After Sunday's column on daffodils, a reader named Gil Osgood sent me the Wordsworth poem entitled, simply, "Daffodils."
I
wandered lonely as a cloud
That
floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When
all at once I saw a crowd,
A
host, of golden daffodils;
Beside
the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering
and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous
as the stars that shine
And
twinkle on the milky way,
They
stretched in never-ending line
Along
the margin of a bay:
Ten
thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing
their heads in sprightly dance.
The
waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did
the sparkling waves in glee:
A
poet could not but be gay,
In
such a jocund company:
I
gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What
wealth the show to me had brought:
For
oft, when on my couch I lie
In
vacant or in pensive mood,
They
flash upon that inward eye
Which
is the bliss of solitude;
And
then my heart with pleasure fills,
And
dances with the daffodils.
I wondered why I had never run across this gem before. It just Says It, which good poetry ought to do.
A young writer-lady from New York named Angela Zehr sent me an old story by William E. Barton called The Millionaire and the Scrublady.
There is a certian Millionaire, who hath his Offices on the Second Floor of the First National Bank Building. And when he goeth up to his Offices he rideth in the Elevator, but when he goeth down, he walketh.
And he is an haughty man, who was once
poor and hath risen in the World. He is a self-made Man who worshipeth his
maker.
And he payeth his Rent regularly on the
first day of the month, and he considereth not that there are Human Beings who
run the Elevators, and who Clean the Windows, hanging at a great height above
the Sidewalk, and who shovel Coal into the furnace under the Boilers. Neither
doth he at Christmas time remember any of them with a Tip or a
Turkey.
And there is in that Building a Poor Woman
who Scrubbeth the Stairs and the Halls. And he hath walked past her often but
hath never seen her until Recently. For his head was high in the air and he was
thinking of More Millions.
Now it came to pass that on a day that he
left his Office, and started to walk down the Stairs.
And the Scrublady was halfway down; for
she had begun at the top and was giving the stairs their first Onceover. And
upon the topmost Stair, in a wet and soapy spot, there was a Large Cake of Soap.
And the Millionaire stepped on it.
Now the foot which he set upon the Soap
flew eastward toward the sunrise, and the other foot started on an expedition of
its own toward the going down of the Sun. And the Millionaire sat down on the
Topmost Step, but he did not remain there. As it had been his intention to
Descend, so he Descended, but not in the manner of his Original Design. And as
he descended he struck each step with a sound as if he had been a Drum.
And the Scrublady stood aside courteously,
and let him go.
And at the bottom he arose, and considered
whether he should rush into the Office of the Building and demand that the
Scrublady be fired; but he considered that if he should tell the reason there
would be great Mirth among the occupants of the Building. And so he held his
peace.
But since that day he taketh notice of the
Scrublady, and passeth her with Circumspection.
For there is none so high and mighty that
he can afford to ignore any of his fellow human beings. For a very Humble
Scrublady and a very common bar of Yellow Soap can take the mind of a Great Man
off his Business Troubles with surprising rapidity.
Wherefore, consider these things, and
count not thyself too high above even the humblest of the children of God.
Lest haply thou come down from thy place
of pride and walk off with thy bruises aching a little more by reason of thy
suspicion that the Scrublady is Smiling in her Suds, and facing the day's work
the more cheerfully by reason of the fun thou hast afforded her.
For these are solemn days, and he that
bringeth a smile to the face of a Scrublady hath not lived in vain.
I do love stories, and especially old ones.
Then, Nature and a sunny day sent me a little chickadee who spent most of three days attacking his reflection in my office window in wild displays of flapping, pounding, and fluttering. "More skull than brains," was Ben's assessment of this determined creature. I can only imagine what the bird's wife had to say. She'd come by now and then and sit in the bare branches of the camellia bush to check on him and keep him company as he rested from another round.
As Mrs. Chickadee watched Mr., you could sort of sense the mounting tension in their marriage as the look on her face said, "Aren't you about DONE?" and, "Seriously, let's just go HOME." He always insisted he just needed one more round and he would win for sure--he was pretty sure the bird in the window was getting tired.
But Mrs. Chickadee had apparently read my friend Dorcas Stutzman's new book, Trust or Control,* so she wouldn't stay around and nag but instead left him to his fighting and calmly flew off to meet a friend for coffee in the redwood tree.
*Yet another thing I was sent, out of the blue, by someone just being nice.
And I got my best shot ever of a wild bird.
The final happy item I was sent was a text from my sister Margaret, which is always entertaining. The background for this one is the post from January of 2013 in which I described going shopping at "Lizzie Wenger's," her Dutchy neighbor in Pennsylvania with all the barns and sheds full of STUFF. I thought it qualified as:
Quote of the Day:
"I noticed yesterday shopping at Lizzy's that the regulator for the pressure cooker must be easy to steal...there was a note taped on top...SEE ME FOR THE CHICKLER."
Your QOTD has me chuckling! Reminded me of an old Amish neighbor lady we had who said "Chonason, Chudus, and Choyce". (Jonathan, Judith, Joyce)
ReplyDeleteI loved the old story of the Millionaire and the Scrubwoman! How true an example of the blinders we may have.
ReplyDeleteTabitha
CHICKLER - oh my word, that made me laugh!
ReplyDeleteMy birthday is in March, so I am always tuned for daffodils. I had that Wordsworth poem in a children's poetry book - loved it always.
You can find more delightful stories like the Millionaire and the Scrublady, in his book...Parables of a Country Parson. Its one of my favorites.
ReplyDeleteChristine