Frustrated Cat, by my Great-grandma Irving

Velvet wants a bird to catch,
Blue jay or nuthatch,
Whisky jack or Chickadee
Will he all the same to me.

At the window here I sit,
Feeling like a nit-wit,
Looking through two panes of glass
While the birds go flying past.

While I dream of dreadful deeds
They are gobbling sunflower seeds,
While I ponder how to do it,
They are bolting lumps of suet.

What a place this world could be
For a fine he-cat like me.
Maybe in the month of June
I’ll make them sing a different tune.

But Velvet’s hopes are growing dim,
All the birds seem wise to him.
Panther-like they see him pass
Creeping through the waving grass,
Twittering sparrows at the eaves
Are laughing at him in their sleeves.

-Jan 20, 1964

What I've Been Up To

When I started this blog, I thought, "You know, 10 posts a month would be ideal." It doesn't look like December's going to make it.

I do have some good ones planned though. I would like to write an entry on: "Merry Christmas" in Canada. Our Christmas tree, and the death of. The school newspaper's front page article, written by yours truly, that came out today. Three of the Christmas presents I've made (I won't say more about them till after Christmas, since two of the recievers read this). Our English lesson on poetry. Chances are, they won't all get written.

Even now, as I sit here on my last day of school, sipping my tea and looking forward to the next few weeks of freedom, I don't especially feel like writing. I would like to leave you with a thoughtful poem though. Hopefully I'll write in the next few days, but if not, Merry Christmas!

"And is it true? And is it true,
This most tremendous tale of all,
Seen in a stained-glass window’s hue,
A Baby in an ox’s stall?
The Maker of the stars and sea
Become a Child on earth for me?"
[Sir John Betjeman]

Happy Remembrance Day

In Flander's Fields

by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

PS My debate went well. I'll be posting all that tomorrow.

To the Saskatchewan

A poem by my great-grandmother, Dorothy Wallace. Written in 1912.

Lordly Saskatchewan, swift flowing river
Flowing for centuries, flowing forever.
Thou findest thy source in the far western mountains.
Thy waters rush forth from the emerald fountains.
Winding and curving and winding again
Thou spannest the breadth of the great Central Plain
The trees to the edge of thy clear waters grow.
Thus lending their tints to the river below.
Perhaps in the years that are long past and gone
By this river some Indian Chieftain was born
Thy low sounding music then fell on his ear
Oh thine was the voice which first he did hear
And all through the years of his happy childhood
By the banks of the river he played in the wood
At night when he gazed through the gauzy cloud bars
Thought of the Great Spirit who made the bright stars
Heard the rippling streamlet which whispered to him
Of his glory to gain and his battles to win.
He soon grew to manhood, a warrior bold
And his eye was as bright as his father’s of old
His aim was so true and his sight was so keen
Such a great and good chief there was never yet seen.
He rode forth to battle one calm summer day.
His spirit was fearless his heart light and gay
As light and as happy as that summer air
Which fanned his brown cheek and tossed his dark hair
They ought all day long refusing to yield
Till the great chief lay low on the wild battle field.
There fell on his ear as he lay on the ground
A faint sighing ripple a musical sound.
A song so familiar and soothing and deep
T’was the voice of the river that lulled him to sleep.
Great river oh! many a tale thou couldst tell
Of how the white man first came here to dwell,
How he built his log fort on the beautiful land,
And planted his standard aloft on the strand.
Though it floats not so light on thy waters of blue,
The steam ship replaces the birch bark canoe.
The tools of the red Man are reddened with rust.
The fort of the white man is crumbling to dust.
While high on the river banks, fair to the view
With their towers and spires the Twin Cities grew.
The river still flowing will sing its old rhyme
Thus watching forever the changes of time