QUOTE FOR THE DAY

"A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt. If the game runs sometimes against us at home we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake," 

- Thomas Jefferson, in a letter to John Taylor, June 4, 1798.

DID YOU KNOW THAT ABRAHAM LINCOLN WAS A POET?

Well, actually - 

Abraham Lincoln neither wrote, nor attempted to write, much verse. What little he did write was perhaps the product of a sort of mental exercise—to gratify an impulse to see what he could do. . . . - The Atlantic archives, Via THE DISH.

THE BEAR HUNT

by - A. Lincoln

A wild bear chase didst never see?
            Then hast thou lived in vain—
Thy richest bump of glorious glee
            Lies desert in they brain.

When first my father settled here,
            ’T was then the frontier line;
The panther’s scream filled night with fear
            And bears preyed on the swine.

But woe for bruin’s short-lived fun
            When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun
            For vengeance at him fly.

A sound of danger strikes his ear;
            He gives the breeze a snuff;
Away he bounds, with little fear,
            And seeks the tangled rough.

On press his foes, and reach the ground
            Where’s left his half-munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around
            And find his fresh made trail.

With instant cry, away they dash,
            And me at fast pursue;
O’er logs they leap, through water splash
            And shout the brisk halloo.

Now to elude the eager pack
            Bear shuns the open ground,
Through matted vines he shapes his track,
            And runs it, round and round.

The tall, fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice
           Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice¹
            Are yelping far behind.

And fresh recruits are dropping in
            To join the merry corps;
With yelp and yell, a mingled din—
            The woods are in a roar—

And round, and round the chase now goes,
            The world ’s alive with fun;
Nick Carter’s horse his rider throws,
            And Mose Hill drops his gun.

Now, sorely pressed, bear glances  back,
            And lolls his tired tongue,
When as, to force him from his track
            An ambush on him sprung.

Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
            And fully is in view—
The dogs, new fired by the sight
            Their cry and speed renew.

The foremost ones now reach his rear;
            He turns, they dash away,
And circling now the wrathful bear
            They have him full at bay.

At top of speed the horsemen come,
            All screaming in a row—
‘Whoop!’ ‘Take him, Tiger!’ ‘Seize him, Drum!’
            Bang—Bang!  the rifles go!

And furious now, the dogs he tears,
            And crushes in his ire—
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
            With eyes of burning fire.

But leaden death is at his heart—
            Vain all the strength he plies,
And, spouting blood from every part,
            He reels, and sinks, and dies!

And now a dinsome clamor rose,—
            ‘But who should have his skin?’
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows
            This prize must always win.

But, who did this, and how to trace
            What ’s true from what ’s a lie,—
Like lawyers in a murder case
            They stoutly argufy.

Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood,
            Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood
            Arrives upon the spot.

With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair
            Brim full of spunk and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear
            And shakes for life and death—

And swells, as if his skin would tear,
            And growls, and shakes again,
And swears, as plain as dog can swear
            That he has won the skin!

Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee,
            Nor mind that not a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be
            Conceited quite as you.


A small dog of nondescript breed. Local, U. S. A. — The Editor

A NUMBERS GAME

MEASURE OF AMERICA

From the American Human Development Project,
an incredible interactive map showing health, education, and income by state.

Just something to think about.

A SECRET GIFT: Hope

 
 A Secret Gift: How One Man's Kindness--And a Trove of Letters--Revealed the Hidden History of the Great Depression - Ted Gup

In telling their stories, the book becomes a portrait of endurance and recovery, as well as of a community in the throes of the Great Depression.

[...]Assistance programs there frequently ran out of food. Malnourished children in homes their parents couldn’t afford to heat got sick; some died.

The devastation hit all levels [...]

The letters, Gup writes, “reminded me of the difference between discomfort and misery, between the complaints of consumers forced to rein in their spending and the keening of parents whose children went hungry night after night.” They also show that a gesture of generosity can deliver, along with small relief, good fortune that rings with hope.

YEAH, STILL.

Edvard Munch: The Frieze of Life.

STILL . . .

IT WAS JUST A MATTER OF TIME UNTILL IT GOT TO ME

A GIFT OF HOPE

A Secret Gift: How One Man's Kindness--And a Trove of Letters--Revealed the Hidden History of the Great Depression
_ Ted Gup

In telling their stories, the book becomes a portrait of endurance and recovery, as well as of a community in the throes of the Great Depression.

Before the stock market crash of 1929, Canton was a busy industrial city, home to Hoover and Republic Steel. But it was kneecapped by the Depression, with unemployment running as high as 50 percent. Local banks failed, taking all the deposits with them. Assistance programs there frequently ran out of food. Malnourished children in homes their parents couldn’t afford to heat got sick; some died.

The devastation hit all levels: The people who received $5 from B. Virdot included a grocer who’d gone broke extending credit to his customers, and a man who lost his family’s mansion after putting it up as collateral for the farm machinery business he had inherited.

The letters, Gup writes, “reminded me of the difference between discomfort and misery, between the complaints of consumers forced to rein in their spending and the keening of parents whose children went hungry night after night.” They also show that a gesture of generosity can deliver, along with small relief, good fortune that rings with hope.