his beams from over the hills through the low lattice window. I rose at an early hour, and looked out between the branches of eglantine which overhung the casement. To my surprise Scott was already up and forth, seated on a fragment of stone, and chatting with the workmen employed on the new building. I had supposed, after the time he had wasted upon me yesterday, he would be closely occupied this morning, but he appeared like a man of leisure, who had nothing to do but bask in the sunshine and amuse himself.

I soon dressed myself and joined him. He talked about his proposed plans of Abbotsford; happy would it have been for him could he have contented himself with his delightful little vine-covered cottage, and the simple, yet hearty and hospitable style, in which he lived at the time of my visit. The great pile of Abbotsford, with the huge expense it entailed upon him, of servants, retainers, guests, and baronial style, was a drain upon his purse, a tax upon his exertions, and a weight upon his mind, that finally crushed him.

As yet, however, all was in embryo and perspective, and Scott pleased himself with picturing out his future residence, as he would one of the fanciful creations of his own romances. "It was one of his air castles," he said, "which he was reducing to solid stone and mortar." About the place were strewed various morsels from the ruins of Melrose Abbey, which were to be incorporated in his mansion. He had already constructed out of similar materials a kind of Gothic shrine over a spring, and had surmounted it by a small stone cross.

Among the relics from the Abbey which lay scattered before us, was a most quaint and antique little lion, either of red stone, or painted red, which hit my fancy. I forgot whose cognizance it was; but I shall never forget the delightful observations concerning old Melrose to which it accidentally gave rise. The Abbey was evidently a pile that called up all Scott's poetic and romantic feelings; and one to which he was enthusiastically attached by the most fanciful and delightful of his early associations. He spoke of it, I may say, with affection. "There is no telling," said he, "what treasures are hid in that glorious old pile. It is a famous place for antiquarian plunder; there are such rich bits of old time sculpture for the architect, and old time story for the poet. There is as rare picking in it as a Stilton cheese, and in the same taste—the mouldier the better."

Washington Irving, from "Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey"

Thanks to Walker's Arms for the image.

Happy Birthday, Winslow Homer

Homer, Adirondack Lake, 1892

A painter who begins and finishes indoors, that which is outdoors, misses a hundred little facts, a hundred little accidental effects of sunshine and shadow that can be reproduced only in the immediate presence of Nature. This making of studies and then taking them home is only half right. You get composition, but you lose freshness; you miss the subtle and, to the artist, the finer characteristics of the scene itself.

Winslow Homer, born on this day in 1836

Jimmy Buffett, "Quietly Making Noise"

Oscar Wilde died in bed 
Several floors above my head 
Living well beyond his means 
In that crazy Paris scene 

Rain falls down in sheets so clear 
No one ever calls me here 
Traveling by my self these days 
I'm into jazz and felt berets 

Far from the that old eastern shore 
Searching for strange metaphors ...

Happy Birthday, George Frideric Handel

Denner, Handel, 1727

George Frideric Handel was born on this day in 1685.

Leo Duarte performs the first Allegro from the Oboe Concerto No. 3 in G minor (HWV 287) with members of The Academy of Ancient Music ...

Wrath.

The wrath of nature is real.

Mouton, La Malassise

Klaudyna Żołnierek performs the Sarabande ...

Excellent.

An excellent album ...

Ever.

Happy Birthday, Edna St. Vincent Millay

Rinhart, Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1922

Edna St. Vincent Millay was born on this date in 1892.

AFTERNOON on a HILL

I will be the gladdest thing

    Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

    And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds

    With quiet eyes,

Watch the wind bow down the grass,

    And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show

    Up from the town,

I will mark which must be mine,

    And then start down!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

America.

A kid with a runny nose and milk money danced up to the tiger and spit in his eye.

Looking for sports heroes?  Teach your kids about Jack O'Callahan: blue-collar, unsung leader.

Miracles.

A bunch of college boys beat the Ruskies on this day in 1980.

Do you believe in miracles?

Released.

Bad Co. released Run With The Pack on this day in 1973.

The title track ...

Revelations.

Revelations, love when they happen

Wizards and lizards, I choose and I pick ...

Mukwa.

Bear (Mukwa) medicine ...

Introspective.

Intuitive.

Dreaming.

Still.

Meditative.

Seeking.

Loving.

Connecting.

... and eating.

Happy Birthday, Nicolaus Copernicus

Anonymous, Nicolaus Copernicus, The "Toruń Portrait", 1580

Nicolaus Copernicus was born this week in 1473 and his thoughts provided our Creative Writing class with some of the year's best discussion so far ...

To be intelligent is to be able to see the hidden connections between things.  To know that we know what we know, and to know that we do not know what we do not know, that is true knowledge ... I am not so enamoured of my own opinions that I disregard what others may think of them.

Eli, The Insightful, said, "Mr. Firchau, he said this a long time ago and people still haven't figured it out." 

A conversation about the importance of putting your name on your paper was had based on the painting's attribution.

Copernicus and His World ...

Empty.

Wyeth, Distant Thunder, 1961

The modern age knows nothing about isolation and nothing about silence. In our quietest and loneliest hour the automatic ice-maker in the refrigerator will cluck and drop an ice cube, the automatic dishwasher will sigh through its changes, a plane will drone over, the nearest freeway will vibrate the air. Red and white lights will pass in the sky, lights will shine along highways and glance off windows. There is always a radio that can be turned to some all-night station, or a television set to turn artificial moonlight into the flickering images of the late show. We can put on a turntable whatever consolation we most respond to, Mozart or Copland or the Grateful Dead.

Wallace Stegner, from The Angle of Repose

Answer? Harrison reminds us of the ancient and sacred rite of log-sitting ...

Marvel.

Wyeth, Crescent Moon, 1979

MOON SONG

A child saw in the morning skies

The dissipated-looking moon,

And opened wide her big blue eyes,

And cried: "Look, look, my lost balloon!"

And clapped her rosy hands with glee:

"Quick, mother! Bring it back to me."

A poet in a lilied pond

Espied the moon's reflected charms,

And ravished by that beauty blonde,

Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.

And as he'd never learnt to swim,

Poor fool! that was the end of him.

A rustic glimpsed amid the trees

The bluff moon caught as in a snare.

"They say it do be made of cheese,"

Said Giles, "and that a chap bides there. . . .

That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow --

The lad's a-winkin' at me now."

Two lovers watched the new moon hold

The old moon in her bright embrace.

Said she: "There's mother, pale and old,

And drawing near her resting place."

Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"

Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.

A soldier saw with dying eyes

The bleared moon like a ball of blood,

And thought of how in other skies,

So pearly bright on leaf and bud

Like peace its soft white beams had lain;

Like Peace! . . . He closed his eyes again.

Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,

Ah yes, old Moon, what things you've seen!

I marvel now, as you look down,

How can your face be so serene?

And tranquil still you'll make your round,

Old Moon, when we are underground.

Robert Service

Unfrequent.

We must not conclude merely upon a man’s haranguing upon liberty, and using the charming sound, that he is fit to be trusted with the liberties of his country. It is not unfrequent to hear men declaim loudly upon liberty, who, if we may judge by the whole tenor of their actions, mean nothing else by it but their own liberty, — to oppress without control or the restraint of laws all who are poorer or weaker than themselves. It is not, I say, unfrequent to see such instances, though at the same time I esteem it a justice due to my country to say that it is not without shining examples of the contrary kind.

Samuel Adams