Halloween

Last year, I posted what I still consider to be the world's funniest Halloween cartoon. This year, we'll all stay home and eat pumpkin pie!

"Everybody Ought to Go to Sunday School"

Sunday morning, 9:10. We exit the parsonage via the front door, down the steps and turn left. We walk half-block to Walnut Street, turn right. From here it is a two-block walk to the church at the corner of Walnut and St. Vrain. It is imperative that we arrive by nine-twenty, so that we can smilingly greet the people as they arrive for Sunday school. There will be two services this morning, for Sunday school begins with a mini-worship service, mirroring almost exactly the routine that will be followed later in the "real" service. The Sunday School Superintendent conducts this service. He says an "invocation" then announces the hymn to be sung. (Hymn sung.) Then he calls on someone to "lead in prayer." (All kneel, someone prays. Maybe everyone prays.) Announcements are made and we are "dismissed" to our Sunday school classes. My teacher is Tom Frase, big Tom Frase, whose hands could envelop my head and still have room between them for (another) coconut.

Tom once sent his son, Hershel, to the store to buy a pair of work gloves for him. The proprietor asked the boy how big the man's hands were. Hershel grasped all four of the fingers on his left hand in his right hand and said, "One of Dad's fingers is this big." the storekeeper said, "Sonny, we don't have gloves for elephants." The really funny part of this tale is that Tom's fingers really were that big.

Anyway, back to Sunday school. The class consisted of, give or take on any given Sunday, about nine boys aged ten to twelve. And a more riotous bunch of boys would you seldom find in Sunday school, which may account for the "assignment" of Tom to shepherd the class.

Wow! Here it is 10:20 already and the bell is ringing, calling all classes to reassemble in the sanctuary. The superintendent rehearses briefly any highlights worth mentioning ("Sister Bland's class had four visitors this morning. Be sure to make them welcome," etc., etc.). Then he prays a dismissal prayer, whereupon the minister (that would be Dad) and the pianist immediately take their places and we swing directly into the Sunday Morning Worship Service.

And we sing.

And we pray.

And we sing.

And Dad preaches.

And we pray.
Amen.

We go home.
(But we will be back at 6:20 for two more services, even if we are also back at 2:30 for a "special" service, which, thankfully, doesn't happen all that often.)

Red Hen, Red Cow

The lad is carrying two pails as he walks alongside his dad, footsteps crunch, crunching in the gravel as they walk. One pail is the milk bucket, the other the near-gallon lard can for collecting eggs. Daddy insists that this is the day the boy will "learn to milk the cow."

When they get to the chicken coop, the boy sets the milk pail down and goes in to collect the eggs. For the most part, this is an easy job. Forget the squawking, the feathers flying around-- pft! pft!-- and the dust the birds kick up. Just go to the nests and gently lift the eggs and place them carefully in the bucket. But of course Old Broody will not get off the nest, and when the youngster attempts to reach beneath her, a quick and painful peck on the wrist encourages quick retreat. David steps out of the enclosure with his bucket of treasure and Dad says, "Did you get Old Broody's eggs?" "She wouldn't let me have them." "Get in there and throw her off the nest." You see where this is going-- caught between the mad dad and the angry hen. "Pkawt! pkawt!" That was not a hen. So back into the coop, grabbed the hen and threw her across the house.

Now we take the pail and enter the milking stall, where the "little Jersey" patiently awaits the relief she so richly deserves. She places her head in the stanchion, the boy gets the stool and places the bucket beneath the cow, all the time thinking, "There's no way I'm going to milk her." David sits on the stool and tentatively reaches for a teat. The tail whips around the back of the boy's head. He flinches and complains loudly. "Get your head up in her flank. Don't let her push you around." The boy obeys, reaches again for a teat. A bit of fumbling around with no visible result, unless one counts an increasingly impatient cow and ever more impatient "instructor." Finally the mentor gets down and demonstrates the proper finger motions, starts a stream. The boy again fumbles around with the resulting trickle further irritating both animal and parent.

"Get away from her," says the parent, "I'll do it myself." And he did.

The Neighborhood

Again, nostalgia, memories, boyhood. The "map" drawn from memory is the neighborhood into which we moved the summer I turned ten. We lived in the house marked "16" second house west of Bristol School where I enrolled that fall as a fifth grader. Out the back door, down the alley, over the wall, and there I was, in prison. I have written about some of my experiences at Bristol here and here.

One year after this move, we moved one block north to the residence marked "17." It was about the same time that the Buttram family bought the store on the corner. They were from Chicago, and thus a whole other kind of people from any I had previously known. Nice people, you understand, just from a different land. They had a girl about my age, and a boy a year or so younger. This was the store where a dime would buy an RC cola and a bag of Planter's naked, salted peanuts, which, after a couple of swigs on the bottle, one poured into the RC. Nom-nom. Of course, you drank it in the store, else you needed two cents for bottle deposit. Incidentally, a good stroll through the neighborhood and a bit beyond would often yield enough bottles (five) to purchase the pop and peanuts.

While we were doing kid stuff in the environs, Dad was engaged as the president of the school marked "1" on the map. It was during his tenure that the huge old house labelled "7" was moved a block down the hill and relocated next to the house we occupied for two years. We finally moved to house number 15 where we lived until Dad left the position.

The next episode will take us to the immediate vicinity of the cowshed and chicken coop (12) directly below the irrigation canal.

(So that you don't have to toggle back and forth, I plan to reproduce this map occasionally for easy reference.

Wait. Where's the Duck?

.........Mallard Fillmore.......

In the Paper

Tuesday morning when I went to the post office I found the demolition had progressed to this point. Two days in a row we made the front page of the local paper, this time below the fold. No, I have no journalistic aspirations, but I will continue to carry a camera with me.

About two in the afternoon I made a couple of grilled cheese-and-ham sandwiches, after which we decided that since, in all likelihood, this would be the last warm day we would have until, oh, until we go to Texas, we would take a nice scooter ride. We put in about twenty miles and scared ourselves only once.

It was a fantastic afternoon, mid-seventies, wind from the south. Oh, why can this sort of thing not last for several months? And then spring could come. (That might even save us the cost of moving south for the winter.)

Open Wide!

Monday morning the demolition crew set to work on the recently vacated city office building, another "gap" in the architectural landscape in the making.

This building during the years I have lived here has served as a bank, or technically a building-and-loan facility, the police department, and most recently as the city offices and the offices of the utility department.

This move leaves the entire east side of Court Street void of buildings. The courthouse now has the street to itself.


I snapped this picture on the right about 10:20 in the morning. I sent it to the local newspaper, which published it on the front page Monday evening. They published the full shot, three columns wide, front page, directly under the banner. This example is cropped for effect.

Eat Your Breakfast!

BBBH and I were each enjoying a bowl of frosted mini-shredded wheat when nostalgic flashback overcame me. I said, "Do you remember when Nabisco made Shredded Wheat and packed the
biscuits in layers in the box?









There were coloring cards* separating the layers." Yes, she remembered that. Then in my mind's eye, I envisioned the photo of Niagara Falls which graced the ends of the box.

One thing led to another, and I started to think about the ninnies, idiots, and daredevils who attempted or accomplished various stunts involving this natural wonder. Over the years I had heard of a number of attempts to go over the falls and I wondered who was the first to accomplish the feat.

Of course with an entire library at my finger-tips, so to speak, it was a simple task to discover that one Annie Edson Taylor was the first. She designed her own barrel, padded it with a mattress and took with her a pillow when she was launched from a rowboat on her sixty-third birthday, October 24, 1901.

Ms. Taylor was nobody's fool. She was a well-educated, well-traveled woman. She had lived well, but now a widow, she felt she needed to find a way to enhance her finances. Long tale from this point until her death twenty years later, but in the end she died with virtually no resources.












Annie Edson Taylor 1838 - 1921 RIP

Image of Mrs. Taylor: Wikipedia
Additional reference:
Daredevils of Niagara Falls
*Some of you may remember the "Injun-uity Manual" series.

Bringing in the Harvest

For the earth bringeth forth fruit of herself; first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear.
But when the fruit is brought forth, immediately he putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come. --Mark 4:28,29
I love the fall season for many reasons, not the least of which is the bringing in of the harvest. I have lived in an agricultural community for the past fifty-some years, and I am always amazed at the bringing in of the bounty from the fields.

While it is true that "harvest" is much more than the produce grown in this area, it is essentially the corn and the soybeans that capture my attention. They, along with some wheat which is a summer harvest, are the grains grown here.

Tomatoes, yes, we will see many loads of tomatoes on their way to the cannery. Apples are grown in the area, but the orchards are a bit far apart and apples are not a major crop. Well, they are, of course, to the people who have apple orchards.

No longer do we see the "check-rows" in the corn fields, but rather such tightly-woven stands of corn that one wonders how so many plants can thrive in such spaces as are allotted to them. The thrill of seeing the greens disappear from the fields as the plants yellow, then turn beige or brown is enhanced by the knowledge that soon the wagons will be rolling past with their bounty on the way to the terminal.

Truly, the harvest is great.

Famous Hoosier...

before we were "Hoosiers."

Little Turtle was born in northeastern Indiana about 1750.

The trouble with calling your kid "Junior."

Chief of the Miamis, Little Turtle was named "Turtle" (Mishikinakwa) after his father. He was often called "Little Turtle" to distinguish him from the parent. Thus in spite of his prowess as a warrior and leader, he was ever after known as "Little."

October 22, 1790 Little Turtle defeated the USA at the site of present-day Fort Wayne. He engaged successfully in other battles as well, but he later pressed for peace with the United States.

More about Little Turtle's military prowess is related by Richard Battin here.

I had a friend who passed away recently at age 92. He was known as "Junior" his entire life.

October 22, 1844, the Millerites, followers of William Miller, await the Second Coming of Christ. The next day is known as the Great Disappointment.

October 22, 2011, is again, I guess, the Great Disappointment for the followers of Camping. --

Kern

Ever heard of kerning? Me, neither.

You graphics artists and typesetters out there will think this silly, because I am sure this was one of the first things you learned as you started the pursuit of your art. I stumbled across this concept on the internet, and as I was pursuing it a bit, just to satisfy the curiosity, you know, I found this website done by Mark McKay in which one can practice kerning skills.

I hope you don't find this too addictive.

btw, on my first attempt, I hit 100% on three of the ten examples, though my overall score at 78 was less than stellar.

Eyeball update: Yesterday the surgeon officially pronounced my vision "better than it was before we started." I already knew that. Also, he removed the stitch and said he would see me in a month.

Saturday Night Massacre

An angry President Nixon on October 20, 1973, a Saturday, ordered AG Elliot Richardson to fire Watergate special prosecuter Archibald Cox. Richardson refused and tendered his resignation. The President then ordered DAG William Ruckelshaus to drop the axe on Cox. He refused, and also resigned.

This chain of events left Solicitor General, Robert Bork as acting head of Justice. Thus it is Bork's turn. Nixon submits the order to him. Bork believed that the President was within his rights to place such an order, but not wanting to be perceived as "The President's Man" he also considered resignation. However, Richardson prevailed upon Bork to stay in office, for if not, there would be no one left in Justice who knew how the Department worked.

Hence, "Saturday Night Massacre;" and the rest is history.
"I am not a crook."

Washington Post, October 21, 1973

Modesto Bee, October 22, 1973

Descemet's Stripping Automated Endothelial Keratoplasty

About a month ago, I wrote here on STSTT that I would be having a corneal transplant.
Wednesday, a week ago today, Richard drove us to Carmel for the procedure. Since we were told to arrive there at 6:30 a.m., all three of us found ourselves up and on the road well before time to rise from the comfort of our respective beds.

A well-organized facility which had "preregistered" me by telephone the previous day completed the intake process very quickly. Then it is sit in the waiting area until a nurse comes to collect me. During this interval, Beautiful fell into conversation, as she is inclined to do, with a young woman. It turned out that at age 47 she was having cataract surgery. And then she asked my wife, "What is your father here for?"

Now, I could laugh and handle this, even consider that, okay, BBBH does look to be a generation younger than I in spite of her being in her mid-70s. So then as the nurse is taking me to the operating arena, she asks me who is driving me today. "Richard," I say, indicating the gentleman seated to my right. "Is he your son?"

Now wait just a dogbone minute!! Richard is older than I. Maybe more stress and terror showed on my visage than I thought I was feeling in my heart.

Begowned now and lying on the gurney, the anaesthesiologist came in to talk with me about her role and what she was going to do to me. Then the surgeon came in to verify that we all agreed it was the right eye which he was going to cut on. (This was verified numerous times with everyone I encountered, and someone wrote "YES" in indelible letters above my right eyebrow.

So now I am in the OR with the 95 year-old anaesthesiologist and the 17-year old surgeon in whose hands I have placed my life and my eyesight. As she had promised, the little old lady knocked me out while a local was administered to the eye, then awakened me so that I could communicate with the team during the procedure.

At one point, probably an hour or so into the thing, I said, "The left side of my nose itches." Doctor Deitch said, "I'm busy over here with the donor cornea. Can't help you." Which I took to mean, Suck it up; you'll live. Which I did.


So on Thursday, Dick took me to Carmel again. The physician examined his work and pronounced it good. I see him again tomorrow. I am told that the healing process is quite lengthy and not to get my tidy whiteys in a knot.

Meanwhile, the good news is that I can already see with better clarity than I had before the surgery, so I am hopeful that things will be well in the long term.

Thank you, Dr. Deitch and all the team at Midwest Eye Institute!


I am looking forward to reconnecting with my readers, so comment away! I have already been spending some time trying to catch up with my friends on their blogs. It is good to be back.

Labor Relations

My friend, Larry, sent me this one via email. I like it, and thought you might enjoy it, too.


The Montana Department of Employment, Division of Labor Standards claimed a small rancher was not paying proper wages to his help and sent an agent out to investigate him.

GOV’T AGENT:
“I need a list of your employees and how much you pay them.”

RANCHER:
”Well, there’s my hired hand who’s been with me for 3 years. I pay him $200 a week plus free room and board.

Then there’s the mentally challenged guy. He works about 18 hours every day and does about 90% of all the work around here. He makes about $10 per week, pays his own room and board, and I buy him a bottle of bourbon every Saturday night so he can cope with life. He also sleeps with my wife occasionally.”

GOV’T AGENT:
“That’s the guy I want to talk to – the mentally challenged one.”

RANCHER:
“That would be me.”

Retrotech in the Shop: Tools

I am not a handyman. Oh, I have managed to provide some home maintenance over the years. I even worked for a few building contractors from time to time. I learned a few things. But I am grateful that I do not have to put bread on the table today using the skills of carpentry, woodworking, masonry, plumbing or mechanics. I know enough about most of those fields to be a danger to myself and any inattentive bystanders; although I can drive a nail or a screw. I can measure a board and cut a pretty straight line.

My father was a craftsman. He could do more with a pocketknife and a pair of pliers than most guys can do with any tools that might be at their disposal. I let most of my dad's equipment go at auction, but I kept a few handtools, mostly for sentimental reasons. But I still use them from time to time.

I have a crosscut handsaw which may be the first saw I ever used as a child. It is small, easily carried in a handy-man tool kit. The upper ear is missing and has been ever since I can remember. I have a brace and several bits. These virtually never get used. I kept a pair of forceps (dental) which belonged to my maternal grandfather and which my dad used to pull teeth-- mine, from time to time, when I was a child. Squares, wrenches. I regret a little bit that I let all the hand planes go, but I hope someone is giving them the use they deserve.

The most modern of Dad's tools which I have is a 7" electric Skilsaw which I use in preference to my own much newer and very expensive high-end brand name saw.

This article was first published in the blog, Retrotechnocracy. I am trying to ease back into the blogosphere. I hope by Wednesday to be able to file a report .

Visit This Patch of the Blogosphere

Bob Warr will be commenting on current events and stuff this week while "String Too Short to Tie" is on hiatus. Check it out!

Battle of Tours

October 10, 732 Charles Martel leads his Burgundian and Frankish forces against Abdul Rahman Al Ghafiqi's Moorish forces at Poitiers, France. I recall to this day teaching my students fifty years ago that this battle was the turning point in the religious conflict between Islam and Christianity. The spread of Islam into Europe was halted.

While this point of view was generally held by historians well into the twentieth century, there are those today who are reevaluating and rewriting this position. That this battle had great significance to the development of Western history is unquestioned.

Charles the Hammer consolidated the power of the Carolingian Empire, and the Franks dominated Europe for the next century.

The Battle of Tours, or the Battle of Poitiers is known in Arabic as the Battle of the Court of the Martyrs. 732 A.D. is a date that should be remembered by all. The battle, at least, was won. The war, nearly thirteen centuries later, in the opinion of some, is not over.

Washington Wants a Say Over Your Minister

The Supreme Court weighs whether the feds can decide which church employees are clergy and which aren't.

By MICHAEL W. MCCONNELL

Today, the Obama administration will invite the Supreme Court to open a new front in the culture wars. Hosanna-Tabor Evangelical Lutheran Church and School v. EEOC concerns a commissioned minister, Cheryl Perich, who taught elementary school and led chapel devotions at a small Lutheran school outside Detroit. Ms. Perich became ill and was replaced in the classroom by a substitute. In the middle of the school year she sought to return and then, instead of attempting to work out the dispute through the church's reconciliation process, she threatened to sue.

As relations broke down, the church congregation voted to withdraw her "call" to the ministry, and she ceased to be eligible for her prior job. She sued under the Americans with Disabilities Act, with the support of the federal Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.

The federal statutes outlawing employment discrimination based on race, sex, age and disability contain no express exception for church employers. But for 40 years lower courts have applied a "ministerial exception," which bars the government from any role in deciding who should be a minister. Courts have reasoned that the separation between church and state protects the ability of churches to choose their own clergy just as it protects the state from any control by churches. The Supreme Court has never spoken to the issue.

But who counts as a minister? Cheryl Perich's duties included leading students in prayer and worship, but she also taught secular subjects, using ordinary secular textbooks. The sole disagreement in the lower courts was whether her job was sufficiently religious to be considered ministerial. The Supreme Court will consider, for the first time, how to make that determination.

But the Obama Justice Department has now asked the court to disavow the ministerial exception altogether. This would mean that, in every future case, a court—and not the church—would decide whether the church's reasons for firing or not hiring a minister were good enough.

But the government, including the judiciary, is not entitled under the First Amendment to decide what qualifications a minister should have, or to weigh religious considerations against others. Is a secular court to decide, for example, whether confining Catholic priests or Orthodox rabbis to males is a correct interpretation of scripture, or merely a vestige of outmoded and stereotypical bias?

James Madison famously declared that the civil magistrate is not a "competent Judge of Religious truth." Yet every discrimination claim about the hiring of a minister necessarily comes down to the question of whether the church had a bona fide religious reason for its decision. That places the courts squarely in the business of adjudicating the validity of a church's claims about its own religious practice.

The Justice Department's brief grudgingly concedes that there may be an exception for employees performing "exclusively religious functions," but this is an illusory protection. Every church officer—even the pope—performs at least some nonreligious administrative duties. If the government's position were accepted, the courts would be embroiled in disputes about the selection of clergy at all levels and in every denomination. This would be a radical reversal of our nation's long constitutional tradition.

In the colonial era, with an established Church of England, the government controlled who would preach the gospel. The royal governor of Virginia licensed ministers in the colony, and Madison's first known writing on religious liberty was a letter protesting the jailing of Baptist ministers for preaching without a license.

When the First Amendment declared that "Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion," it meant that churches would support themselves and control themselves. And the separation of church and state is a two-way street: It protects the autonomy of religious institutions from governmental interference no less than it prevents advancement of religion by government power.

That tradition of church-state separation has continued to the present day. After the Civil War, for example, the framers of the 14th Amendment, which applied the Establishment Clause to the states, voted against legislation to subject churches to antidiscrimination laws, concluding this would violate the First Amendment. The Supreme Court has held (Bishop v. Amos, 1987) that religious organizations must be "free to select their own leaders, define their own doctrines, resolve their own disputes, and run their own institutions." Even EEOC guidelines a few years ago reaffirmed the ministerial exception.

Perhaps American churches should be more open to female clergy and more accommodating toward elderly pastors or disabled chaplains. But if the separation between church and state means anything, such changes must come from within.

As a lower court judge, Justice Sonia Sotomayor wrote: "Federal court entanglement in matters as fundamental as a religious institution's selection or dismissal of its spiritual leaders risks an unconstitutional trespass on the most spiritually intimate grounds of a religious community's existence." It is unfortunate that the Department of Justice does not see it that way.

Mr. McConnell is the director of the Constitutional Law Center at Stanford University. He wrote a friend-of-the-court brief in this case on behalf of major Protestant denomination.

Unblocking Writer's Block

I am a regular reader of Pete Wilson's blog, Without Wax. A few days ago he challenged his readers to offer techniques for juicing up creativity in writing. Yesterday he posted "55 Ways to Be Creative" in which he shared his readers' suggestions.* It is quite an interesting list!

One suggestion I take to heart for I am blessed. The reader said one should keep a "gratitude journal." What a great idea. It surely should trump the grumbling about the little annoyances that creep into day-to-day living.

Just for this moment and in this place, I am grateful for the October sunshine and the eighty degree temperature accompanying same. On a subnote, I am grateful for the colors that are presented me outside my window by way of the turning of the leaves.

As I am each day, I am grateful for the health and well-being I possess in sufficient measure to be able to arise from bed and dress for the day. Any day one can stand upright is a good day. Do I have aches and pains? That's not the subject of this document, yet even those remind me that I have lived a long life, and I am still alive!

I have a truly deep gratitude for the wife that lives with me, prepares my meals, yea, even fusses at me on occasion. Well, because I know she cares.

This list would be virtually endless were I to attempt to list all the blessings for which I am grateful. But this, in the spirit of "journal" is for the blessings of this day, right here, right now.

I am in awe, and gratefully thankful ever to my Redeemer, Jesus Christ, who lives today and cares for me most of all.

*I shall keep a copy of this list in my TTK folder for frequent reference.

Funny Redux

[This is pulled up from a year ago for two reasons. First, it is a reminder to self that this is not a humor blog; and second, it refers you once again to some places where you can find legitimate funny.]

I cancelled yesterday's post because upon reflection and a last-minute rereading I realized that whereas I intended it to be funny, it was just pathetic. Puerile. Lame. Juvenile.

There are several humorous bloggers on my to-read list. They make me laugh. They make me wish I could make you laugh. But here's the thing. While I have a sense of humor and very much enjoy reading funny stuff, I am not a funny writer. It looks so easy, too, when one is reading Pearl, or Jon, or Jana, or JennyMac. Leigh is funny, and so is Crotchety.
But I'm not funny.

Still, I enjoy funny.

Another Trip Around the Sun

Isn't she adorable?! I have so much pleasure in thumbing through the albums we have built over the dozen years we've been together. I could post dozens that are just as cute, but these will be representative.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

Oh, all right. She's seventy-something.

Typing, Modern Style

Now back to the keyboard.
Using that old "Royal" is an immense pain, given that I am years into the simplicity of the computer keyboard.

The second typrwriter story of the week came up on Monday when I checked into Down the Road. Jimgrey wrote that the computer saved his career as a writer, for had it been necessary to continue with handwriting or typewriting, he would have given it up.

So, I got out Dad's machine, Royal portable, circa 1940. (I wonder if I could study the serial number and search its bona fides?) I typed the above sample, which was a reminder of how much I appreciate modern technology, my Luddite pretenses notwithstanding!

In some earlier postings, I have discussed handwriting and typing.

Jalapeno Pickles

I stripped the serrano bushes of their fruit. Time to finish putting the garden to bed.

Now I had a large pan full of peppers. What to do? I decided to pickle them. I halved them, cut out the core, saving the seeds for the pickling agent. How sore my hands were becoming only became clear as the afternoon and evening wore on. Blistered, even.

I washed and rinsed the jars and put them to boil along with the lids and rings. I mixed the vinegar, salt and stuff and set it to cook. At about which time my daughter, Ann, arrived to visit. At about which time the pungent aroma in the house would quite literally bring tears to the eyes. Both wife and daughter feigned annoyance with me for having created such an environment.

I canned the fruit, poured the liquid over the fruit, capped and inverted the jars. Great result. They sealed. We all went out to supper at the local restaurant. Yes, you may have more than one restaurant in your bailiwick, but not everyone does.

We concluded the evening with a wonderful visit with Ann while I rubbed aloe into my hands, admired my kitchen handiwork once more, and retired for the night.

New Year

5772

Chapter 12

A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July--

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear--

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die.
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream--
Lingering in the golden gleam--
Life, what is it but a dream?

THE END.

--Through the Looking Glass- Lewis Carroll