We are all off to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge's soiree. So much polishing and borrowing of cravats and cummerbunds. The Royal Rhinosasauris Resplendent Redoubtables are special guests, having provided much valued - though unmentionable - services to the Crown over the centuries, so Haemish-Mór and Callum McCallum can barely contain themselves. Halvadar-Major Rupert Palantine Finehorn is bringing Miss Niamh as his guest, but Poppy Stormbringer can no come as her table manners are unreliable. Maybe next time...Wish us luck..
Dugal
About Me
- Miss Pancake Taylor
- I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
The Highwayman
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon clondy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
I
THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon clondy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
PART TWO
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
The Destruction of Sennacherib
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on the Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are load in thier wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron, (George Gordon)
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on the Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are load in thier wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron, (George Gordon)
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye
WHILE going the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo! hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo! hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,
A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,
A doleful damsel I heard cry:
“Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
“With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew ye;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
“Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are your eyes that looked so mild,
When my poor heart you first beguiled?
Why did you run from me and the child?
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are thy legs with which you run?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run
When first you went to carry a gun?
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! hurroo!
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! hurroo!
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Though from my heart you took leg-bail;
Like a cod you’re doubled up head and tail,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
Hurroo! hurroo!
You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
Hurroo! hurroo!
You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
You’re an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;
You’ll have to be put with a bowl to beg:
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“I’m happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! hurroo!
I’m happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! hurroo!
I’m happy for to see you home,
All from the Island of Sulloon;
So low in flesh, so high in bone;
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“But sad it is to see you so,
Hurroo! hurroo!
But sad it is to see you so,
Hurroo! hurroo!
But sad it is to see you so,
And to think of you now as an object of woe,
Your Peggy’ll still keep you on as her beau;
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew ye;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
By Anonymous
WHILE going the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo! hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo! hurroo!
While going the road to sweet Athy,
A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,
A doleful damsel I heard cry:
“Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
“With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew ye;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
“Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are your eyes that looked so mild?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are your eyes that looked so mild,
When my poor heart you first beguiled?
Why did you run from me and the child?
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“Where are the legs with which you run?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are thy legs with which you run?
Hurroo! hurroo!
Where are the legs with which you run
When first you went to carry a gun?
Indeed, your dancing days are done!
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! hurroo!
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Hurroo! hurroo!
It grieved my heart to see you sail,
Though from my heart you took leg-bail;
Like a cod you’re doubled up head and tail,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
Hurroo! hurroo!
You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
Hurroo! hurroo!
You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,
You’re an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg;
You’ll have to be put with a bowl to beg:
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“I’m happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! hurroo!
I’m happy for to see you home,
Hurroo! hurroo!
I’m happy for to see you home,
All from the Island of Sulloon;
So low in flesh, so high in bone;
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums, etc.
“But sad it is to see you so,
Hurroo! hurroo!
But sad it is to see you so,
Hurroo! hurroo!
But sad it is to see you so,
And to think of you now as an object of woe,
Your Peggy’ll still keep you on as her beau;
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!
With drums and guns, and guns and drums,
The enemy nearly slew ye;
My darling dear, you look so queer,
Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye.
By Anonymous
GLORY TO THE BRAVE
Lo, there do I see my Father...
Lo, there do I see my Mother and my Sisters and my Brothers...
Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning...
Thay do bid me to take my place among them...
In the Halls of Valhalla,
Where the Brave may live forever.
A prayer from Viking mythology.
Lo, there do I see my Father...
Lo, there do I see my Mother and my Sisters and my Brothers...
Lo, there do I see the line of my people back to the beginning...
Thay do bid me to take my place among them...
In the Halls of Valhalla,
Where the Brave may live forever.
A prayer from Viking mythology.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
The Foggy Dew
As down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I,
Their armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus' bells o'er the Liffey swells
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high in Dublin town
Hung they out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's Huns with their long-range guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew.
The bravest fell, and the requiem bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter-tide
In the springing of the year.
While the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.
And back through the glen I rode again
And my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never shall see more
But to and fro
In my dreams I go
And I kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled
Oh, glorious dead
When you fell in the foggy dew.
As down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I,
Their armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus' bells o'er the Liffey swells
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high in Dublin town
Hung they out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's Huns with their long-range guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew.
The bravest fell, and the requiem bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter-tide
In the springing of the year.
While the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.
And back through the glen I rode again
And my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never shall see more
But to and fro
In my dreams I go
And I kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled
Oh, glorious dead
When you fell in the foggy dew.
Rise! Rise! Lowland And Highland
Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men,
Bals Sire and beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! Rise! Mainland and Island men,
Belt on your broadswords and fight for Prince Charlie!
Doon from the mountain steep,
Up from the valley deep
Out from the clacan, the bothy, and shieling,
Bugle and battle-drum
Bid chief and vassal come,
Loudly on bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.
Men of the mountains descendants of hereos!
Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers-
Say, shall the Sassenach southron not fear us,
When fierce the war-peal each plaides clan gathers?
Long on the trophied walls
Of our ancestral halls
Rust has been blumting the armour of Albin:
Seize them, ye Mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Breamar and Breadalbine
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
when did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuard!
Follo your hero, the rightful the royal.
Come, Chief o'Clanronald,
And gallant M'Donald,
Lovat, Lochiel, with the Grant, and the Gordon,
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal men,
Musket on shoulder, and tight the broadsword on!
James Hogg
Rise! Rise! Lowland and Highland men,
Bals Sire and beardless son, each come, and early:
Rise! Rise! Mainland and Island men,
Belt on your broadswords and fight for Prince Charlie!
Doon from the mountain steep,
Up from the valley deep
Out from the clacan, the bothy, and shieling,
Bugle and battle-drum
Bid chief and vassal come,
Loudly on bagpipes the pibroch are pealing.
Men of the mountains descendants of hereos!
Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers-
Say, shall the Sassenach southron not fear us,
When fierce the war-peal each plaides clan gathers?
Long on the trophied walls
Of our ancestral halls
Rust has been blumting the armour of Albin:
Seize them, ye Mountain Macs,
Buckler and battle-axe,
Lads of Lochaber, Breamar and Breadalbine
When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
when did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal?
Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuard!
Follo your hero, the rightful the royal.
Come, Chief o'Clanronald,
And gallant M'Donald,
Lovat, Lochiel, with the Grant, and the Gordon,
Rouse every kilted clan,
Rouse every loyal men,
Musket on shoulder, and tight the broadsword on!
James Hogg
Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is...
Chapter Six
The Seeds of Change
All in all, life in the house was unfolding with a degree of civility that had been missing for many years, and all who lived there were really quite content. Dugal ingratiated himself in the neighbourhood by wondering around on spring mornings, passing on his mother’s gardening tips on raising roses, tulips and politicians with the neighbours.
Naturally entropy insisted that this could not last.
On one auspicious day, Miss Zita arrived - this time to stay. She had been a visitor to the house for quite a long time, but as to actually residing there; well as you can imagine it rather perturbed the Pigs, who at first behaved themselves even when no one was looking. The Dragon Dragoons became rather withdrawn and the Colonel waited, and began a new book on JEB Stewart.
One of the very first things Zita did on arriving was to find room for all her TeddyBear companions along the far wall of the front bedroom. Unfortunately, within hours of their embarkation they began sticking out their tongues and making rude hand gestures at the Queen’s Own Pigs - who lived on, and in the bookshelf on the other side of the bed.
As you may well imagine the TeddyBears were very nervous about being dislocated. They were quite as confused at moving into Craig’s house - as the others were at their arrival. This accounted for their rather shabby behaviour, and the resulting escalation.
When the TeddyBears would stick out their tongues, the Pigs would write rude quotations in Gaelic on paper aeroplanes - and hurl them across the room. As time passed it just got worse.
The Queen’s Own became especially fond of mocking a small TeddyBear with green checked feet. This TeddyBear was a recent addition, having only recently emigrated with Zita from the County Meath, and was, as a result feeling quite fragile, and more than a bit shy. Most of the Pigs found his checkered green feet and matching bow tie, quite provincial, and very comical. They laughed at him a lot, which understandably embarrassed, and hurt his feelings. This caused him to hide all day long under the window shade at the head of the bed.
As could be expected, this made all the other TeddyBears furious, and as a result the whole bedroom was very unsettled.
One day while all of this was going on; tongues sticking out and obscure Gaelic curses floating through the room, both the Colonel, who naturally had the Gaelic, and Zita entered the room. They were shocked! Dugal ordered the Pigs to attention, and Zita had the TeddyBears turned around facing the wall.
Zita said “Thank goodness that they could not understand what the Pigs were saying or it would have turned into a series of ill judged donnybrooks just like that.”
The Colonel was astonished. He asked “Achhh nu, you’ll be excusing me your ladyship, but would it be that you have the Gaelic?”
She replied “Of course. I’m from Ireland can’t you tell? See the shamrock stains behind my ear.”
The Colonel was pleased; as were all of the Queen’s Own Pigs. They had someone to talk to in their own language. Not even Craiglellachie could speak Gaelic - though some said it was better then his French.
He asked “And what should we be calling yourself, your ladyship?”
“Why back home in Dublin I am called Zita NíChaomhaigh.” she said with a degree of contentment, - you see she did not have the opportunity to speak Irish very often either. All of them - the Queen’s Own Pigs, the TeddyBears and the Colonel thought it to be a very good name, and more importantly, very proper indeed.
Colonel Blackthorn-Badger went downstairs leaving her to sort out the Pigs and TeddyBears. He informed the Dragoons that everything was back to normal, well as normal as it ever got in this house, he supposed. Before he retired for the evening he announced they should mind, the appearance of a bonny wee lass was not going to turn his head. He was never going to drink Irish Whisky; as long as some of the Real Stuff was available! He wondered off to read about Stonewall Jackson. The Dragons went back to sleep, content. Actually they both preferred Billy Bishop’s biography anyway.
Chapter Seven
New Names, Some New Companions, and An Old Car
It was sunny out, and the young Rhinosasauris desperately wanted to get away from the confines of the house; away from his brother, away from his studies - away from it all.
All in all it had been a very hard couple of months, what with his first year’s final exams from the correspondence school arriving on Tuesday, and then the very next day his brother announcing that they really should have new names; names everyone could pronounce. It all had been very hard on him. Up till now his life had been almost sedate.
Well, sedate for a Rhinosasauris anyway. He had to admit that his brother’s rescue from the terrorist bookstore, had certainly stirred up all the companions who lived with him in the house on Holmwood.
Now he really needed to get out in the fresh air for a while. That was why he wanted to ask Craig if they could go for a ride. Maybe they could use the Blue Car, take the roof off and drive fast playing loud music. That would take his mind off his exams and the long list of names that his brother kept leaving on top of the stereo receiver where they slept. He needed to get away for a while, and maybe even have fresh blueberry milkshakes.
To tell the truth he had been thinking about the new names for some while. He knew that no one could pronounce a Rhinosasauris name. They were mostly grumbles, a precise foot stomping and a rather delicate twist of their tails, so he knew that he would have to find a new name sooner or later, though just at this moment later seemed quite the attractive alternative.”
Like all Rhinosasaurises who dealt with Peoples, his brother had taken a Gaelic Nom de Peoples. This ancient lyric language seemed to almost roll off their tongues, and with a rather nice vanilla flavour. Also it could not be ignored, that his brother’s old crony; Colonel Dugal, had said that the ancient Celtic language was Magic, and that the name of everything was very important and very powerful, but he could not seem to find a name that sounded much like himself.
His brother had, after much soul searching settled on the euphonic Haemish-Mór. He now wanted it embroidered over his jacket pocket.
The Colonel wore his Brigade of Guards badge sewn his sporran - and looked very official and consequential.
Haemish, having recently retired - with a pension - from the Mossad, sorely regretted not been able to wear his campaign medals or his smartly tailored paratroop uniform, but that was the promise he had made when he left that service, and a promise is a promise, especially to the Mossad, and especially from a Rhinosasauris.
Still, he considerably envied Dugal’s Imperial look.
Actually Queen Victoria herself would have been envious to see the way Colonel, The Honourable Dugal Blackthorn-Badger; 79th. Regiment of Foot, 51st. Highland Division, (S.A.S), (Ret.) GCMG, OBE, MC, DSO, and the coveted - Red and Black Order of Faisal The Bloody Minded, turned out each night to inspect his “Dragon Dragoon Guards” before they went on duty; after which he retired to his accustomed place in the dining room, with his big brass mug, a dram or two of his currently favorite Scotch, and one of his many large leather bound books.
Because of this slight feeling of being under turned-out, Haemish had asked Zita, very politely - if sometime - when she was not at all too busy - if she could put his new name on the collars of all his jackets, the inside of his best pith helmet, and perhaps embroider a small badge of a Rhinosasauris rampant on the front, if it was not too much trouble, ‘cause it would make him very happy and much more presentable and significant.
Ms. Kavanagh said that she would be only too happy to oblige Mister Haemish-Mór, if he would only draw her a picture of this proposed badge.
Which was how his little brother left him, lying on the bed watching Much Music, with piles of drawing paper all around him trying to design a badge based on an old photo of their great-uncle and Chinese Gordon, taken during the ill-famed defense of Khartomb.
As he walked down the hall he mused that at least his big brother had a real name, all he had were suggestions. Ranald, Fergus, Colin, Jamie. So many names, and if it was as important as Dugal said, he would have to think very carefully about it; especially since when he had passed all his exams and could put Dr. at the beginning.
He hopped down off the bookshelf, onto the bed, avoiding the drawing paper, jumped down on to the floor and ran out into hall. He did up the belt on his jacket, re-seated his helmet, and descended the stairs so that he would be available the next time a car ride was in the offing.
In the living room, the dragons were asleep; one leaning against the blue chair, the other was curled up under the small table, shaded by the left speaker. The Rhinosasauris waved at them anyway, because he had been brought up to be polite. He climbed over the sofa, along the bookshelf, and on to the big sideboard where all the stereo equipment and the Colonel lived.
Dugal was looking at the new version of “The Pines of Rome” that Craig had bought the week before. He was exceedingly glad to see the Little Rhinosasauris as now that Haemish’s little brother could push the “open” button while he dropped the little disc in to the tray, and then he could settle back for a quiet snooze in the Italian country side.
“Could use a hand here.” he said to the little Rhinosasauris and between them they put things to right. After all this exercise the Colonel asked what was one of the Clan Rhinosasauri doing downstairs, as they, the TeddyBears and the Queen’s Own Pigs usually stayed upstairs; except when the refrigerator called or an adventure was in the offing.
The Rhinosasauris looked around before replying, “I want to get away from things for a while, perhaps go for a ride in the Blue car. I have had a lot to think about you see.”
Colonel Dugal did not usually pry into others private affairs, and contented himself with saying that he had heard Craiglellachie-liath was going shopping after lunch, so maybe he should sit on the dining room table where he could not fail to be noticed. The Rhinosasauris thought this was an excellent hint and he scrambled up onto the dining room table and promptly fell asleep on his hat, with the wind gently blowing along the Appian Way in the background.
Asleep he faintly heard the familiar sound of a tub of ice cream being opened, and realized it was time to awake. As he rolled over he caught his hat on his horn so that when he sat up all he could see was the inside of his hat. He was mortified and it took several seconds to get it on properly, and straighten up his jacket. When he looked around Craig was lying on the sofa with his feet in his chair reading a book, Zita was on the other side of the room looking through her newspaper. Both had empty bowls of ice-cream in their laps.
“I know that you are disappointed,” said Craig “but if you must sleep through out lunch, the ice-cream usually disappears without a spoonful being left.” He looked over towards the brown chair.
“He’s already a little chubby, even for a Rhinosasauris, if you ask Me.” said Zita, with a hint of guilt in her voice. The Rhinosasauris was still far too embarrassed about his struggle with his hat to notice the comments about his waistline.
While he had been asleep the Colonel had mentioned that “The wee lad” wanted to go for a ride, because something was on his mind. Craig and Zita had decided that when he awoke, Craig would suggest that the two of them go for a ride in the country.
“I have to go out and test the new tires, would you like to come along?” he asked.
“Why yes that would be quit nice, as long as you are sure I would be no bother.” he said. So Craig got into his blue chair and helped the Rhinosasauris off the dining room table, grabbed his wallet and his best driving gloves and moments later the two were off to explore the world, at least a few hours of it.
The Car Ride
The younger Rhinosasauris always had liked the Blue Car, although why it had a large gold bird on the hood, he could not understand. It never sounded like a bird. It usually sounded like the hubbub that usually followed the regular Bear argument as to the role of the World Bank and the WTO in the development of non-partisan exploitation of the world’s honey resources.
Since even the largest Rhinosasauri are not too big, Craig folded a blanket into a square, so that his accomplice could sit on it, look out the window and still use the seat belt. They took the roof panels off and put them in the back seat along with the chair, rummaged in the glove compartment for some driving around music - settling on Warren Zevon and then they set off into the warm summer afternoon, music blaring and exhaust rumbling.
The Rhinosasauris found Zita’s sun glasses stuck in the sun visor and put them on, did up his chin strap, adjusted the seat, and sat back to enjoy the sights.
They surprised a BMW going up the entrance ramp onto the Queensway. The Rhinosasauris thumbed his horn, said some awful things in German at it, and chortled to itself as he remembered the drubbing his old Ferrari used to hand out to all those smart-alack Mercedes’ and Auto Unions; but that was a long time ago, before he had reluctantly stored the car in the smaller stable on Mme. Deneuve’s estate in far Province. Anyway they were off to see the country and to experience new things in the wilds. Well not the very wild - the land around Ottawa was not like his parent’s home in Vale of Haut Blu, but at least he could smell the countryside and that was enough for now.
Most of his time was usually spent reading his books and practicing his writing, so he could do exceptionally well in the Doctor by Mail correspondence school, run by the Royal Rhinosasauris School of Medicine. Unfortunately the school trustees in Ottawa had never ever heard of the Rhinosasauris, and therefore didn’t believe in integrating them in the schools. This had been very disappointing for him. He had gone to school in Tanganyika, Paris, Cairo and Istanbul while traveling, but somehow the Peoples in North America couldn’t allow themselves believe in a small rhinoceros that could speak (Which is what a Rhinosasauris is - for those of you who didn’t know or had somehow forgotten), or Imperial Badgers from the SAS or Dragons or even that TeddyBears have feelings and are very musical (many being Celt, you see), or that most of the Plush Pigs in the world are Scots and speak Gaelic (though not very good Gaelic, mind you) - There was not a smidgen of imagination left.
Well, he made an exception for Craiglellachie - but no one ever suggested that he wasn’t a bit strange. The Pigs said that it was growing up in the sixties that did it. According to them his mind was filled with the most peculiar things - Maps of Trafalgar and Culloden, amplifiers with pointy feet, tubes, tanks, and Angus-Ög, just to shave the surface.
Funny pieces of electronic equipment always littered the house and needed to be guarded by the Colonel’s Dragon Dragoon Guards (Airmobile), or so they claimed.
There had also been some discrete discussion amongst all the Animeaux as to why he wasn’t able to walk so very well. The Colonel said that Craiglellachie-liath had thought about so many difficult things for so long that he forgotten how to walk and that’s why he needed the blue chair. But the Colonel and the Dragons had been with him a long time and were inclined to be just a bit romantic about some things, he had heard.
And well, as for Zita - she was too young to know any better and anyway she was of the Gael and therefore was Magic, or so said all the Pigs. And they would know.
While the Rhinosasaurises was quietly thinking about all these things, they got off the Queensway and headed towards Carleton Place. Now he knew where they were going! To Mac’s old house. Well this would be fun he thought, he wondered if Mac made any kind of blueberry milkshakes. They rumbled up in front of the old log house parked the car and went around the side into the back yard.
The big Apple-green International four-by-four was in the drive, so they knew that Mac was home. When they looked around they saw the small hill of canoes growing beside the little barn, so they wandered down and peeked in. Mac was there looking at the size of the room and the lengths of the canoes.
Craig said “Might as well stop now, they won’t shrink no matter how long you stare at them”.
Mac said, “Yes they will - I have been staring at them for two weeks and they are much shorter now - do I get introduced to your friend?”
Craig replied “Oh, I am sorry, Of course; Mister Robert Grant MacPherson, this is my friend the younger Rhinosasauris.”
All of a sudden the Rhinosasauris said “I do have a real name you know!” and proceeded to make several snorts and three grunts, while at the same time stomping the ground in time with his rear leg, giving a quick whirl of his tail he sat down.
Craig said, “Well I have never seen you do THAT before.”
The Rhinosasauris replied that he had never been formally introduced to anyone before, and then big tears started to trickle down behind the sun glasses, “But no one can ever pronounce our names, and it is not very genteel to be called the Younger Rhinosasauris all the time, especially when I do have a name and it’s not my fault that you Peoples can’t say it.” His tears rolled down his nose and hit the ground. They left little muddy spots in the dust as he walked back and forth with his hands clasped in front of him. He felt quite alone for the first time since arriving at the house on Holmwood.
Mac asked if they would like to go for a walk down to the river and over the bridge and see if they together all three of them could find an answer to this problem. (Mr. Mac had been a parole officer and was used to tricky situations you see.)
The Rhinosasauris lifted the sun glasses and wiped his eyes, looking around to see if anyone else had seen the tears. Even if they were not great in size the Rhinosasauris were all very great in dignity.
On the way down the hill he said “My brother has decided to become “Mister Haemish-Mór”, which is a Celtic name, you see. Celtic names are most always used when we are out of the Far-World. Dugal says that they are quite the most appropriate names for us; but I am having the devil’s own time finding a proper and fitting one for myself.”
Both David Craig Taylor and Robert Grant MacPherson agreed with the Colonel that Gaelic was the very best of languages for names.
Mac said that he had just finished an exciting book where the hero was a brave defender of lost causes, either the Stewart Kings or a reasonable tax policy, he could not remember which. This hero’s name was Callum McCallum.
“Callum McCallum!” The little Rhinosasauris said quite abruptly. He repeated it to himself as he walked down to the other end of the bridge. He sang it to the wind and shouted it into the rushing water. He wrote it on the ground with his toe. He sat on the railing and copied it into his pocket diary several times. After all this, he skipped back to where Craig and Mac were sitting on the edge of the bridge. He said that it sounded just wonderful - and so very much like his actual name, though neither Craig or Mac could hear the similarity. He took off his pith helmet and threw it high into the air and cheered “Hooray!”
Mac caught it just before it flew into the river, and said “I got some fresh blueberries in. How about we go back to the house and make up some milkshakes?”
As they strolled back to the house they could hear the occasional small tear falling from the Rhinosasauris Callum McCallum, but he was reciting “Scots W’hae Wi’Wallace Bled”, and “Young Lochinvar” and hopping from one foot to the other so they figured everything was really quite alright.
Chapter Eight
Winter Develops a Southern Accent
It was only a few weeks after their trip to the country, when Zita was out, Craig was working on the computer, and everyone else was upstairs in the den watching “Zulu”, when the door bell rang. Craig answered it. It was The Police. The two Dragons sprinted for the rear door, everyone else rushed to conceal their duplicate passports and bearer bonds. Except for Dugal, who being an old hand at this, had long ago hid his bags of plastic explosives, and several casks of perhaps slightly under taxed scotch.
Downstairs Craig had opened the door and while his friend Staff Sergeant Bill did his best to ignore the incriminating commotion, and asked “Where’s the coffee? Any doughnuts?”
Craig replied, “What are you doing here? Too boring just driving around turning on the siren and being a nuisance? There’s coffee in the kitchen, I think.”
“Thanks - Is it fresh? - Though I am actually here on official business.”
Craig said “Great. You wouldn’t recognize fresh coffee if it was poured in your ears. When did you get so picky? Anyway I thought I had all those parking tickets paid up.”
“Look I’ve got some sort of refugee in the car, we picked it up at the train station, hiding in the lost luggage room - won’t talk, well not to us anyway, but he had a note pinned to the inside of his hat - your address. It was written on the stationary of some lawyer in New Orleans - know anyone down there?”
In truth, Craig’s old friend Bonnie was a lawyer in New Orleans, but he had not heard from her in months. She was running afoul of the current politicians down there the last time he had been talking her. He hoped everything was alright.
“Why yes I do, which is of course irrelevant; come on Bill let’s see exactly what you have out there.”
Sergeant Bill reached back and opened the screen door a little wider, and a rather spiffily attired lion strolled in. He was tall, wearing a tightly tailored, bright red shooting jacket, and highly polished riding boots. Incongruously he had a train engineer’s stripped hat on at a jaunty angle. He looked around quite slowly, walked over and got up on the sofa. He had not yet uttered a word.
“Can I see the note?” Craig asked. Bill handed over the torn and much crumpled piece of paper. The address on the top of the page was in New Orleans, “Well it seems as if it must be Miss Bonnie who sent him.” he thought aloud.
Bill nodded and said that he would call back in a couple of days, if Craig would take responsibility for the stranger. He left with a pocket full of cookies, and a cup of coffee, both of which he promised to return.
Craig sat down on the sofa and looked at the new arrival. He cut quite a figure in the bright jacket and CNR hat, his blonde mane peeking out, all askew. He offered the stranger a cup of coffee, and received only a quick nod in response. He went to the kitchen to pour him the last cup, and to find the small tin of chocolate biscuits Zita kept in reserve for such occasions. After they had finished their snack in silence Craig suggested that the guest meet the remainder of the household, and brought the lion upstairs to the den where the other Animeaux had gathered for the nightly cinema-fest, and attempted to introduce him.
This proved a bit difficult; as “Zulu” had reached a very exciting point and it made the formalities seem a bit much, so he said “Listen, my friend Bonnie has sent this gentleman up here for a visit, so make him comfortable.”
Everyone moved over a bit on the sofa and Callum put the bowel of curried popcorn into their centre - none had said a word. Craig shook his head and went back down stairs.
When Zita got home from the fashion show, he said, “We seem to have a new house guest upstairs. A visitor from Louisiana. Don’t know his name and he won’t, or can’t talk. He had our address written on some of Bonnie’s letterhead. I’ve tried calling her but there has been no answer.
He is up watching a movie with the rest of them. Perhaps Callum or Haemish can figure out what’s going on.”
The Secret of Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon
Later, when they retired to bed they noticed that the lion was sharing the shelf with Callum and Haemish, and was fast asleep.
“Well do either of you know what is going on?” Craig asked.
Callum said “He has not uttered a word, aside from please; thank-you; and pass the cocoa. He does have a pronounced southern accent and appears to be unusually neat and tidy in his habits.”
Zita said that this was a worthwhile trait that some could copy with success. Craig and the Animeaux ignored this comment.
The TeddyBear with the Red Toque said, “I asked him where he got his spiffy engineer’s hat. He told me that he had traded it for his Fedora somewhere around Wawa - Though I don’t know where that is myself. He said that he was never going back home and wanted to look more “Native”, but nobody had any Montreal Canadien’s hockey sweaters that they would trade, but he thought the hat would do until he could join the Royal North West-Mounted Police—that’s why he bought the red jacket you see. I think he was disappointed that Staff Sergeant Bill had a car instead of a horse, but he realized that perhaps the cars were warmer in winter. It seems that your friend Bonnie told him that this would be a good place for him to stay until things cooled down in Baton Rouge.”
“Why do things have to cool off in Baton Rouge?” Haemish asked.
“I don’t know if I can be sure of what I heard, he was talking very softly, and as the rest of you were whooping it up, it was quite noisy.”
He turned to Zita and said, “One of those Pigs was trying to copy Michael Cain’s accent, without much success I must say, and everyone else was singing “We’re Soldiers of the Queen” but I think there had been a duel. Some sort of an affair of honour he said.”
Both Haemish and Callum were only too well aware of affairs of honour, being Rhinosasaurises. They pulled out one of their better plaid blankets from under the stereo, and wrapped it around the sleeping lion’s shoulders.
“It must have been very hard on him to leave his home - I wonder if she was just very beautiful or simply overwhelming? Said Callum.
Zita asked “Why must you two always assume that anything to do with honour has to refer to a woman?”
“If it is an affair of honour its always, always over a woman.” said Callum.
Haemish Harrumphed, and Callum quickly said “Well some times, but very, very rarely its over a case of fine vintage port.”, another harrumph flooded the room, “ - or a bent intake valve on ones Ferrari Cabriolet could be considered sufficient cause for a minor duel, I guess.” said Callum rather guiltily.
(As has been said the Rhinosasaurises had a finely tuned sense of honour and it appeared that either Callum or Haemish had been rather rigorous in its’ application at one time or another.)
“Why don’t all of you Animeaux try to put him at ease and find out why Bonnie sent him here.” said Craig as they settled down to watch the National News.
A few days had passed when one evening while Craig was reading the “Cheap and Excellent Automobiles for sale” section of the paper they all came sliding down the banister; each doing a back flip dismount just before the newel post brought them up short - or at least shorter than they already were.
The lion stepped forward and made a half bow, “I am pleasured to make your acquaintance. I am very grateful to you for offering me this sanctuary, while the forces of evil and despair are being taken care of by my avocat. Mizz Bonnie assured me that you were very hospitable, but she neglected to inform me that you already had several charming house guests. I am afraid that all of this has taken me quite by surprise and I must surely apologize for my perhaps taciturn behaviour of the other night.”
At this, he swept off his hat bowed towards Craig and Dugal and then turned, walked over bowed and kissed Zita’s hand.
“Beauregard Clayton-Lyon at your service. If I may be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call on me or mine - though unfortunately at the moment I am rather at a disadvantage since my dear mother’s half of my family is rather put out with me. But my other side - the Savannah Claytons - have assured me of their full and undying support until this, this, ‘disorder’ is all over, or until my blackguard cousin Montague chokes on his own bile and expires to the relief of most of three parishes.”
All the rest of the Animeaux applauded and went looking for chairs so they could get into the freezer.
As they trooped into the kitchen Craig asked, “Might I be as bold as to ask what small matter of honour has brought you all the way up here?”
Beauregard replied “Well it is quite delicate matter. The reputation of a married woman is at stake.”
Craig said he was really quite familiar with the reputations of married women, and that he was unlikely to be shaken by any revelations Mister Beauregard might make.
Beauregard looked around the room before replying “I shan’t go into needless detail, but suffice it to say that Miss Therese is from an old Cajun family and has a rather casual attitude to bathing costumes. But regardless of how it looked, Cousin Montague had no cause to make the accusations he did. ‘Specially as he couldn’t fence his way through a cotton field, and anyway he won’t really need his right arm as he is mostly left handed—the other wounds will probably heal in a year or two - if he is lucky and does not go to his quack brother for treatment - I would have more faith in Mister Callum, and he has only finished the first year of his correspondence school. Now it seems that the judicial authorities take a dim view of dueling nowadays. That’s what Mizz Bonnie D’Avocat suggested before she told me that a fair trial was unlikely and I should make myself scarce for a while.
I also heard that Miss Therese’s 12 older brothers have finally seen through my cousin’s cruel charade, and intend to give him a thorough thrashing or a lynching - depending on the weather that day. Mizz Bonnie thought that I should be out of the country while all this settles itself out.”
Craig said all things considered that perhaps this was the most sensible suggestion and that Beauregard was welcome to stay for as long as he wanted.
By this time all the others had stood shoulder on shoulder until they got the freezer door open and rummaged around until they found the ice cream, where Zita had hidden it, and were looking for the chunky peanut butter - to make their world famous peach-ripple ice-cream and peanut butter on rye sandwiches. Beauregard hearing the commotion excused himself, as he wanted to write down the recipe - at home he was noted as something of a chef, he said as he rushed into the kitchen.
Summer Wishes - Winter Cars
A few moments later Haemish walked into the living room, sat down, spreading a napkin in his lap, and said, “We really must do something about planning for winter. We don’t want to be caught unprepared. Just look what happened to Dugal’s friends in the Khyber Pass back in the 80s. All lost for the want of a little planning. We mustn’t be caught unprepared. The winds are blowing from the north, and the far wound in my leg has been troubling me at night. I am sure that we shall have snow before the turning of the moon.”
The fact that it was nearly October made this forecast just a bit redundant, but Craig held his tongue and asked what spiffy ideas the Animeaux had been hatching to resolve the predicament of a long, boring winter.
“Sure we are working at it.” came the ominous reply. Craig shuddered.
It was but a few weeks later when the Animeaux began their schemes for overcoming the onset of onerous winter. The newly proclaimed Callum McCallum announced that he wanted to perfect his downhill style. Dugal saw winter as a fine excuse for his preference of sitting in front of the fire with a good book, a brass mug and his private brand of scotch, listening to the wind howl. All the TeddyBears said that they fully intended to take up cross country skiing this year. The Dragons hated winter because their wings always iced up. Craig was on their side; he disliked winter and felt it should be fought on all fronts, and at all costs. He also felt that in spite of their protestations the TeddyBears were far more interested in the fashion side of the sport as they seemed to spend many more hours thumbing through “Vogue” and “Elle” than “Sports Illustrated”.
Haemish-Mór seemed to discover his renewed interest in downhill skiing about the same time he discovered that his Miss Tanya had moved to Ottawa, and fully intended to continue to spend her winter hours getting quite cold - but looking great - on skis. Zita was not impressed. She also thought all of this was just an excuse for everyone of them to put in an order for new and trendy winter clothes.
The thought of winter brought on a lengthy discussion about the Blue Car. After overhearing the recreational plans, it had stated, that it was not a station wagon, and had no intention of spending its winter traipsing about, carrying one and all from one cold, snowy place to another. It didn’t much like the snow and anyway Craig had promised it a winter vacation.
It’s attitude was not in the least surprising, as its big engine and the snow seemed always to be at odds, and to be entirely truthful the Car was rather out of its element and became duly embarrassed when it would spin its tires unintentionally, or slide around corners. It would always make the corners but with a certain lack of style and precision that aggravated it and terrified on-lookers.
The TeddyBears had also quietly pointed out that there was not a great deal of extra room in the Blue Car especially since the trunk could not hold any of their skis. The emerging view was that it should get to spend the winter in well earned repose, and they should get a different automobile for the winter toils. The Animeaux offered a combined three dollars and thirty seven cents, apiece to help pay for this, which was, all things considered, generous of them.
So Craig and Zita continued to look for cars, big ones and medium ones, tiny and little one were excluded since they would be unable to take all the skis, down jackets, and Spandex pants that the entire household seemed to be requiring before approaching the slopes.
(In spite of these efforts no suitable vehicle appeared. By now it had turned into November and the Blue Car was seeing its vacation float away with the fall leaves.)
BT-McG makes His Appearance
It was three days before the end of the month, while Craig was unsuccessfully trying to light a log fire, that he felt a presence behind him. He glanced to the side and noticed that most all the Animeaux were standing around him in a large semicircle. Haemish handed him some dry kindling, and Callum suggested a quick dash of kerosene then said, “We had a meeting, and all think that you need our help finding a winter omnibus. We have come down to have dessert with you, and brought along some suggestions. Monsieur Beauregard owned several cars before his present ‘difficulties’ and he said that if he could borrow your tools we could check out the condition of any potential bargains ourselves.”
Haemish said, “We have received a very kind offer of assistance from Big TeddyBear McGruph. His second uncle used to sell cars “up t’valley”. Though which valley I am not too sure. He says we should buy a ‘Mar’can car, since they are in plentiful supply, and can be maintained with a number two screw driver and strong tape. Now actually he seems to favour cars manufactured by some military gentleman with the rather odd family name of Motors - Though I must say I have never seen him on the retired list. - He said his second cousin, on his mother’s side, has a niece who has a friend who has an elderly Nova that is looking for a new home. Now I a not at all familiar with Mister McGruph’s family, though the TeddyBears seem to trust him without question, and he has been a big help getting Monsieur Beauregard settled.”
Craig looked up from his attempt to re-ignite the logs, and said “Big TeddyBear McGruph, I don’t remember any Big TeddyBear McGruph staying here?”
Haemish called out “BT-McG - would you have the time to come over here for a moment.”
From amidst the mass of Animeaux stepped a medium to large, very furry, dark-chocolate brown TeddyBear, wearing a beige pith helmet with a red hat band and a regimental badge affixed to it’s front. The helmet was nearly identical to those always worn by Haemish and Callum McCallum. His black eyes were deep set, almost invisible behind the ruff of opulent fur. There was a bright red silk sash running from his shoulder to his hip. A small Canadian flag was pinned to it.
He stopped in front of Craig and extended his paw; after wiping all traces of ice cream from it. There was a rough leather patch on the inside of his fore-arm.
“G’day, pleased to meet ch’er. Nice day eh”
“Well I suppose so.” said Craig, “And I am pleased to meet you, though you do seem to have the advantage of me. I understand that we have been neighbours for a while and I apparently did not notice it.”
“No hard feelin’s.” said BT-McG, “T’be honest, should have introduced my self weeks ago, but y’know how one t’ing leads t’nother.... and getting TeddyBears ship shape and Bristol fashion was tak’ng all of my attentions.”
“I didn’t realize that some thing was wrong with the TeddyBears. I thought that Dugal had straightened everything out with them and the Pigs?” said Craig with some surprise and concern in his voice.
“Nut’en to worry yerr-own-self ‘bout. They was just a bit home sick. D’Colonel phoned the War Office looking for someone wit’ some ‘perience wit’ TBears, ‘pecially Irish ones. Well t’ought of me right away. I served along side many Irish troopers when I was Regimental Sergeant Major of our own Princess Pats. I spent many pleasant hours hiding out in cellars wit’ them in d’Peace Maken Forces in Bosnia. Now unhappily I’am bit at loose ends, livin’ wit’ the family ‘up the Prior’ since my arm was mashed-in some, far over there, and I had to retire. I jumped at a chance to do somet’en interestin’. Had a meet’ng here one night ‘while back, but you and the wife were ‘way for the week-end. ‘Guess it slipped our minds. They suggested I sign up as tutor t’the TeddyBears - the little one with green feet, other with the Red Tuque and d’BigWhite one who don’t talk much. Really don’t need a tutor ya’ know, just kind of suitable companion, but t’ings are working out just fine - eh?.
Now ‘bout the winter car I was speaken’ to Mr Haemish of. It’s a nice blue Nova. Now, to be sure it’s not the newest and it does have some bits painted primer, but beauty is only skin deep eh, and there’s plenty of room for all the skis, lunches and us in the back seat. I t’ink we can get it for only $950 - Let’s all off and pay a visit?”
(It had been far too much in one day for Craig, so he did not even bother to argue, so got his cheque book and jacket. He then called Zita.)
They all piled in the Blue Car, and drove up highway 7, which passed through the Ottawa Valley, until they reached the small town where BT-McG’s somewhat friend’s car was parked.
They all got out and had a long look. It had passed with some grace into middle age, and showed the evidence of attention to the normal rigors of car life in a cold climate. The rust spots had been filled and sprayed, here and there, with the white primer over the original blue paint. The interior was quite clean, though the tires were not of the first quality. It tried hard to look as dignified as it could.
Craig talked to the owner - while the Blue Car visited with the Nova.
In a few minutes they had agreed to a price of $800, but before he wrote the cheque he returned to the Blue car to find out what it had learned. He sat in the driver’s seat, turned on the radio and just listened...
“It has lived 60,000 rather hard miles, and is more then a little tired. Its battery and alternator should be retired, and it feels a little unsteady on its feet as its front springs are careworn, and its tires are, well shall we say, they are not what they could be, but it would be happy to spend its last few years being useful. You know how much we all hate having to become useless. All the guys and I think it would try its very best.”
Craig said “Well what more could anyone want from anything but for it to try its best.” and turned off the radio. Moments later he signed the cheque.
The Nova started up and Zita drove it back to town, accompanied by Haemish and Callum and all the Queen’s Own. Beauregard and BT-McG stayed with Craig in the Blue Car. On the ride home they all talked about things that were important to them. The spread of parliamentary democracy, the new fur fashions from Germany, the scandalous price of good wines and nice houses, and the present state of the North American car industry.
(Both of them had been deeply concerned that Craig might have bought a foreign car, putting many of their friends in GM out of work, and perhaps adversely affecting their own stock portfolios. As the city approached they hummed and harrumphed for a while, commented on the state of the road and the Colour of the evening sky; then taking their courage in their hands they quietly admitted to having cut out of the newspaper all the advertisements for Honda, Peugeot and Aston-Martin, so he would not be tempted. The Blue Car was completely in agreement and launched into a rather convoluted—and not particular accurate lecture on the world auto trade. By the time the city’s traffic began to intrude they all thought themselves quite clever and very patriotic. Naturally they were also very satisfied with themselves — which was the normal state for all Animeaux.)
When they got home they left the Nova at the service station where they changed all the worn parts. The next day they all went to Commercial Tire where they bought four new snow tires.
When this had been accomplished they drove over Craig’s Mother’s place. She had kindly offered her garage to the Blue Car for the winter. After it had been parked, Zita covered it with a soft knit cover, and then they all wished it a good vacation. BT-McG left the last two years of Road&Track on the dash, for it to digest; then whole gang got into the Nova and drove off home.
By the time they had reached Percy Street the Nova was convinced that it was now quite nimble and sure of foot on its new tires. It was also was very glad to be with People who bought Brand Name parts. It felt all prepared to do its very best battling the onslaught of winter for the household on Holmwood.
As they turned into the driveway they were met by the usual scruffy assortment of TeddyBears, skis on their shoulders, step-in boots slung around their necks, and their collection of ski-hill maps spread out on the ground. Two were arguing over the whereabouts of the mis-packed Roleiflex and the extra thermos of chili chutney.
The Seeds of Change
All in all, life in the house was unfolding with a degree of civility that had been missing for many years, and all who lived there were really quite content. Dugal ingratiated himself in the neighbourhood by wondering around on spring mornings, passing on his mother’s gardening tips on raising roses, tulips and politicians with the neighbours.
Naturally entropy insisted that this could not last.
On one auspicious day, Miss Zita arrived - this time to stay. She had been a visitor to the house for quite a long time, but as to actually residing there; well as you can imagine it rather perturbed the Pigs, who at first behaved themselves even when no one was looking. The Dragon Dragoons became rather withdrawn and the Colonel waited, and began a new book on JEB Stewart.
One of the very first things Zita did on arriving was to find room for all her TeddyBear companions along the far wall of the front bedroom. Unfortunately, within hours of their embarkation they began sticking out their tongues and making rude hand gestures at the Queen’s Own Pigs - who lived on, and in the bookshelf on the other side of the bed.
As you may well imagine the TeddyBears were very nervous about being dislocated. They were quite as confused at moving into Craig’s house - as the others were at their arrival. This accounted for their rather shabby behaviour, and the resulting escalation.
When the TeddyBears would stick out their tongues, the Pigs would write rude quotations in Gaelic on paper aeroplanes - and hurl them across the room. As time passed it just got worse.
The Queen’s Own became especially fond of mocking a small TeddyBear with green checked feet. This TeddyBear was a recent addition, having only recently emigrated with Zita from the County Meath, and was, as a result feeling quite fragile, and more than a bit shy. Most of the Pigs found his checkered green feet and matching bow tie, quite provincial, and very comical. They laughed at him a lot, which understandably embarrassed, and hurt his feelings. This caused him to hide all day long under the window shade at the head of the bed.
As could be expected, this made all the other TeddyBears furious, and as a result the whole bedroom was very unsettled.
One day while all of this was going on; tongues sticking out and obscure Gaelic curses floating through the room, both the Colonel, who naturally had the Gaelic, and Zita entered the room. They were shocked! Dugal ordered the Pigs to attention, and Zita had the TeddyBears turned around facing the wall.
Zita said “Thank goodness that they could not understand what the Pigs were saying or it would have turned into a series of ill judged donnybrooks just like that.”
The Colonel was astonished. He asked “Achhh nu, you’ll be excusing me your ladyship, but would it be that you have the Gaelic?”
She replied “Of course. I’m from Ireland can’t you tell? See the shamrock stains behind my ear.”
The Colonel was pleased; as were all of the Queen’s Own Pigs. They had someone to talk to in their own language. Not even Craiglellachie could speak Gaelic - though some said it was better then his French.
He asked “And what should we be calling yourself, your ladyship?”
“Why back home in Dublin I am called Zita NíChaomhaigh.” she said with a degree of contentment, - you see she did not have the opportunity to speak Irish very often either. All of them - the Queen’s Own Pigs, the TeddyBears and the Colonel thought it to be a very good name, and more importantly, very proper indeed.
Colonel Blackthorn-Badger went downstairs leaving her to sort out the Pigs and TeddyBears. He informed the Dragoons that everything was back to normal, well as normal as it ever got in this house, he supposed. Before he retired for the evening he announced they should mind, the appearance of a bonny wee lass was not going to turn his head. He was never going to drink Irish Whisky; as long as some of the Real Stuff was available! He wondered off to read about Stonewall Jackson. The Dragons went back to sleep, content. Actually they both preferred Billy Bishop’s biography anyway.
Chapter Seven
New Names, Some New Companions, and An Old Car
It was sunny out, and the young Rhinosasauris desperately wanted to get away from the confines of the house; away from his brother, away from his studies - away from it all.
All in all it had been a very hard couple of months, what with his first year’s final exams from the correspondence school arriving on Tuesday, and then the very next day his brother announcing that they really should have new names; names everyone could pronounce. It all had been very hard on him. Up till now his life had been almost sedate.
Well, sedate for a Rhinosasauris anyway. He had to admit that his brother’s rescue from the terrorist bookstore, had certainly stirred up all the companions who lived with him in the house on Holmwood.
Now he really needed to get out in the fresh air for a while. That was why he wanted to ask Craig if they could go for a ride. Maybe they could use the Blue Car, take the roof off and drive fast playing loud music. That would take his mind off his exams and the long list of names that his brother kept leaving on top of the stereo receiver where they slept. He needed to get away for a while, and maybe even have fresh blueberry milkshakes.
To tell the truth he had been thinking about the new names for some while. He knew that no one could pronounce a Rhinosasauris name. They were mostly grumbles, a precise foot stomping and a rather delicate twist of their tails, so he knew that he would have to find a new name sooner or later, though just at this moment later seemed quite the attractive alternative.”
Like all Rhinosasaurises who dealt with Peoples, his brother had taken a Gaelic Nom de Peoples. This ancient lyric language seemed to almost roll off their tongues, and with a rather nice vanilla flavour. Also it could not be ignored, that his brother’s old crony; Colonel Dugal, had said that the ancient Celtic language was Magic, and that the name of everything was very important and very powerful, but he could not seem to find a name that sounded much like himself.
His brother had, after much soul searching settled on the euphonic Haemish-Mór. He now wanted it embroidered over his jacket pocket.
The Colonel wore his Brigade of Guards badge sewn his sporran - and looked very official and consequential.
Haemish, having recently retired - with a pension - from the Mossad, sorely regretted not been able to wear his campaign medals or his smartly tailored paratroop uniform, but that was the promise he had made when he left that service, and a promise is a promise, especially to the Mossad, and especially from a Rhinosasauris.
Still, he considerably envied Dugal’s Imperial look.
Actually Queen Victoria herself would have been envious to see the way Colonel, The Honourable Dugal Blackthorn-Badger; 79th. Regiment of Foot, 51st. Highland Division, (S.A.S), (Ret.) GCMG, OBE, MC, DSO, and the coveted - Red and Black Order of Faisal The Bloody Minded, turned out each night to inspect his “Dragon Dragoon Guards” before they went on duty; after which he retired to his accustomed place in the dining room, with his big brass mug, a dram or two of his currently favorite Scotch, and one of his many large leather bound books.
Because of this slight feeling of being under turned-out, Haemish had asked Zita, very politely - if sometime - when she was not at all too busy - if she could put his new name on the collars of all his jackets, the inside of his best pith helmet, and perhaps embroider a small badge of a Rhinosasauris rampant on the front, if it was not too much trouble, ‘cause it would make him very happy and much more presentable and significant.
Ms. Kavanagh said that she would be only too happy to oblige Mister Haemish-Mór, if he would only draw her a picture of this proposed badge.
Which was how his little brother left him, lying on the bed watching Much Music, with piles of drawing paper all around him trying to design a badge based on an old photo of their great-uncle and Chinese Gordon, taken during the ill-famed defense of Khartomb.
As he walked down the hall he mused that at least his big brother had a real name, all he had were suggestions. Ranald, Fergus, Colin, Jamie. So many names, and if it was as important as Dugal said, he would have to think very carefully about it; especially since when he had passed all his exams and could put Dr. at the beginning.
He hopped down off the bookshelf, onto the bed, avoiding the drawing paper, jumped down on to the floor and ran out into hall. He did up the belt on his jacket, re-seated his helmet, and descended the stairs so that he would be available the next time a car ride was in the offing.
In the living room, the dragons were asleep; one leaning against the blue chair, the other was curled up under the small table, shaded by the left speaker. The Rhinosasauris waved at them anyway, because he had been brought up to be polite. He climbed over the sofa, along the bookshelf, and on to the big sideboard where all the stereo equipment and the Colonel lived.
Dugal was looking at the new version of “The Pines of Rome” that Craig had bought the week before. He was exceedingly glad to see the Little Rhinosasauris as now that Haemish’s little brother could push the “open” button while he dropped the little disc in to the tray, and then he could settle back for a quiet snooze in the Italian country side.
“Could use a hand here.” he said to the little Rhinosasauris and between them they put things to right. After all this exercise the Colonel asked what was one of the Clan Rhinosasauri doing downstairs, as they, the TeddyBears and the Queen’s Own Pigs usually stayed upstairs; except when the refrigerator called or an adventure was in the offing.
The Rhinosasauris looked around before replying, “I want to get away from things for a while, perhaps go for a ride in the Blue car. I have had a lot to think about you see.”
Colonel Dugal did not usually pry into others private affairs, and contented himself with saying that he had heard Craiglellachie-liath was going shopping after lunch, so maybe he should sit on the dining room table where he could not fail to be noticed. The Rhinosasauris thought this was an excellent hint and he scrambled up onto the dining room table and promptly fell asleep on his hat, with the wind gently blowing along the Appian Way in the background.
Asleep he faintly heard the familiar sound of a tub of ice cream being opened, and realized it was time to awake. As he rolled over he caught his hat on his horn so that when he sat up all he could see was the inside of his hat. He was mortified and it took several seconds to get it on properly, and straighten up his jacket. When he looked around Craig was lying on the sofa with his feet in his chair reading a book, Zita was on the other side of the room looking through her newspaper. Both had empty bowls of ice-cream in their laps.
“I know that you are disappointed,” said Craig “but if you must sleep through out lunch, the ice-cream usually disappears without a spoonful being left.” He looked over towards the brown chair.
“He’s already a little chubby, even for a Rhinosasauris, if you ask Me.” said Zita, with a hint of guilt in her voice. The Rhinosasauris was still far too embarrassed about his struggle with his hat to notice the comments about his waistline.
While he had been asleep the Colonel had mentioned that “The wee lad” wanted to go for a ride, because something was on his mind. Craig and Zita had decided that when he awoke, Craig would suggest that the two of them go for a ride in the country.
“I have to go out and test the new tires, would you like to come along?” he asked.
“Why yes that would be quit nice, as long as you are sure I would be no bother.” he said. So Craig got into his blue chair and helped the Rhinosasauris off the dining room table, grabbed his wallet and his best driving gloves and moments later the two were off to explore the world, at least a few hours of it.
The Car Ride
The younger Rhinosasauris always had liked the Blue Car, although why it had a large gold bird on the hood, he could not understand. It never sounded like a bird. It usually sounded like the hubbub that usually followed the regular Bear argument as to the role of the World Bank and the WTO in the development of non-partisan exploitation of the world’s honey resources.
Since even the largest Rhinosasauri are not too big, Craig folded a blanket into a square, so that his accomplice could sit on it, look out the window and still use the seat belt. They took the roof panels off and put them in the back seat along with the chair, rummaged in the glove compartment for some driving around music - settling on Warren Zevon and then they set off into the warm summer afternoon, music blaring and exhaust rumbling.
The Rhinosasauris found Zita’s sun glasses stuck in the sun visor and put them on, did up his chin strap, adjusted the seat, and sat back to enjoy the sights.
They surprised a BMW going up the entrance ramp onto the Queensway. The Rhinosasauris thumbed his horn, said some awful things in German at it, and chortled to itself as he remembered the drubbing his old Ferrari used to hand out to all those smart-alack Mercedes’ and Auto Unions; but that was a long time ago, before he had reluctantly stored the car in the smaller stable on Mme. Deneuve’s estate in far Province. Anyway they were off to see the country and to experience new things in the wilds. Well not the very wild - the land around Ottawa was not like his parent’s home in Vale of Haut Blu, but at least he could smell the countryside and that was enough for now.
Most of his time was usually spent reading his books and practicing his writing, so he could do exceptionally well in the Doctor by Mail correspondence school, run by the Royal Rhinosasauris School of Medicine. Unfortunately the school trustees in Ottawa had never ever heard of the Rhinosasauris, and therefore didn’t believe in integrating them in the schools. This had been very disappointing for him. He had gone to school in Tanganyika, Paris, Cairo and Istanbul while traveling, but somehow the Peoples in North America couldn’t allow themselves believe in a small rhinoceros that could speak (Which is what a Rhinosasauris is - for those of you who didn’t know or had somehow forgotten), or Imperial Badgers from the SAS or Dragons or even that TeddyBears have feelings and are very musical (many being Celt, you see), or that most of the Plush Pigs in the world are Scots and speak Gaelic (though not very good Gaelic, mind you) - There was not a smidgen of imagination left.
Well, he made an exception for Craiglellachie - but no one ever suggested that he wasn’t a bit strange. The Pigs said that it was growing up in the sixties that did it. According to them his mind was filled with the most peculiar things - Maps of Trafalgar and Culloden, amplifiers with pointy feet, tubes, tanks, and Angus-Ög, just to shave the surface.
Funny pieces of electronic equipment always littered the house and needed to be guarded by the Colonel’s Dragon Dragoon Guards (Airmobile), or so they claimed.
There had also been some discrete discussion amongst all the Animeaux as to why he wasn’t able to walk so very well. The Colonel said that Craiglellachie-liath had thought about so many difficult things for so long that he forgotten how to walk and that’s why he needed the blue chair. But the Colonel and the Dragons had been with him a long time and were inclined to be just a bit romantic about some things, he had heard.
And well, as for Zita - she was too young to know any better and anyway she was of the Gael and therefore was Magic, or so said all the Pigs. And they would know.
While the Rhinosasaurises was quietly thinking about all these things, they got off the Queensway and headed towards Carleton Place. Now he knew where they were going! To Mac’s old house. Well this would be fun he thought, he wondered if Mac made any kind of blueberry milkshakes. They rumbled up in front of the old log house parked the car and went around the side into the back yard.
The big Apple-green International four-by-four was in the drive, so they knew that Mac was home. When they looked around they saw the small hill of canoes growing beside the little barn, so they wandered down and peeked in. Mac was there looking at the size of the room and the lengths of the canoes.
Craig said “Might as well stop now, they won’t shrink no matter how long you stare at them”.
Mac said, “Yes they will - I have been staring at them for two weeks and they are much shorter now - do I get introduced to your friend?”
Craig replied “Oh, I am sorry, Of course; Mister Robert Grant MacPherson, this is my friend the younger Rhinosasauris.”
All of a sudden the Rhinosasauris said “I do have a real name you know!” and proceeded to make several snorts and three grunts, while at the same time stomping the ground in time with his rear leg, giving a quick whirl of his tail he sat down.
Craig said, “Well I have never seen you do THAT before.”
The Rhinosasauris replied that he had never been formally introduced to anyone before, and then big tears started to trickle down behind the sun glasses, “But no one can ever pronounce our names, and it is not very genteel to be called the Younger Rhinosasauris all the time, especially when I do have a name and it’s not my fault that you Peoples can’t say it.” His tears rolled down his nose and hit the ground. They left little muddy spots in the dust as he walked back and forth with his hands clasped in front of him. He felt quite alone for the first time since arriving at the house on Holmwood.
Mac asked if they would like to go for a walk down to the river and over the bridge and see if they together all three of them could find an answer to this problem. (Mr. Mac had been a parole officer and was used to tricky situations you see.)
The Rhinosasauris lifted the sun glasses and wiped his eyes, looking around to see if anyone else had seen the tears. Even if they were not great in size the Rhinosasauris were all very great in dignity.
On the way down the hill he said “My brother has decided to become “Mister Haemish-Mór”, which is a Celtic name, you see. Celtic names are most always used when we are out of the Far-World. Dugal says that they are quite the most appropriate names for us; but I am having the devil’s own time finding a proper and fitting one for myself.”
Both David Craig Taylor and Robert Grant MacPherson agreed with the Colonel that Gaelic was the very best of languages for names.
Mac said that he had just finished an exciting book where the hero was a brave defender of lost causes, either the Stewart Kings or a reasonable tax policy, he could not remember which. This hero’s name was Callum McCallum.
“Callum McCallum!” The little Rhinosasauris said quite abruptly. He repeated it to himself as he walked down to the other end of the bridge. He sang it to the wind and shouted it into the rushing water. He wrote it on the ground with his toe. He sat on the railing and copied it into his pocket diary several times. After all this, he skipped back to where Craig and Mac were sitting on the edge of the bridge. He said that it sounded just wonderful - and so very much like his actual name, though neither Craig or Mac could hear the similarity. He took off his pith helmet and threw it high into the air and cheered “Hooray!”
Mac caught it just before it flew into the river, and said “I got some fresh blueberries in. How about we go back to the house and make up some milkshakes?”
As they strolled back to the house they could hear the occasional small tear falling from the Rhinosasauris Callum McCallum, but he was reciting “Scots W’hae Wi’Wallace Bled”, and “Young Lochinvar” and hopping from one foot to the other so they figured everything was really quite alright.
Chapter Eight
Winter Develops a Southern Accent
It was only a few weeks after their trip to the country, when Zita was out, Craig was working on the computer, and everyone else was upstairs in the den watching “Zulu”, when the door bell rang. Craig answered it. It was The Police. The two Dragons sprinted for the rear door, everyone else rushed to conceal their duplicate passports and bearer bonds. Except for Dugal, who being an old hand at this, had long ago hid his bags of plastic explosives, and several casks of perhaps slightly under taxed scotch.
Downstairs Craig had opened the door and while his friend Staff Sergeant Bill did his best to ignore the incriminating commotion, and asked “Where’s the coffee? Any doughnuts?”
Craig replied, “What are you doing here? Too boring just driving around turning on the siren and being a nuisance? There’s coffee in the kitchen, I think.”
“Thanks - Is it fresh? - Though I am actually here on official business.”
Craig said “Great. You wouldn’t recognize fresh coffee if it was poured in your ears. When did you get so picky? Anyway I thought I had all those parking tickets paid up.”
“Look I’ve got some sort of refugee in the car, we picked it up at the train station, hiding in the lost luggage room - won’t talk, well not to us anyway, but he had a note pinned to the inside of his hat - your address. It was written on the stationary of some lawyer in New Orleans - know anyone down there?”
In truth, Craig’s old friend Bonnie was a lawyer in New Orleans, but he had not heard from her in months. She was running afoul of the current politicians down there the last time he had been talking her. He hoped everything was alright.
“Why yes I do, which is of course irrelevant; come on Bill let’s see exactly what you have out there.”
Sergeant Bill reached back and opened the screen door a little wider, and a rather spiffily attired lion strolled in. He was tall, wearing a tightly tailored, bright red shooting jacket, and highly polished riding boots. Incongruously he had a train engineer’s stripped hat on at a jaunty angle. He looked around quite slowly, walked over and got up on the sofa. He had not yet uttered a word.
“Can I see the note?” Craig asked. Bill handed over the torn and much crumpled piece of paper. The address on the top of the page was in New Orleans, “Well it seems as if it must be Miss Bonnie who sent him.” he thought aloud.
Bill nodded and said that he would call back in a couple of days, if Craig would take responsibility for the stranger. He left with a pocket full of cookies, and a cup of coffee, both of which he promised to return.
Craig sat down on the sofa and looked at the new arrival. He cut quite a figure in the bright jacket and CNR hat, his blonde mane peeking out, all askew. He offered the stranger a cup of coffee, and received only a quick nod in response. He went to the kitchen to pour him the last cup, and to find the small tin of chocolate biscuits Zita kept in reserve for such occasions. After they had finished their snack in silence Craig suggested that the guest meet the remainder of the household, and brought the lion upstairs to the den where the other Animeaux had gathered for the nightly cinema-fest, and attempted to introduce him.
This proved a bit difficult; as “Zulu” had reached a very exciting point and it made the formalities seem a bit much, so he said “Listen, my friend Bonnie has sent this gentleman up here for a visit, so make him comfortable.”
Everyone moved over a bit on the sofa and Callum put the bowel of curried popcorn into their centre - none had said a word. Craig shook his head and went back down stairs.
When Zita got home from the fashion show, he said, “We seem to have a new house guest upstairs. A visitor from Louisiana. Don’t know his name and he won’t, or can’t talk. He had our address written on some of Bonnie’s letterhead. I’ve tried calling her but there has been no answer.
He is up watching a movie with the rest of them. Perhaps Callum or Haemish can figure out what’s going on.”
The Secret of Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon
Later, when they retired to bed they noticed that the lion was sharing the shelf with Callum and Haemish, and was fast asleep.
“Well do either of you know what is going on?” Craig asked.
Callum said “He has not uttered a word, aside from please; thank-you; and pass the cocoa. He does have a pronounced southern accent and appears to be unusually neat and tidy in his habits.”
Zita said that this was a worthwhile trait that some could copy with success. Craig and the Animeaux ignored this comment.
The TeddyBear with the Red Toque said, “I asked him where he got his spiffy engineer’s hat. He told me that he had traded it for his Fedora somewhere around Wawa - Though I don’t know where that is myself. He said that he was never going back home and wanted to look more “Native”, but nobody had any Montreal Canadien’s hockey sweaters that they would trade, but he thought the hat would do until he could join the Royal North West-Mounted Police—that’s why he bought the red jacket you see. I think he was disappointed that Staff Sergeant Bill had a car instead of a horse, but he realized that perhaps the cars were warmer in winter. It seems that your friend Bonnie told him that this would be a good place for him to stay until things cooled down in Baton Rouge.”
“Why do things have to cool off in Baton Rouge?” Haemish asked.
“I don’t know if I can be sure of what I heard, he was talking very softly, and as the rest of you were whooping it up, it was quite noisy.”
He turned to Zita and said, “One of those Pigs was trying to copy Michael Cain’s accent, without much success I must say, and everyone else was singing “We’re Soldiers of the Queen” but I think there had been a duel. Some sort of an affair of honour he said.”
Both Haemish and Callum were only too well aware of affairs of honour, being Rhinosasaurises. They pulled out one of their better plaid blankets from under the stereo, and wrapped it around the sleeping lion’s shoulders.
“It must have been very hard on him to leave his home - I wonder if she was just very beautiful or simply overwhelming? Said Callum.
Zita asked “Why must you two always assume that anything to do with honour has to refer to a woman?”
“If it is an affair of honour its always, always over a woman.” said Callum.
Haemish Harrumphed, and Callum quickly said “Well some times, but very, very rarely its over a case of fine vintage port.”, another harrumph flooded the room, “ - or a bent intake valve on ones Ferrari Cabriolet could be considered sufficient cause for a minor duel, I guess.” said Callum rather guiltily.
(As has been said the Rhinosasaurises had a finely tuned sense of honour and it appeared that either Callum or Haemish had been rather rigorous in its’ application at one time or another.)
“Why don’t all of you Animeaux try to put him at ease and find out why Bonnie sent him here.” said Craig as they settled down to watch the National News.
A few days had passed when one evening while Craig was reading the “Cheap and Excellent Automobiles for sale” section of the paper they all came sliding down the banister; each doing a back flip dismount just before the newel post brought them up short - or at least shorter than they already were.
The lion stepped forward and made a half bow, “I am pleasured to make your acquaintance. I am very grateful to you for offering me this sanctuary, while the forces of evil and despair are being taken care of by my avocat. Mizz Bonnie assured me that you were very hospitable, but she neglected to inform me that you already had several charming house guests. I am afraid that all of this has taken me quite by surprise and I must surely apologize for my perhaps taciturn behaviour of the other night.”
At this, he swept off his hat bowed towards Craig and Dugal and then turned, walked over bowed and kissed Zita’s hand.
“Beauregard Clayton-Lyon at your service. If I may be of any assistance, please do not hesitate to call on me or mine - though unfortunately at the moment I am rather at a disadvantage since my dear mother’s half of my family is rather put out with me. But my other side - the Savannah Claytons - have assured me of their full and undying support until this, this, ‘disorder’ is all over, or until my blackguard cousin Montague chokes on his own bile and expires to the relief of most of three parishes.”
All the rest of the Animeaux applauded and went looking for chairs so they could get into the freezer.
As they trooped into the kitchen Craig asked, “Might I be as bold as to ask what small matter of honour has brought you all the way up here?”
Beauregard replied “Well it is quite delicate matter. The reputation of a married woman is at stake.”
Craig said he was really quite familiar with the reputations of married women, and that he was unlikely to be shaken by any revelations Mister Beauregard might make.
Beauregard looked around the room before replying “I shan’t go into needless detail, but suffice it to say that Miss Therese is from an old Cajun family and has a rather casual attitude to bathing costumes. But regardless of how it looked, Cousin Montague had no cause to make the accusations he did. ‘Specially as he couldn’t fence his way through a cotton field, and anyway he won’t really need his right arm as he is mostly left handed—the other wounds will probably heal in a year or two - if he is lucky and does not go to his quack brother for treatment - I would have more faith in Mister Callum, and he has only finished the first year of his correspondence school. Now it seems that the judicial authorities take a dim view of dueling nowadays. That’s what Mizz Bonnie D’Avocat suggested before she told me that a fair trial was unlikely and I should make myself scarce for a while.
I also heard that Miss Therese’s 12 older brothers have finally seen through my cousin’s cruel charade, and intend to give him a thorough thrashing or a lynching - depending on the weather that day. Mizz Bonnie thought that I should be out of the country while all this settles itself out.”
Craig said all things considered that perhaps this was the most sensible suggestion and that Beauregard was welcome to stay for as long as he wanted.
By this time all the others had stood shoulder on shoulder until they got the freezer door open and rummaged around until they found the ice cream, where Zita had hidden it, and were looking for the chunky peanut butter - to make their world famous peach-ripple ice-cream and peanut butter on rye sandwiches. Beauregard hearing the commotion excused himself, as he wanted to write down the recipe - at home he was noted as something of a chef, he said as he rushed into the kitchen.
Summer Wishes - Winter Cars
A few moments later Haemish walked into the living room, sat down, spreading a napkin in his lap, and said, “We really must do something about planning for winter. We don’t want to be caught unprepared. Just look what happened to Dugal’s friends in the Khyber Pass back in the 80s. All lost for the want of a little planning. We mustn’t be caught unprepared. The winds are blowing from the north, and the far wound in my leg has been troubling me at night. I am sure that we shall have snow before the turning of the moon.”
The fact that it was nearly October made this forecast just a bit redundant, but Craig held his tongue and asked what spiffy ideas the Animeaux had been hatching to resolve the predicament of a long, boring winter.
“Sure we are working at it.” came the ominous reply. Craig shuddered.
It was but a few weeks later when the Animeaux began their schemes for overcoming the onset of onerous winter. The newly proclaimed Callum McCallum announced that he wanted to perfect his downhill style. Dugal saw winter as a fine excuse for his preference of sitting in front of the fire with a good book, a brass mug and his private brand of scotch, listening to the wind howl. All the TeddyBears said that they fully intended to take up cross country skiing this year. The Dragons hated winter because their wings always iced up. Craig was on their side; he disliked winter and felt it should be fought on all fronts, and at all costs. He also felt that in spite of their protestations the TeddyBears were far more interested in the fashion side of the sport as they seemed to spend many more hours thumbing through “Vogue” and “Elle” than “Sports Illustrated”.
Haemish-Mór seemed to discover his renewed interest in downhill skiing about the same time he discovered that his Miss Tanya had moved to Ottawa, and fully intended to continue to spend her winter hours getting quite cold - but looking great - on skis. Zita was not impressed. She also thought all of this was just an excuse for everyone of them to put in an order for new and trendy winter clothes.
The thought of winter brought on a lengthy discussion about the Blue Car. After overhearing the recreational plans, it had stated, that it was not a station wagon, and had no intention of spending its winter traipsing about, carrying one and all from one cold, snowy place to another. It didn’t much like the snow and anyway Craig had promised it a winter vacation.
It’s attitude was not in the least surprising, as its big engine and the snow seemed always to be at odds, and to be entirely truthful the Car was rather out of its element and became duly embarrassed when it would spin its tires unintentionally, or slide around corners. It would always make the corners but with a certain lack of style and precision that aggravated it and terrified on-lookers.
The TeddyBears had also quietly pointed out that there was not a great deal of extra room in the Blue Car especially since the trunk could not hold any of their skis. The emerging view was that it should get to spend the winter in well earned repose, and they should get a different automobile for the winter toils. The Animeaux offered a combined three dollars and thirty seven cents, apiece to help pay for this, which was, all things considered, generous of them.
So Craig and Zita continued to look for cars, big ones and medium ones, tiny and little one were excluded since they would be unable to take all the skis, down jackets, and Spandex pants that the entire household seemed to be requiring before approaching the slopes.
(In spite of these efforts no suitable vehicle appeared. By now it had turned into November and the Blue Car was seeing its vacation float away with the fall leaves.)
BT-McG makes His Appearance
It was three days before the end of the month, while Craig was unsuccessfully trying to light a log fire, that he felt a presence behind him. He glanced to the side and noticed that most all the Animeaux were standing around him in a large semicircle. Haemish handed him some dry kindling, and Callum suggested a quick dash of kerosene then said, “We had a meeting, and all think that you need our help finding a winter omnibus. We have come down to have dessert with you, and brought along some suggestions. Monsieur Beauregard owned several cars before his present ‘difficulties’ and he said that if he could borrow your tools we could check out the condition of any potential bargains ourselves.”
Haemish said, “We have received a very kind offer of assistance from Big TeddyBear McGruph. His second uncle used to sell cars “up t’valley”. Though which valley I am not too sure. He says we should buy a ‘Mar’can car, since they are in plentiful supply, and can be maintained with a number two screw driver and strong tape. Now actually he seems to favour cars manufactured by some military gentleman with the rather odd family name of Motors - Though I must say I have never seen him on the retired list. - He said his second cousin, on his mother’s side, has a niece who has a friend who has an elderly Nova that is looking for a new home. Now I a not at all familiar with Mister McGruph’s family, though the TeddyBears seem to trust him without question, and he has been a big help getting Monsieur Beauregard settled.”
Craig looked up from his attempt to re-ignite the logs, and said “Big TeddyBear McGruph, I don’t remember any Big TeddyBear McGruph staying here?”
Haemish called out “BT-McG - would you have the time to come over here for a moment.”
From amidst the mass of Animeaux stepped a medium to large, very furry, dark-chocolate brown TeddyBear, wearing a beige pith helmet with a red hat band and a regimental badge affixed to it’s front. The helmet was nearly identical to those always worn by Haemish and Callum McCallum. His black eyes were deep set, almost invisible behind the ruff of opulent fur. There was a bright red silk sash running from his shoulder to his hip. A small Canadian flag was pinned to it.
He stopped in front of Craig and extended his paw; after wiping all traces of ice cream from it. There was a rough leather patch on the inside of his fore-arm.
“G’day, pleased to meet ch’er. Nice day eh”
“Well I suppose so.” said Craig, “And I am pleased to meet you, though you do seem to have the advantage of me. I understand that we have been neighbours for a while and I apparently did not notice it.”
“No hard feelin’s.” said BT-McG, “T’be honest, should have introduced my self weeks ago, but y’know how one t’ing leads t’nother.... and getting TeddyBears ship shape and Bristol fashion was tak’ng all of my attentions.”
“I didn’t realize that some thing was wrong with the TeddyBears. I thought that Dugal had straightened everything out with them and the Pigs?” said Craig with some surprise and concern in his voice.
“Nut’en to worry yerr-own-self ‘bout. They was just a bit home sick. D’Colonel phoned the War Office looking for someone wit’ some ‘perience wit’ TBears, ‘pecially Irish ones. Well t’ought of me right away. I served along side many Irish troopers when I was Regimental Sergeant Major of our own Princess Pats. I spent many pleasant hours hiding out in cellars wit’ them in d’Peace Maken Forces in Bosnia. Now unhappily I’am bit at loose ends, livin’ wit’ the family ‘up the Prior’ since my arm was mashed-in some, far over there, and I had to retire. I jumped at a chance to do somet’en interestin’. Had a meet’ng here one night ‘while back, but you and the wife were ‘way for the week-end. ‘Guess it slipped our minds. They suggested I sign up as tutor t’the TeddyBears - the little one with green feet, other with the Red Tuque and d’BigWhite one who don’t talk much. Really don’t need a tutor ya’ know, just kind of suitable companion, but t’ings are working out just fine - eh?.
Now ‘bout the winter car I was speaken’ to Mr Haemish of. It’s a nice blue Nova. Now, to be sure it’s not the newest and it does have some bits painted primer, but beauty is only skin deep eh, and there’s plenty of room for all the skis, lunches and us in the back seat. I t’ink we can get it for only $950 - Let’s all off and pay a visit?”
(It had been far too much in one day for Craig, so he did not even bother to argue, so got his cheque book and jacket. He then called Zita.)
They all piled in the Blue Car, and drove up highway 7, which passed through the Ottawa Valley, until they reached the small town where BT-McG’s somewhat friend’s car was parked.
They all got out and had a long look. It had passed with some grace into middle age, and showed the evidence of attention to the normal rigors of car life in a cold climate. The rust spots had been filled and sprayed, here and there, with the white primer over the original blue paint. The interior was quite clean, though the tires were not of the first quality. It tried hard to look as dignified as it could.
Craig talked to the owner - while the Blue Car visited with the Nova.
In a few minutes they had agreed to a price of $800, but before he wrote the cheque he returned to the Blue car to find out what it had learned. He sat in the driver’s seat, turned on the radio and just listened...
“It has lived 60,000 rather hard miles, and is more then a little tired. Its battery and alternator should be retired, and it feels a little unsteady on its feet as its front springs are careworn, and its tires are, well shall we say, they are not what they could be, but it would be happy to spend its last few years being useful. You know how much we all hate having to become useless. All the guys and I think it would try its very best.”
Craig said “Well what more could anyone want from anything but for it to try its best.” and turned off the radio. Moments later he signed the cheque.
The Nova started up and Zita drove it back to town, accompanied by Haemish and Callum and all the Queen’s Own. Beauregard and BT-McG stayed with Craig in the Blue Car. On the ride home they all talked about things that were important to them. The spread of parliamentary democracy, the new fur fashions from Germany, the scandalous price of good wines and nice houses, and the present state of the North American car industry.
(Both of them had been deeply concerned that Craig might have bought a foreign car, putting many of their friends in GM out of work, and perhaps adversely affecting their own stock portfolios. As the city approached they hummed and harrumphed for a while, commented on the state of the road and the Colour of the evening sky; then taking their courage in their hands they quietly admitted to having cut out of the newspaper all the advertisements for Honda, Peugeot and Aston-Martin, so he would not be tempted. The Blue Car was completely in agreement and launched into a rather convoluted—and not particular accurate lecture on the world auto trade. By the time the city’s traffic began to intrude they all thought themselves quite clever and very patriotic. Naturally they were also very satisfied with themselves — which was the normal state for all Animeaux.)
When they got home they left the Nova at the service station where they changed all the worn parts. The next day they all went to Commercial Tire where they bought four new snow tires.
When this had been accomplished they drove over Craig’s Mother’s place. She had kindly offered her garage to the Blue Car for the winter. After it had been parked, Zita covered it with a soft knit cover, and then they all wished it a good vacation. BT-McG left the last two years of Road&Track on the dash, for it to digest; then whole gang got into the Nova and drove off home.
By the time they had reached Percy Street the Nova was convinced that it was now quite nimble and sure of foot on its new tires. It was also was very glad to be with People who bought Brand Name parts. It felt all prepared to do its very best battling the onslaught of winter for the household on Holmwood.
As they turned into the driveway they were met by the usual scruffy assortment of TeddyBears, skis on their shoulders, step-in boots slung around their necks, and their collection of ski-hill maps spread out on the ground. Two were arguing over the whereabouts of the mis-packed Roleiflex and the extra thermos of chili chutney.
Monday, 27 June 2011
The Rising of the Moon
And come tell me Sean O'Farrell tell me why you hurry so
Husha buachaill hush and listen and his cheeks were all a glow
I bare orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon
And come tell me Sean O'Farrell where the gath'rin is to be
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token whistle out the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon
Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshees lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their immortal dreams
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
words by J.K. Casey, music Turlough O'Carolan
And come tell me Sean O'Farrell tell me why you hurry so
Husha buachaill hush and listen and his cheeks were all a glow
I bare orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon
And come tell me Sean O'Farrell where the gath'rin is to be
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token whistle out the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon
Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed warning light
Murmurs rang along the valleys to the banshees lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
All along that singing river that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their immortal dreams
Death to every foe and traitor! Whistle out the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hurrah, me boys, for freedom, 'tis the rising of the moon
words by J.K. Casey, music Turlough O'Carolan
Bonnie Dundee
Tae the lairds o' convention 'twas Claverhouse spoke
Ere the King's crown go down, there are crowns tae be broke;
Now let each cavalier wha loves honour and me
Come follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.
Chorus:
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle my horses and call out my men.
And it's ope' the west port and let us gae free,
And we'll follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee!
Dundee he is mounted, he rides doon the street,
The bells they ring backwards, the drums they are beat,
But the Provost, (douce man!), says; Just e'en let him be
For the toon is weel rid of that de'il Dundee.
There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,
Be there lairds i' the south, there are chiefs i' the north!
And brave duine-uasals, three thousand times three
Will cry "Hai!" for the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.
We'll awa' tae the hills, tae the lea, tae the rocks
E'er I own a usurper, I'll couch wi' the fox!
So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst o' your glee,
For ye've naw seen the last o' my bonnets and me!
Tae the lairds o' convention 'twas Claverhouse spoke
Ere the King's crown go down, there are crowns tae be broke;
Now let each cavalier wha loves honour and me
Come follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.
Chorus:
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle my horses and call out my men.
And it's ope' the west port and let us gae free,
And we'll follow the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee!
Dundee he is mounted, he rides doon the street,
The bells they ring backwards, the drums they are beat,
But the Provost, (douce man!), says; Just e'en let him be
For the toon is weel rid of that de'il Dundee.
There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,
Be there lairds i' the south, there are chiefs i' the north!
And brave duine-uasals, three thousand times three
Will cry "Hai!" for the bonnets o' bonnie Dundee.
We'll awa' tae the hills, tae the lea, tae the rocks
E'er I own a usurper, I'll couch wi' the fox!
So tremble, false Whigs, in the midst o' your glee,
For ye've naw seen the last o' my bonnets and me!
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
And Shall Trelawny Die?
A GOOD sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!
King James’s men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?
Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he:
’If London Tower were Michael’s hold,
We’ll set Trelawny free!
’We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay,
With “one and all,” and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?
’And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all,
Here’s men as good as you.
’Trelawny he’s in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die;
But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!’
Robert Stephen Hawker (1804–1875)
A GOOD sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!
King James’s men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?
Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he:
’If London Tower were Michael’s hold,
We’ll set Trelawny free!
’We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay,
With “one and all,” and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?
’And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! come forth, ye cowards all,
Here’s men as good as you.
’Trelawny he’s in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die;
But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold
Will know the reason why!’
Robert Stephen Hawker (1804–1875)
Tommy
I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ;
But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside ";
But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? "
But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! "
But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ;
But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside ";
But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? "
But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! "
But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
The Patriot
An Old Story
IT was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels—
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered, “And afterward, what else?”
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
There’s nobody on the house-tops now—
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?”—God might question; now instead,
’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
Robert Browning
An Old Story
IT was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels—
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered, “And afterward, what else?”
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
There’s nobody on the house-tops now—
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?”—God might question; now instead,
’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
Robert Browning
The Coward
'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day?
'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say;
Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away,
If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr.
'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons;
'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns,
And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns
Afore 'e went off to the war.
Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes;
Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes;
'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose
Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore.
And now all the papers 'is praises ring,
And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King
And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing,
Where they're patchin' 'im up once more.
And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?"
And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man;
You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began,
When you was a bit of a kid."
And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz,
They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz,
And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz,
But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did.
"Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: `Look 'ere!
They're far too quiet out there: it's queer.
They're up to somethin' -- 'oo'll volunteer
To crawl in the dark and see?'
Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go,
And up jumps a chap and 'e says: `Right O!'
But I chips in straight, and I says `Oh no!
'E's a missis and kids -- take me.'
"And the next I knew I was sneakin' out,
And the oozy corpses was all about,
And I felt so scared I wanted to shout,
And me skin fair prickled wiv fear;
And I sez: `You coward! You 'ad no right
To take on the job of a man this night,'
Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!)
The trench of the 'Uns was near.
"It was all so dark, it was all so still;
Yet somethin' pushed me against me will;
'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until
I was seein' a dim light shine.
Then thinks I: `I'll just go a little bit,
And see wot the doose I can make of it,'
And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit:
`Christmas!' sez I, `a mine.'
"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain:
I wanted to make for 'ome again,
But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain,
So I crawled to the trench instead;
Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un,
And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun,
And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one,
And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead.
"Then all the 'Uns that was underground,
Comes up with a rush and on with a bound,
And I swings that giddy old Maxim round
And belts 'em solid and square.
You see I was off me chump wiv fear:
`If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, `it's dear.'
And the trench was narrow and they was near,
So I peppered the brutes for fair.
"So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright,
And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight,
And we `captured a section o' trench' that night
Which we didn't expect to get;
And they found me there with me Maxim gun,
And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one,
And I fainted away when the thing was done,
And I 'aven't got over it yet."
So that's the 'istory Bill told me.
Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.;
It wouldn't do to get out, you see,
As 'e hacted against 'is will.
But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might,
And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight --
Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right?
Wot's the matter with Bill!
Robert Service
'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day?
'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say;
Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away,
If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr.
'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons;
'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns,
And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns
Afore 'e went off to the war.
Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes;
Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes;
'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose
Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore.
And now all the papers 'is praises ring,
And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King
And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing,
Where they're patchin' 'im up once more.
And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?"
And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man;
You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began,
When you was a bit of a kid."
And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz,
They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz,
And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz,
But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did.
"Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: `Look 'ere!
They're far too quiet out there: it's queer.
They're up to somethin' -- 'oo'll volunteer
To crawl in the dark and see?'
Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go,
And up jumps a chap and 'e says: `Right O!'
But I chips in straight, and I says `Oh no!
'E's a missis and kids -- take me.'
"And the next I knew I was sneakin' out,
And the oozy corpses was all about,
And I felt so scared I wanted to shout,
And me skin fair prickled wiv fear;
And I sez: `You coward! You 'ad no right
To take on the job of a man this night,'
Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!)
The trench of the 'Uns was near.
"It was all so dark, it was all so still;
Yet somethin' pushed me against me will;
'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until
I was seein' a dim light shine.
Then thinks I: `I'll just go a little bit,
And see wot the doose I can make of it,'
And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit:
`Christmas!' sez I, `a mine.'
"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain:
I wanted to make for 'ome again,
But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain,
So I crawled to the trench instead;
Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un,
And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun,
And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one,
And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead.
"Then all the 'Uns that was underground,
Comes up with a rush and on with a bound,
And I swings that giddy old Maxim round
And belts 'em solid and square.
You see I was off me chump wiv fear:
`If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, `it's dear.'
And the trench was narrow and they was near,
So I peppered the brutes for fair.
"So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright,
And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight,
And we `captured a section o' trench' that night
Which we didn't expect to get;
And they found me there with me Maxim gun,
And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one,
And I fainted away when the thing was done,
And I 'aven't got over it yet."
So that's the 'istory Bill told me.
Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.;
It wouldn't do to get out, you see,
As 'e hacted against 'is will.
But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might,
And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight --
Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right?
Wot's the matter with Bill!
Robert Service
MacDonnell On The Heights
Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay.
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way,
And perhaps had you not fallen,
You might be what Brock became
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
To say the name, MacDonnell,
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall.
Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.
At Queenston now, the General on his tower stands alone
And there's lichen on 'MacDonnell' carved upon that weathered stone
In a corner of the monument to glory you could claim,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.
Written and recorded by Stan Rogers
Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay.
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way,
And perhaps had you not fallen,
You might be what Brock became
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
To say the name, MacDonnell,
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall.
Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.
At Queenston now, the General on his tower stands alone
And there's lichen on 'MacDonnell' carved upon that weathered stone
In a corner of the monument to glory you could claim,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.
You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.
Written and recorded by Stan Rogers
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix
I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
‘Good speed!’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
‘Speed!’ echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with ‘Yet there is time!’
At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ‘Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,
We’ll remember at Aix’—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And ‘Gallop,’ gasped Joris, ‘for Aix is in sight!’
‘How they’ll greet us!’—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, learned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
Robert Browning (1812–1889)
I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
‘Good speed!’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
‘Speed!’ echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with ‘Yet there is time!’
At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ‘Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,
We’ll remember at Aix’—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And ‘Gallop,’ gasped Joris, ‘for Aix is in sight!’
‘How they’ll greet us!’—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, learned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
Robert Browning (1812–1889)
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is... (Part four)
By Way of an Explanation – or Two
The house was filled with unanswered questions. Some of which the reader has probably long wished to pose - unfortunately as with most things connected with Animeaux, answers are far less frequent than questions.
Now I have received ceaseless pressure from inside, and outside my family to document the convolutions our lives have taken since we began sharing our home with the Animeaux.
Recounting the adventures, thrust upon us by this association, has obviously been a labour of love, if not, as has been suggested, of deep therapy. That does not mean it has been an easy task. It has been fraught with difficulties; not the least of which are the subjects themselves.
Although countless books have been written about stuffed Animeaux, most all are told from the simpler perspective of our youth. That has created a rather culturalist view of the Human-Animeaux situation.
“History has been written by those with thumbs” - has been an often heard complaint. The following stories are an attempt to perhaps produce a less “Anthropocentric” view of the relationship.
Now in the endless meetings that were required to gain their support (and to prevent liable actions) numerous formats were suggested - I discarded most of them. Though the thought of printing it reversed—only readable with a mirror seemed consistent with their view of life.
I finally suggested that a prologue, explaining the occasion of my introduction to the Animeaux would be a fitting unveiling of the narration, and would follow in established literary traditions.
(Unfortunately, the vote around the house was to begin with “Call me Ishmael.” In second place came “My Name is Ozymandius King of Kings....” Though all of The Queen’s Own Pig’s Irregulars thought my time would be better spent sorting out a pleasantly short biography of Josephine Baker.)
Therefore, in lieu of any unanimity, I have decided to follow my own model, and begin rather more towards the middle.
Even here there have been complaints. Several of the Animeaux have suggested that it should have a real beginning, full of action, a sweep of space, and context -- (i.e. more attention paid to them.)
My response has been; that if, in the beginning I had been aware I was to be set upon in New Orleans by ruffians, attacked by Pyrates in Halifax, forced to fortify the house in Ottawa, and all the rest.... well might I have had third or fourth thoughts. But since I was dumped into the middle of this extravagance - why should the reader do any better.
Chapter Five
The Imposition of an Introduction
It was quite a long time ago; not quite so far back as when people had faith in the government, but still a long time ago, when one Sunday Craig had a portentous luncheon with his friend Cassandra who was very talented, (she could spell, and type at the same time which intrigued nearly everyone) and was good at making friends.
Over coffee they discussed her poor opinion of Craig’s social life, and its reliance on what she felt to be a rather transient orientation. She felt that he needed to be introduced to the concept of a stable relationship; one not interrupted by the vagaries of airline timetables, or misplaced husbands.
While he did not entirely agree with the analysis, he knew he needed someone to talk to; someone to watch his famous collection of John Wayne movies with, someone who didn’t want to regularly dust his equally impressive collection of model tanks that lived on the plate-rails in the dining room, or thought that he should eat vegetables, and less peanut butter, or more importantly thought he should behave himself and dress better. He wanted an accomplice who didn’t need to be taken for walks or ever, ever thought of climbing up the tall speakers in the living room; or with unwarranted assurance started leaving their tooth brushes in his bathroom, or their Monday-morning-look-professional clothes in the hall closet.
Between the cups of coffee and jam soaked scones listened to the grievances, considered the situation, (with what verged on very little sympathy), and decided she had best resolve this problem before it became ponderous. That very day she went out and found him a suitable confidant.
She phoned that evening and told him not to go out, explaining that she had told an acquaintance of a friend of hers that Craig had lots of extra space in his house, if they needed a place to rest and recuperate from the tribulations of life. That acquaintance was going to arrive that very night.
This rather took Craig aback, “Who was this?”, and why did Cassandra think... She cut the conversation off with, “Don’t be such a poop. I’m sure that It will shall be far better for you than all the waywards from KLM or Lufthansa.” and hung up.
He paused in reflection for a moment. He seriously doubted that anything would be better than.... He put those thoughts out of his mind, and went into the kitchen and made himself some fresh strong coffee and opened a fresh tub of coffee ice-cream and waited for his house guest.
(It was, as fate would have it, a Dragon Animeaux, though in those more naive times he did not recognize it as such.)
It arrived late, nearly 2 in the morning. It was tall and lengthy, attired in a camouflaged French Paratroop jump suit, iridescent red sneakers, a large rescue-orange canvas carryall under one arm and an ancient aerial camera, slung across his back - between green silk wings.
It was clear to Craig that this was not just any old run-of-the-mill Dragon; this was a fabulous Dragon. Aside from being slightly taken aback, he decided that this could turn into a nice intrusion. He always liked the notion of dragons, and the thought of having one around the house was much more appealing then having to accommodate the usual cat.
As Cassandra had expected, the combination was an incalculable success. The Dragon minded its own business, liked to watch television ‘till all hours, slept-in late whenever possible, and never wanted more than a fair share of the coffee ice-cream.
Very early one morning, a few months later, after vainly trying to explain to one of the more missionary-ly inclined Nordic flight attendants why he didn’t want the kitchen rearranged with all the cans and bottles sorted alphabetically - and by size. Craig decided to become a little discouraged. He found himself looking out the front windows, towards the pond as the dawn came up, he said to no one in particular, “I must start developing more substantial inclinations. There just must be more to a social life than blanched Scandinavians, with names impossible to pronounce and lives too complicated to follow.”
A deep resonant voice hummed along the floor and said, “Do you think she was in charge of sorting all the miniature liquor bottles they have on aeroplanes for far too long?”
He looked around, and was dumbfounded to see the Dragon, sleepily opening one eye.
“I didn’t know you could talk?” he said with some trepidation.
The Dragon replied that he was rather surprised too. Although he had been conversing with other Animeaux for forgotten eons, he had never quite been able to communicate with any of the Peoples before. It was not that he hadn’t wanted to, but usually he just kind of thought things, but somehow they never quite matured into words, and certainly they had never came right out loud before.
(Now this was the first time Craig had ever heard the word Animeaux, though the scale of the discovery was not quite clear to him at the time.)
Since there seemed nothing more constructive to do Craig wandered into the kitchen, made some fresh coffee, and threw a bag of nearly fresh scones into the oven. The Dragon came in and found some of its’ favorite marmalade, then they went to the dining room and sat down at the table and began to talk. In the months that followed they spent many pleasant evenings chatting about Dragons and their numerous Animeaux relatives. Oftentimes, if it had been a very hard day, or during one of those periods when Craig’s social life seemed to favour psychologists (having momentarily misplaced his sense of the absurd, and his ScannAir timetable), the Dragon would grasp his mood, and suggest they retire to the den, fire up the DVD and watch “Fort Apache”, “55 Days at Peking” or perhaps even “The Guns Of Navaronne”, break out the Coffee Ice Cream and Croissants and make a real night of it. They always felt better in the morning.
One day, as he watched the Dragon search through the day’s intake of mail, looking for something interesting to read, it occurred to him that they had been together for almost four years, and it was surely time to celebrate this event. He asked if there was anything it wanted? - A Norton Commando motorcycle, satellite TV, his own subscription to “Air Progress”, “New Scientist” or ”Flight” ? The Dragon thought for a while, as Dragons are wont to do, and finally said, “It would be extremely nice if perhaps you could find the room for another Dragon. Someone for me to talk to, or play mah-jongg with, when nothing immeasurably interesting is going on in the house that is. Perhaps we all could watch the Rugby games televised from Cardiff together.”
Craig called Cassandra the very next morning, and asked if she could find another dragon. He didn’t tell her about the Dragon’s talking. When the new dragon finally arrived it was smaller, but it was a soft silver with deep red eyes and enveloping wings. It immediately sprang to the top of a bookcase in the living room, and looked grimly at its surroundings. Craig left the two dragons on their own.
It took the older Dragon many months of patient trying, and innumerable picnics in the local parks before the Silver Dragon could talk at all - even to him. When it finally did, the Dragons could be heard at night as a pleasant humming sound as they commented about the news of the day or any intriguing comings and goings in the house. When people insisted that the Dragons had moved during the night, Craig would always tell the truth; though to be sure it was not his first inclination. He just explained they were the Watch Dragons, and patrolled the house at night when all were asleep. He was not believed, especially by the transient Nordic contingent, who apparently lacked in imagination what they made up for in diligence and enthusiasm.
The Dragons muttered about ‘Quislings’ or ‘Ibsen’ and laughed to themselves a lot.
An Arrival
It was a few years later, through the most shameful negligence, Craig had stumbled into a crisis. He had almost given up on finding any, much less the appropriate Christmas present for his sister.
Finally in a desperate flight of fancy, he thought of asking Cassandra if she could perhaps arrange an encounter with something Scots, who might like a new home for a Christmas present. (You see his sister, like Craig had many relatives in Scotland, and had actually married one - even if he was a Lowlander.)
He promptly called Cassandra’s home, and she, caught up in the spirit of Christmas said that it should pose no great problem, seeing that the accommodations were free.
Three days later she phoned, and said to meet her at her husband Roger’s bookstore. Craig arrived several hours later to meet the non-paying guest. He was overcome. There, standing by the counter, was a tall, striking, Hibernian badger. His name, he announced, was James Festis Kerr MacGregor, and was, from his rather imposing presence, obviously one of the fabled Clan Gregor; “The Children of the Mist”. He was wearing a soft linen shirt with a long fancy lace collar and traditional Jacobite regalia. Craig was beside himself with glee, tinged if the truth be known, by a smidgen of jealously.
As he gave Mr. MacGregor a ride over to Jane’s, he knew Christmas was to be a success, though it was clear that his own home was in dire need of such company - for balance.
The Colonel
Three months after the Christmas holidays were over, a large-ish (which is not quite to say overweight) badger arrived at the front door. He was quite tall for a badger, and was well arrayed in the full kilt of the Cameron Clan, and a dress shirt with a lace collar. He carried a large knobbed briar walking stick in his right hand. His face was weathered and crinkled from years under very foreign suns. His tail had turned silver at its’ tip, as had his rather tufty ears. He looked through the glass door with interest, and standing a bit on his toes rapped on the top of the door with his stick three distinct times.
Craig opened the door and the badger shook his hand, motioning behind him, walked into the house. He was immediately followed by a thoroughly bullied cab driver, who in three successive trips lugged in; a large and ancient teak campaign chest, two stained canvas haversacks, three large leather steamer trunks, a portable, collapsible bathtub, four woven willow traveling cases, and a much weathered medium sized barrel branded “Glenmorangie — Toraidhean Alba”.
He tipped the apologetic driver with a dab of foreign money, and dragged his belongings to the top of the basement stairs, and left them there. He walked into the living room and made himself at home climbing on to the sofa and said, “Good afternoon. Dugal Blackthorn-Badger here. Must ‘pologize for not giving more warning of my ‘rival, or offering a small welcoming dram, but it’s surely been a long trip from the Poona hill stations, and I really must get some rest.” He fell soundly asleep, with his Glengarry pulled down over his face.
Craig sighed. It was to become a common sound around the house.
Three days after this peculiar arrival, upon coming down stairs on Saturday morning, Craig noticed that the Dragons were both standing (so to speak) at attention at the foot of the stairs, looking quite smart and polished. The sneakers were clean and the silver coat was freshly burnished and wiped.
He asked the Older Dragon to account for this rather singular appearance. The Dragon looked away for a second, and then standing up very straight replied that they both had joined the Colonel’s Division.
“Whose Division?” Craig asked, “Why Colonel Blackthorn-Badger’s 51st.” came the reply.
A bit nonplussed he wandered into the kitchen and made his usual fuss over his coffee, then mug in hand he went over to the big walnut equipment stand on which the badger had apparently taken up lodgings.
Stirring his coffee carefully he said “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger, I presume?”
The badger looked up from under his early morning “Times” and after twice folding it, nodded “Aye, that’s it. Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-Badger at your service mon General.” he said with a distinguished Scot’s accent.
Now it had always been Craig’s modest opinion that he would have been an extremely good general - and a very poor private - so he thought that the badger just might be a very good judge of character. So he asked “Exactly what do the dragons do in OUR army.”
He received an instant reply, “Why they are to be the Queen’s Own Dragoons. D’ye no see the beauty of it? They are a patrol. A kind of Home Guard - here to protect the house, its contents - and us, from the rapacious, prying hands of the pale and nasty Sassenach.”
Well that made sense Craig thought, and replied “Well if I agree, and I think I shall, I have a simple suggestion. I really think they should be called The First Dragon Dragoon Guards, or there will be endless confusion with the Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars.”
The badger raised one of his eyebrows and asked quietly, “The what?”
Craig replied, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars. Who are presently barracked upstairs, and who are just now, as a matter of interest, looking for a new Colonel-in-Chief. A Colonel with a lot of field experience they said.”
This quite animated the badger. New recruits!
He excused himself, and scurried off down the basement stairs, kilt flying and tam askew. He returned a few moments later. He waved at Craig, and rushed up stairs waving his walking stick and clutching the Peek-Frene’s tin box that contained all his medals and his heroic pictures from the London Illustrated News.
(Over the last several years, Craig had provided some housing assistance to an assortment of Plush Pigs. Originally he thought that they would provide some pleasant company for the Dragons. Ironically it turned out that they had quite strident political and social convictions, and kept the whole household amused and appalled in equal measure, with their constant spouting of Tom Payne, Toulouse Lautrec and Robert Burns - their three heroes.)
Unfortunately they were fast becoming quite lazy, and as a result - quite porkly. He was sure that anyone who could get the two Dragons to join up, could prod the Pigs into shape. He had spontaneously made up the story about them being The Pig Irregulars, but he knew that the Pigs were far too polite to contradict a guest.
As could be expected things on Holmwood Avenue became very peaceful for a long while. The Dragon Dragoon Guards patrolled the house and helped in the garden. The Pigs slept, and marched, ran up and down the basement stairs, carrying various pieces of Dugal’s kit for inspection, and practiced their Gaelic under his watchful ear. The Colonel relaxed, listened to Wagner and Elgar, and some times, if it was very nice out, something Italian or a bit of Purcell.
He had his campaign chest brought up from the basement and unpacked. The resulting pile of ancient property had required him to ask Craig if he could borrow some shelf space for his collection of books on famous lost causes. He was especially fond of volumes about the star-crossed Army of Northern Virginia and the various gallantly unsuccessful uprisings against the foul and usurping House of Hanover. He was a true Scot you see.
The house was filled with unanswered questions. Some of which the reader has probably long wished to pose - unfortunately as with most things connected with Animeaux, answers are far less frequent than questions.
Now I have received ceaseless pressure from inside, and outside my family to document the convolutions our lives have taken since we began sharing our home with the Animeaux.
Recounting the adventures, thrust upon us by this association, has obviously been a labour of love, if not, as has been suggested, of deep therapy. That does not mean it has been an easy task. It has been fraught with difficulties; not the least of which are the subjects themselves.
Although countless books have been written about stuffed Animeaux, most all are told from the simpler perspective of our youth. That has created a rather culturalist view of the Human-Animeaux situation.
“History has been written by those with thumbs” - has been an often heard complaint. The following stories are an attempt to perhaps produce a less “Anthropocentric” view of the relationship.
Now in the endless meetings that were required to gain their support (and to prevent liable actions) numerous formats were suggested - I discarded most of them. Though the thought of printing it reversed—only readable with a mirror seemed consistent with their view of life.
I finally suggested that a prologue, explaining the occasion of my introduction to the Animeaux would be a fitting unveiling of the narration, and would follow in established literary traditions.
(Unfortunately, the vote around the house was to begin with “Call me Ishmael.” In second place came “My Name is Ozymandius King of Kings....” Though all of The Queen’s Own Pig’s Irregulars thought my time would be better spent sorting out a pleasantly short biography of Josephine Baker.)
Therefore, in lieu of any unanimity, I have decided to follow my own model, and begin rather more towards the middle.
Even here there have been complaints. Several of the Animeaux have suggested that it should have a real beginning, full of action, a sweep of space, and context -- (i.e. more attention paid to them.)
My response has been; that if, in the beginning I had been aware I was to be set upon in New Orleans by ruffians, attacked by Pyrates in Halifax, forced to fortify the house in Ottawa, and all the rest.... well might I have had third or fourth thoughts. But since I was dumped into the middle of this extravagance - why should the reader do any better.
Chapter Five
The Imposition of an Introduction
It was quite a long time ago; not quite so far back as when people had faith in the government, but still a long time ago, when one Sunday Craig had a portentous luncheon with his friend Cassandra who was very talented, (she could spell, and type at the same time which intrigued nearly everyone) and was good at making friends.
Over coffee they discussed her poor opinion of Craig’s social life, and its reliance on what she felt to be a rather transient orientation. She felt that he needed to be introduced to the concept of a stable relationship; one not interrupted by the vagaries of airline timetables, or misplaced husbands.
While he did not entirely agree with the analysis, he knew he needed someone to talk to; someone to watch his famous collection of John Wayne movies with, someone who didn’t want to regularly dust his equally impressive collection of model tanks that lived on the plate-rails in the dining room, or thought that he should eat vegetables, and less peanut butter, or more importantly thought he should behave himself and dress better. He wanted an accomplice who didn’t need to be taken for walks or ever, ever thought of climbing up the tall speakers in the living room; or with unwarranted assurance started leaving their tooth brushes in his bathroom, or their Monday-morning-look-professional clothes in the hall closet.
Between the cups of coffee and jam soaked scones listened to the grievances, considered the situation, (with what verged on very little sympathy), and decided she had best resolve this problem before it became ponderous. That very day she went out and found him a suitable confidant.
She phoned that evening and told him not to go out, explaining that she had told an acquaintance of a friend of hers that Craig had lots of extra space in his house, if they needed a place to rest and recuperate from the tribulations of life. That acquaintance was going to arrive that very night.
This rather took Craig aback, “Who was this?”, and why did Cassandra think... She cut the conversation off with, “Don’t be such a poop. I’m sure that It will shall be far better for you than all the waywards from KLM or Lufthansa.” and hung up.
He paused in reflection for a moment. He seriously doubted that anything would be better than.... He put those thoughts out of his mind, and went into the kitchen and made himself some fresh strong coffee and opened a fresh tub of coffee ice-cream and waited for his house guest.
(It was, as fate would have it, a Dragon Animeaux, though in those more naive times he did not recognize it as such.)
It arrived late, nearly 2 in the morning. It was tall and lengthy, attired in a camouflaged French Paratroop jump suit, iridescent red sneakers, a large rescue-orange canvas carryall under one arm and an ancient aerial camera, slung across his back - between green silk wings.
It was clear to Craig that this was not just any old run-of-the-mill Dragon; this was a fabulous Dragon. Aside from being slightly taken aback, he decided that this could turn into a nice intrusion. He always liked the notion of dragons, and the thought of having one around the house was much more appealing then having to accommodate the usual cat.
As Cassandra had expected, the combination was an incalculable success. The Dragon minded its own business, liked to watch television ‘till all hours, slept-in late whenever possible, and never wanted more than a fair share of the coffee ice-cream.
Very early one morning, a few months later, after vainly trying to explain to one of the more missionary-ly inclined Nordic flight attendants why he didn’t want the kitchen rearranged with all the cans and bottles sorted alphabetically - and by size. Craig decided to become a little discouraged. He found himself looking out the front windows, towards the pond as the dawn came up, he said to no one in particular, “I must start developing more substantial inclinations. There just must be more to a social life than blanched Scandinavians, with names impossible to pronounce and lives too complicated to follow.”
A deep resonant voice hummed along the floor and said, “Do you think she was in charge of sorting all the miniature liquor bottles they have on aeroplanes for far too long?”
He looked around, and was dumbfounded to see the Dragon, sleepily opening one eye.
“I didn’t know you could talk?” he said with some trepidation.
The Dragon replied that he was rather surprised too. Although he had been conversing with other Animeaux for forgotten eons, he had never quite been able to communicate with any of the Peoples before. It was not that he hadn’t wanted to, but usually he just kind of thought things, but somehow they never quite matured into words, and certainly they had never came right out loud before.
(Now this was the first time Craig had ever heard the word Animeaux, though the scale of the discovery was not quite clear to him at the time.)
Since there seemed nothing more constructive to do Craig wandered into the kitchen, made some fresh coffee, and threw a bag of nearly fresh scones into the oven. The Dragon came in and found some of its’ favorite marmalade, then they went to the dining room and sat down at the table and began to talk. In the months that followed they spent many pleasant evenings chatting about Dragons and their numerous Animeaux relatives. Oftentimes, if it had been a very hard day, or during one of those periods when Craig’s social life seemed to favour psychologists (having momentarily misplaced his sense of the absurd, and his ScannAir timetable), the Dragon would grasp his mood, and suggest they retire to the den, fire up the DVD and watch “Fort Apache”, “55 Days at Peking” or perhaps even “The Guns Of Navaronne”, break out the Coffee Ice Cream and Croissants and make a real night of it. They always felt better in the morning.
One day, as he watched the Dragon search through the day’s intake of mail, looking for something interesting to read, it occurred to him that they had been together for almost four years, and it was surely time to celebrate this event. He asked if there was anything it wanted? - A Norton Commando motorcycle, satellite TV, his own subscription to “Air Progress”, “New Scientist” or ”Flight” ? The Dragon thought for a while, as Dragons are wont to do, and finally said, “It would be extremely nice if perhaps you could find the room for another Dragon. Someone for me to talk to, or play mah-jongg with, when nothing immeasurably interesting is going on in the house that is. Perhaps we all could watch the Rugby games televised from Cardiff together.”
Craig called Cassandra the very next morning, and asked if she could find another dragon. He didn’t tell her about the Dragon’s talking. When the new dragon finally arrived it was smaller, but it was a soft silver with deep red eyes and enveloping wings. It immediately sprang to the top of a bookcase in the living room, and looked grimly at its surroundings. Craig left the two dragons on their own.
It took the older Dragon many months of patient trying, and innumerable picnics in the local parks before the Silver Dragon could talk at all - even to him. When it finally did, the Dragons could be heard at night as a pleasant humming sound as they commented about the news of the day or any intriguing comings and goings in the house. When people insisted that the Dragons had moved during the night, Craig would always tell the truth; though to be sure it was not his first inclination. He just explained they were the Watch Dragons, and patrolled the house at night when all were asleep. He was not believed, especially by the transient Nordic contingent, who apparently lacked in imagination what they made up for in diligence and enthusiasm.
The Dragons muttered about ‘Quislings’ or ‘Ibsen’ and laughed to themselves a lot.
An Arrival
It was a few years later, through the most shameful negligence, Craig had stumbled into a crisis. He had almost given up on finding any, much less the appropriate Christmas present for his sister.
Finally in a desperate flight of fancy, he thought of asking Cassandra if she could perhaps arrange an encounter with something Scots, who might like a new home for a Christmas present. (You see his sister, like Craig had many relatives in Scotland, and had actually married one - even if he was a Lowlander.)
He promptly called Cassandra’s home, and she, caught up in the spirit of Christmas said that it should pose no great problem, seeing that the accommodations were free.
Three days later she phoned, and said to meet her at her husband Roger’s bookstore. Craig arrived several hours later to meet the non-paying guest. He was overcome. There, standing by the counter, was a tall, striking, Hibernian badger. His name, he announced, was James Festis Kerr MacGregor, and was, from his rather imposing presence, obviously one of the fabled Clan Gregor; “The Children of the Mist”. He was wearing a soft linen shirt with a long fancy lace collar and traditional Jacobite regalia. Craig was beside himself with glee, tinged if the truth be known, by a smidgen of jealously.
As he gave Mr. MacGregor a ride over to Jane’s, he knew Christmas was to be a success, though it was clear that his own home was in dire need of such company - for balance.
The Colonel
Three months after the Christmas holidays were over, a large-ish (which is not quite to say overweight) badger arrived at the front door. He was quite tall for a badger, and was well arrayed in the full kilt of the Cameron Clan, and a dress shirt with a lace collar. He carried a large knobbed briar walking stick in his right hand. His face was weathered and crinkled from years under very foreign suns. His tail had turned silver at its’ tip, as had his rather tufty ears. He looked through the glass door with interest, and standing a bit on his toes rapped on the top of the door with his stick three distinct times.
Craig opened the door and the badger shook his hand, motioning behind him, walked into the house. He was immediately followed by a thoroughly bullied cab driver, who in three successive trips lugged in; a large and ancient teak campaign chest, two stained canvas haversacks, three large leather steamer trunks, a portable, collapsible bathtub, four woven willow traveling cases, and a much weathered medium sized barrel branded “Glenmorangie — Toraidhean Alba”.
He tipped the apologetic driver with a dab of foreign money, and dragged his belongings to the top of the basement stairs, and left them there. He walked into the living room and made himself at home climbing on to the sofa and said, “Good afternoon. Dugal Blackthorn-Badger here. Must ‘pologize for not giving more warning of my ‘rival, or offering a small welcoming dram, but it’s surely been a long trip from the Poona hill stations, and I really must get some rest.” He fell soundly asleep, with his Glengarry pulled down over his face.
Craig sighed. It was to become a common sound around the house.
Three days after this peculiar arrival, upon coming down stairs on Saturday morning, Craig noticed that the Dragons were both standing (so to speak) at attention at the foot of the stairs, looking quite smart and polished. The sneakers were clean and the silver coat was freshly burnished and wiped.
He asked the Older Dragon to account for this rather singular appearance. The Dragon looked away for a second, and then standing up very straight replied that they both had joined the Colonel’s Division.
“Whose Division?” Craig asked, “Why Colonel Blackthorn-Badger’s 51st.” came the reply.
A bit nonplussed he wandered into the kitchen and made his usual fuss over his coffee, then mug in hand he went over to the big walnut equipment stand on which the badger had apparently taken up lodgings.
Stirring his coffee carefully he said “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger, I presume?”
The badger looked up from under his early morning “Times” and after twice folding it, nodded “Aye, that’s it. Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-Badger at your service mon General.” he said with a distinguished Scot’s accent.
Now it had always been Craig’s modest opinion that he would have been an extremely good general - and a very poor private - so he thought that the badger just might be a very good judge of character. So he asked “Exactly what do the dragons do in OUR army.”
He received an instant reply, “Why they are to be the Queen’s Own Dragoons. D’ye no see the beauty of it? They are a patrol. A kind of Home Guard - here to protect the house, its contents - and us, from the rapacious, prying hands of the pale and nasty Sassenach.”
Well that made sense Craig thought, and replied “Well if I agree, and I think I shall, I have a simple suggestion. I really think they should be called The First Dragon Dragoon Guards, or there will be endless confusion with the Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars.”
The badger raised one of his eyebrows and asked quietly, “The what?”
Craig replied, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars. Who are presently barracked upstairs, and who are just now, as a matter of interest, looking for a new Colonel-in-Chief. A Colonel with a lot of field experience they said.”
This quite animated the badger. New recruits!
He excused himself, and scurried off down the basement stairs, kilt flying and tam askew. He returned a few moments later. He waved at Craig, and rushed up stairs waving his walking stick and clutching the Peek-Frene’s tin box that contained all his medals and his heroic pictures from the London Illustrated News.
(Over the last several years, Craig had provided some housing assistance to an assortment of Plush Pigs. Originally he thought that they would provide some pleasant company for the Dragons. Ironically it turned out that they had quite strident political and social convictions, and kept the whole household amused and appalled in equal measure, with their constant spouting of Tom Payne, Toulouse Lautrec and Robert Burns - their three heroes.)
Unfortunately they were fast becoming quite lazy, and as a result - quite porkly. He was sure that anyone who could get the two Dragons to join up, could prod the Pigs into shape. He had spontaneously made up the story about them being The Pig Irregulars, but he knew that the Pigs were far too polite to contradict a guest.
As could be expected things on Holmwood Avenue became very peaceful for a long while. The Dragon Dragoon Guards patrolled the house and helped in the garden. The Pigs slept, and marched, ran up and down the basement stairs, carrying various pieces of Dugal’s kit for inspection, and practiced their Gaelic under his watchful ear. The Colonel relaxed, listened to Wagner and Elgar, and some times, if it was very nice out, something Italian or a bit of Purcell.
He had his campaign chest brought up from the basement and unpacked. The resulting pile of ancient property had required him to ask Craig if he could borrow some shelf space for his collection of books on famous lost causes. He was especially fond of volumes about the star-crossed Army of Northern Virginia and the various gallantly unsuccessful uprisings against the foul and usurping House of Hanover. He was a true Scot you see.
The Bells
HEAR the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells--
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight
From the molten-golden notes!
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gust of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future!
how it tells
Of rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulancy tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking of the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In a silence of the night
How we shiver with affright
At the meloncholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats,
Is a groan:
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls!
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells--
Of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Edgar Allan Poe
HEAR the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells--
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight
From the molten-golden notes!
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gust of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future!
how it tells
Of rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulancy tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking of the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In a silence of the night
How we shiver with affright
At the meloncholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats,
Is a groan:
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls!
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells--
Of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Edgar Allan Poe
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)