The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

The Arrival of Eamonn Maynooth


Now Eamonn Maynooth was the eighth of twelve sons born to a large family of diligent and occasionally successful farmers who worked the high wilds of the Macgillycuddy’s Reeks for more generations then you have fingers.

(It was said there-abouts that they were descended from escaped dancing bears who had been cruelly dragged across Europe hundreds and hundreds of years before.)

When the prospect of moving rocks from field to field for his entire life sparked no interest in him, he took his cousin’s wise advice and one fine April morning he left his home to walk the many twisting paths and lanes to the grand city of Dublin.

During the several weeks of his meandering he encountered several score of the local representatives of the Garda—who mistook him for one of the “Traveling People” due to his dark countenance and happy disposition. These encounters seemed always to end in the waiting room of local Gardai Post, sipping tea and munching on sugar sprinkled biscuits. When he left the following morning he was always loaded down with a half loaf of soda bread, new directions to Dublin, and invariably a long letter of introduction to someone’s “Auntie Kate” who lived ‘Jist a bit off Grafton Street’ - and who they were sure had room for a lodger.

After weeks of ambling - with much time to contemplate life, liberty and the pursuit of a career - he finally reached the city. He had made up his mind, and immediately, after a through groom at a public convenience, set out for Dublin Castle and applied to the Gardai for a job. Since he had with him several score of letters of introduction from most of the force from Ballymakeery to Ballyragget, Ballyroan to Ballymore, he was a shoo-in and started training the following Tuesday.

After several weeks of lectures and the fitting of a rather becoming blue uniform he was assigned to the one-man station in Maynooth. He often wondered if his placement was due to some random transcription error, or if somehow it eased the life of the clerical staff to have a Maynooth from Maynooth on the books.

Now aside from regular charges issued to the local Jesuit population for “Reckless Endangerment” due to their un-ending propensity for late night bicycle races from their University and back - life in the town was ordered and diligent with Eamonn on duty.

On the morning of his twenty-third birthday a large cardboard boxed present arrived postmarked Cork. On opening the finely scripted card he discovered that the bishop of the much maligned city had sent him a 18 speed Peugeot racer to even up the odds. Eamonn was astonished.

(The Bishop had long heard of these uneven evening contests and decided to intervene on the side of the right. He was after all a Benedictine.)

Many years later - when he was approaching his fortieth year - and his twenty-fourth year as a Garda, he took the long bus ride to Cork City for a meeting with the self same Bishop. Eamonn was up for retirement the following year, and as he did not want to share the town with his replacement he was in sore need of advice.

He explained the situation at some length as the two walked along the beach down to the local establishment where the Bishop’s annual supply of matured Blackbush was kept in semi-safety.

Several hours later the Bishop made a suggestion, “Now you with your fine pension and good health should be off broadening your horizons. Twenty odd years of tossing Jesuits into the clink -enjoyable though it most certainly must be - must have soured your view of life.... Now my little brother as emigrated to the far sub-Arctic wilds in brightest Canada.... and in spite of certain culture deprivations - not a smidgen of real Guinness on tap for thousands of miles from Ottawa. Ottawa that’s where he lives, with lots of friends and two People - most peculiar though, most peculiar.”

Eamonn put down his cup of “improved” tea and asked in his most professional manner, “The Peoples are peculiar?”

“On no.... Well not any more peculiar than his other companions. For example; there is this Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-badger, who seems to have some semi-official status in the household... and him not even a Christian.... a Presbyterian of some sorts.... Well it could be worse I guess. The lady of the house is from Dublin, and her own aunt is Mother-Superior Dominique - you may have heard of her. Terror of the Indian Ocean I’ve heard tell.... So there is some hope. Now as I have heard these Peoples have a most liberal entrance policy.... No exams to take, no secret hand shakes, or scads of diamonds sown into your seams. Just appear at the front door and say the you’ve been sent over the water by the family of the TeddyBear-with-green feet, and a place will be found for you. It’s a very nice place I myself have seen it - I was over for Miss Zita’s nuptials several years ago, shared the plane ride with her parents. Now Mister Craig he is some sort of Scotsman - several generations removed. Though it takes more then several generations to remove a Scotsman - It would be quicker to raise the rent - Well there is my advice; take it as you will.” He reached for his Mitre.

Eamonn said goodbye and caught the last bus to his home in the far county Kildare. During the long ride home he dreamt of processions of brightly painted racing canoes braving cold raging torrents, as a chorus of the wolf’s ancient songs eased their way through his thoughts as they bumped along the back roads and lanes to Maynooth. Canada might not be too bad an idea occurred to his semi-conscious.

Exactly a year and sixty-two days later he arrived at Ottawa International Airport - with his earthbound belongings packed into a small wooden crate with wheels. With his treasured Peugeot under his arm and pulling the heavy crate, he started the long walk into town. He was wearing his tweed trousers, his best brocade waistcoat and the black Homburg he saved for court and funerals. (He had not forgotten to pack the white spats he had bought many years before while on vacation in Liverpool, and was saving for his wedding.)

As the sun dropped into the west he stopped at the corner, beside the long inlet and looked at the house. It was the second of a row of four. Cream yellow pillars held it up for evening’s rosy inspection. He slowly walked down the side lane. He feet were very sore. Canada was much bigger than he expected. He locked his bicycle to the bottom of the ramp and knocked on the back door.

A few moments later it was pulled open by a very stocky brown bear. It had no neck at all, nor a smidgen of a smile. Perched on his head shading its eyes was a light gray Fedora, the leather bound hilt of a double-handed long sword peeked over his shoulder.

Eamonn had not a doubt - it was a Minder. He had thought they were the stuff of legends - like FinMcCaul. Possible but not likely.

“Who are you, what’cer doing here and what’cer want? Does Colonel know you? Are you on d’run? What’s in yon box?”

Eamonn stood up very stiff and said..., “Now see here young man, the name is Eamonn Maynooth.... I’ve been sent by the Bishop of Cork. I hear his little brother lives here - or so I have been told. Could you check for me?”

“No need. ‘Course he lives here.... Upstairs in far bedroom. Wit’ his companions in Imperious T-Bear Zouaves. C’on-in. Rest your feets. I’ll see if he’s in. My name’s Exeter. I’m duty Minder today so I’ll see who I can scare up to bring your baggage in. Nice bike though. Should put it in basement wit’ Miss Zita’s I bet.”

One of the off-duty Watchers got him a cup of tea and an egg salad sandwich. (Watchers were noted far and away for their un-imaginative taste in food.) He sat down and removed his shoes and replaced his socks. The sandwich was very thick he thought to himself. It was his last thought until much later that night. He sort of awoke when he heard a door slam. He rolled over as voices entered the room.

“Yes just off the plane. Walked all the way here from the aeroport carrying all his treasures in a trunk. Seems my brother suggested he visit us here. He brought a very polite letter of introduction. I read it; says he has retired from the Garda and needs a new life, or so says Brian’s letter. He thought that since everything here is most bran’new it would be just the place to start. Hope you and Zita don’mind. I know it is getting a bit crowded what with the childreen all-a-grow’en. I hope it hasn’t imposed.”

A new voice replied, “No it’s fine. Nothing to worry about. Anyway that other new guest - the one who arrived last month I think. The friend of Mr. Ajax. Old-Bill-the-Bear I think his name is. Kind of gangly and beige. Wasn’t he a policeman?”

“Why yes. Yes he was. And himself retired too. From one of the Northern Shires in England - of all places I was told. Now here’s a happy co-incidence. Perhaps they can offer their services to Staff Sergeant Blake of your acquaintance. I am sure he could always use experienced help to maintain the peace. Why don’t you call him. Perhaps tonight....”

“Well first of all, it is three in the morning, and second these gentlemen are now retired.... so let’s wait a month or six before any suggestions of this type.... We can introduce your Mister Maynooth to Miss Zita tomorrow.”

Mr. Maynooth rolled over and thought to himself....”A home again.”

Some House Keeping

Mr. Tuktoyuktuk Bear's Commission

“Theodora the First - by the Grace of all the Gods of the Serene Kingdom of the Timeless Snows and the Arctic fastness, and of Her Other Realms and Territories, Queen, Head of The TeddyBear-Peoples Concordant, Defender of the Faiths.

To Our Trusty and well beloved Tuktoyuktuk Ursus Albus - Greetings!

We are Reposing especial Trust and Confidence in Your Loyalty, Courage and Good Conduct, and do by these Presents Constitute and Appoint you to be an Officer in Our Peoples-Guardian Forces, from the First Day of May.

We hereby appoint you Guardian and Companion of Craig Taylor and Zita Taylor (nee Kavanagh) for as long as they shall live, and of such members of their Families, Friends, Companions and diverse Visitors as they shall be pleased to make known to You, at all Times and in all Places, to provide such Solace, Sympathy, Companionship, Advice, Good Cheer and succour as they shall need, to the best of your training as an Officer in Our Forces.

We are Mindful of the burden which We have placed upon You, and bid you be mindful that We have great forces at Our command which may be summoned in time of Need. No TeddyBear who gives unstintingly of themselves in the fulfillment of Our Commission need hesitate to issue such Summons.

Given Under Our Hand,
At Our Court at High Shining
On The 26th Day of April,
in The Twenty-Third Year of Our Reign.
BY HER MAJESTY’S COMMAND

Colonel-General Balthazar Bruin
KCSt/MG, MgB, Croix De Guerre,
The Red Sash and Bar.”

The Folk of the Air


O’DRISCOLL drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted weeds
Of the drear Heart Lake.

And he saw how the weeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And he dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.

He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.

And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place,
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.

The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine,
And a young girl white bread.

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.

The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the folk of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.

He played with the merry old men,
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.

He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.

O’Driscoll got up from the grass
And scattered the cards with a cry;
But the old men and dancers were gone
As a cloud faded into the sky.

He knew now the folk of the air,
And his heart was blackened by dread,
And he ran to the door of his house;
Old women were keening the dead;

But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away;
And never was piping so sad
And never was piping so gay.


William Butler Yeats (1865–1939)

Lest We Forget

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


Rupert Brooke

Lest We Forget

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.


-- RCAF Flight-Lieutenant John Gillespie Magee Jr.
(1922-1941).

Lest We Forget

Here Dead We Lie


Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

-- A. E. Housman

Lest We Forget

Recessional


GOD of our fathers, known of old—
Lord of our far-flung battle-line—
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—
The captains and the kings depart—
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-call'd our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire—
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard—
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

R. Kippling

Ozymandias of Egypt


I MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)