Yorkshire Pudding

Here is a teeny, tiny little Ogden Nash poem to brighten your day. Enjoy!

Yorkshire Pudding

Let us call Yorkshire Pudding
A fortunate blunder;
It's a sort of popover
That tripped and popped under.

In the Spring . . .

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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson

A few weeks ago I saw a bright red cardinal sitting on our deck armrest hirping right at our window. "What is that?" Mom asked
"I don't know" I said, since I didn't. (the blinds were closed) Mom came over and pulled open the blinds a little
"Oh," I said,"It's a cardinal, cheeruping at our window."
"Oh how pretty!"
"Yeah!"
Mom went back to her sewing, asking me to give her reports, since He didn't seem to be doing anything. Suddenly another cardinal (a Girl) flew down and landed below him on the deck itself. she pecked at seeds there and while I was telling Mom what I was seeing the male cardinal flew into the pine tree that was his home. She flew up to the armrest, chirped for a second then followed him to the pine tree. Mom walked slowly over to the window and looked out slowly then said "I think we have some Love-birds nesting in the pine over there."

Not only that but later, I saw some mourning doves flying into another pine a little further down our line in neighbors.

Then only a few days ago we saw a few robins in our own lilac.

There is Spring in the air. You can tell.

poem clipping from Lockesley Hall
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174629

I miss home

Home

 by Edgar Guest

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part
With anything they ever used -- they've grown into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, 
an' leave her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, 
an' when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories 
O' her that was an' is no more -- ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes' t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.

Happy 130th Birthday Edgar 

What a Father Wants to Know

Here is a little poem by a very endearing poet whose talent I stumbled upon when I found a little book by him in a used bookstore.   This one I offer especially in honor of Father's Day.  Any father with even the slightest romantic sentiment will find Edgar A Guest an inspiration and a guide.


You would take my girl away!
What is there that I can say
Save the things all fathers think,
Seldom put in printers ink?
Little care I for your fame,
O the glory you may claim,
Or the fortune you may earn;
These are not my deep concern--
This I really want to know,
Will you always love her so?

It is fine enough to tell
that to-day you're doing well;
I appreciate your skill
and I think someday you will
Climb the ladder of success
To your lasting happiness;
But if all this should be had
and my little girl be sad,
I'd regret my whole life through
Having given her to you.

Will you always love her so?
That is what I want to know.
Will you comfort her and stay
At her side from day to day?
Knowing she must bear your name,
Will you shield her from all shame?
This the burden on my mind,
Will you thoughtful be and kind?
All that matters is to know
That you'll always love her so.

taken from The Passing Throng , by Edgar A. Guest
published by Reilly & Lee co. Chicago U.S.A. 1923