White Rabbit!

The rather strange routine described below was an essential part of my childhood years!

WHITE RABBIT!

'White Rabbit! White Rabbit! White Rabbit!' Three times to make sure!

I'd lie there stiff as a poker gazing at my bedroom door.

On the very first day of every month those strange words must be said.

The room was pervaded with magic as I waited in my bed.

Would my mother forget to say them, those words of immense portent?

If she did, my goodness, what punishments would be sent?

If we didn't say 'White Rabbit' as soon as we awoke;

If those magical words 'White Rabbit!' were not the first we spoke

The most terrible fate awaited us; there was nothing we could do!

We'd be buffeted by misfortune until the month was through.

In the morning I'd awaken and I would hold my breath;

The strength of the tradition scared me half to death!

Supposing she said 'Wake up, dear'! We'd be doomed for thirty days!

The Rabbit was supernatural and had very nasty ways!

We'd remind each other the night before; 'Watch out!' and 'Don't forget!'

Luckily we were careful and we hadn't forgotten yet!

But there'd be floods and famine if those magic words weren't spoken;

The flowers would die, the roof cave in and every cup be broken!

My bedroom door was opening! My  mother was coming in!

'White Rabbits!' we cried in unison!

Another month could begin.


Note: White hares were supposed to be 'familiars' of Witches in early Britain; 'White Rabbits' are said to have been guilty by association!

Family Group

                                                                                          Jean Frederic Bazille

FAMILY GROUP

Jean Frederic Bazille

 Was an artist of renown.

He could capture something fleeting,

And, forever, set it down.

He could copy folds of fabric

As they flowed around a form;

He could intimate that distant clouds

Were heralding a storm.

He could make scenes last for ever

Lke this one beneath the tree;

This Family Reunion 

Will survive eternity.

He could copy the expressions 

On each stern Victorian face;

He could etch it in our memory,

This scene, this time, this place.

But I fear there's something missing

Of quite a different sort,

For Jean Frederic could never

Immortalize a thought.

What are these people thinking?

Can we make a guess?

For certain they are not like us

In manner, speech or dress;

But humanity's unchanging

Or so it seems to me,

So let us listen-in a while

To the thoughts beneath the tree!

Two gentlemen have just arrived

But they don't intend to stay.

Thinks Jack 'I hope they're not aware

That Fred and I are gay!'

Thinks Fred 'I fear Jack's not my class!'

He's worn a business suit!

This is the end! Next Saturday

I'm giving him the boot!'

Auntie Maude, all corsetted,

Wearing her Spanish shawl

Thinks 'Who has thrown their hat down there?
That won't do at all!'

While Uncle Dan, who's gazing

Rather blankly into space

Thinks ' I love my mistress, little Tess,

But can I stand the pace?'

Ermintrude and George are there

Standing stiffly at the back.

They'd like to let their hair down

But chairs are what they lack.

Thinks Ermintrude 'They ask us here

 Then don't supply the seating!

This is the last time I'll attend

A stupid family meeting!'

Thinks George 'She's hanging on my arm 

Like a positive dead-weight!

I'm off to France on Tuesday

And I can hardly wait!'

Poor old Constance, sitting there,

All droopy by herself,

Thinks 'What now will become of me? 

I'm really on the shelf!'

And see the Twins, both dressed in blue,

Alice and Beth by name,

Both of them thinking 'Wretched Mum!

Making us dress the same!'

Finally there's Algernon, 

Sidling up to Rose

Who's looking rather virginal

With a prim and proper pose.

Thinks Rose ' If he keeps on like this,

Pressing me with his knee,

I'll find myself responding

And everyone will see!'

Thinks Algernon 'I'll keep this up

Though it may be over-zealous.

I'm only teasing darling Beth,

Trying to make her jealous!'

The thoughts float in the ether;
Like clouds they'll soon disperse
Unless some Philistine lady
Turns them into verse!

Artist Jean Frederic Bazille

Painted what he could see!

But he simply couldn't paint a thought!

He left that up to me!

Nothing Could be Finer.

Newcastle. New South Wales. Australia

SUNDAYS IN MY CITY

To the tune 'Carolina"
NOTHING COULD BE FINER!

We live in a a certain place

That puts a smile on every face

We know it.

We live in a certain town

Where nothing ever gets you down,

So show it.

Boulevards are rising

By the riverside.

People exercising

Echo the city's pride.

We live in a town with charms

That's very far from War's alarms.

Preserve it.

We live in a town with sights

That constantly bring us delights

Conserve it.

If I had Aladdin's Lamp for only a day

I'd change the world the Newcastle way.

Nothing gives such pleasure

As the city that we treasure!

Let's deserve it!

222. Tootle Rock.

Several times I have mentioned Alton, in Staffordshire, where I spent my teenage years. It really was quite a magical place, with the grand house, Alton Towers, hidden among the trees, and the Castle, towering over the valley. But there were other, lesser, atmospheric delights.

 'Tootle Rock' was one of them.

The photograph depicts a canon such as the Roundheads used, during the Civil War.

TOOTLE ROCK. 

They called it 'Tootle Rock' for the words slipped off the tongue,

But it was known as Toot Hill in the days when the world was young.

A flat rock jutted out above the valley far below,

In a way that urged me to take a stone and give it a mighty throw!

I listened for the falling, and, finally came the thud,

As it landed far below me, 'plop!', down in the river's mud.

I pretended I was Icarus, though I didn't dare to fly!

I felt so poised, so elevated, free and young and high.

They told me of the legend that added to its charms;

How Oliver Cromwell came there in the days when he took up arms.

How the Roundheads perched their canon exactly where I sat,

Above the river on a rock that was firm and table-flat.

Someone showed me indentations that, surely, the canon made,

And I felt I heard the warlike cries and I saw a flash of blade!

What a way to learn of history! Even if the tale were false?

It was the 'feel' that mattered, more than any history course.

221. Taking a Breather

TAKING A BREATHER

Bugsy went to Confession, the first time in twenty years!

He thought he might drop dead one day so he went to allay his fears.

The Priest asked a gentle question 'Have you slept with a woman? he said,

Bugsy replied 'No, Father!' but his face went rather red!

'I'll ask you again! Mind what you say!' the Priest spoke sternly now,

'Have you ever slept with a woman?' . Sweat broke out on Bugsy's brow.

'No, never, never, Father!' Bugsy was quite emphatic.

The Father's brow grew clouded and the atmosphere dramatic.

Now he roared with religious zeal 'I ask you once again;

Have you slept with a woman? I know the ways of men.'

By now poor Bugsy was shattered, and he longed to tell the truth.

He knew he'd made love to women many times since his youth!

'I've never actually slept' he said 'If you know what I mean.

But I have sometimes dozed off a bit....

You know......in between!'

P.S.

PRIVATE CELEBRATION FOR ALL TO SHARE.

Five years without cancer I celebrate today.

Five years since I spanked it and sent it on its way.

Two thousand days of living! So I am on a high.

I love being five years older!

It means I didn't die!

Uncle Remus

UNCLE REMUS

Uncle Remus told a story, as was his usual habit,

About Brer Fox, a crafty one, and, yes, our friend Brer Rabbit.

Now both were clever creatures, we've known that for an age,

And both of them were capable of getting in a rage.

One day, to trap Brer Rabbit, Brer Fox hatched up a plot.

He found some tar, all sticky and, from the sun, quite hot.

He fashioned it (I wonder how) into a sort of creature

With body, limbs and hair and face, yes, every human feature.

He propped it up against a rock and said to himself  'Well, maybe

I can catch Brer Rabbit with this doll, this beautiful Tar Baby!'

He hid behind a leafy bush as Brer Rabbit walked along,

Twirling his cheeky whiskers and singing a little song.

'Trala! Tralee!' sang the Rabbit 'I'm happy being me!

But, hey! I see a stranger! Who can this fellow be?'

Now Brer Rabbit loved to make new friends, so up he spoke, on cue.

He went right up to the Tar Baby and said 'How do you do?'

Of course, there was no answer, for Tar Babies don't talk!

(And there'd have been no story if the Rabbit continued to walk!)

'Where are your manners, Baby?' Brer Rabbit said outright;

'Answer me when I speak to you! Just try to be polite!'

The Tar Baby just sat quite dumb, and didn't say a word.

'Answer me, you varmint! I greeted you! You heard!'

Now the Rabbit made his great mistake, he struck a fighting pose

And with his paw he punched the Baby on its little nose!

Of course, Brer Rabbit's paw got stuck! Oh how tight tar can stick!

And at once he realised that he'd been victim of a trick.

In desperation he began to punch and writhe and shout,

But soon he was enmeshed in tar and unable to get out.

Poor Rabbit!  What a sorry sight! Black and sticky! Trapped!

And then the laughing Fox emerged! Oh how he cheered and clapped!

'What shall I do with you, Brother?' said the Fox, with the upper hand.

'You are entirely in my power, as I'm sure you understand.'

He thought a bit, that wily Fox, with his paw beneath his chin

And then announced 'The river! I'm going to throw you in!

Rabbits can't swim!' the Fox rejoiced, 'So you will drown for sure!

And then I won't be troubled by Brer Rabbit any more!'

Did I tell you that Brer Rabbit was well endowed with brains?

He quickly found a way to turn his losses into gains.

'Please throw me in the river, Brother Fox, for I feel dry!

But don't throw me in the briar-bush for I shall surely die!

The wretched thorns will get me and poke out both my eyes!'

Thus did the Rabbit continue, with loud and heartfelt cries.

'I'm wanting you to suffer' said the Fox , 'The river's out!

But I've thought of something deadlier you haven't thought about.

I'm going to build a blazing fire and throw you in the flames!

I'm tired of all your fooling and silly Rabbit games!'

'Please throw me in the fire, Brer Fox!' Brer Rabbit quickly said;

'But not into the briar-bush or I will end up dead!'

'Since fire doesn't scare you, I'll hang you from a tree!'

Said the wicked Fox, licking his lips, and grinning nastily.

'Please hang me from the nearest tree!' said the Rabbit 'With a rope!
But don't throw me in the briar-bush or I will have no hope!

I love to swing from the branches but, Fox, I'm on my knees…..

Don't throw me in the briar-bush! Please! I beg you! Please!'

'It seems you love to swing from trees and you fancy licking flames,

And you also  like rushing rivers! I'm tired of your fun and games!'

Said the Fox, and then he continued 'To cause you maximum woe,

Into the nearest briar-bush Mr Rabbit you will go!'

He tugged and pulled at Brer Rabbit, till, at last, he had him free,

While the Rabbit moaned and screamed and wailed, a picture of misery.

The Fox found the nearest briar-bush, swung Rabbit by the ears,

And threw him into the briar-bush, the greatest of all his fears!

At once, Brer Rabbit sat up and grinned, as only a Rabbit can,

Knowing he'd tricked the wicked Fox and ruined his ghastly plan.

'I was born and bred in a briar-patch! I'm going to live, not die!

You're bigger than me, but you've got no brains Mr Fox! Goodbye!'

With that he hopped out of the briar-bush, over the hills and away.

Brer Rabbit escaped and we know he lived to fight another day!