Notes From Here

Here’s a fun one:

Crockett’s Daughters:

I always had the praise o’ raisin the tallest and fattest, and sassyest gals in all America. They can out-run, out-]ump, out-fight, and out-scream any crittur in creation; and for scratchin’, thar’s not a hungry painter, or a patent horse-rake can hold a claw to ’em. . .   The oldest one growed so etarnally tall that her head had got nearly out o’ sight, when she got into an all-thunderin’ fight with a thunder storm that stunted her growth, and now I am afraid that she’ll never reach her natural size. Still, it takes a hull winter’s weavin’ to make her walkin’ and bed clothes; and when she goes to bed, she’s so tarnal long, and sleeps so sound, that we can only waken her by degrees, and that’s by chopping firewood on her shins. .   An’ I guess I shall never forget how all horrificaciously flumexed a hull party of Indians war, the time they surprised and seized my middle darter, Thebeann, when she war out gatherin’ birch bark to make a canoe. The varmints knew as soon as they got hold of her that she war one of my breed, by her thunderbolt kickin’, and they determined to cook half of her and eat the other half alive, out of revenge for the many lickin’s I gin ’em.  At last they concluded to tie her to a tree, and kindle a fire around her. But they couldn’t come it, for while they war gone for wood, a lot of painters that war looking on at the cowardly work, war so gal-vanised an’ pleased with the gal’s true grit that they formed a guard around her, and wouldn’t allow the red (varmints) to come within smellin’ distance; they actually gnawed her loose, an’ ’scorted her half way home.  But the youngest o’ my darters takes arter me, and is of the regular earthquake natur. Her body’s flint rock, her soul’s lightnin’, her fist is a thunderbolt, and her teeth can out-cut any steam-mill saw in creation. She is a parfect infant prodigy, being Only six years old; she has the biggest foot and widest mouth in all the west, and when She grins, she is splendifferous; she shows most beautiful intarnals, and can scare a flock o’ wolves to total terrifications.  Well, one day, my sweet little infant was walking in the woods, and amusing herself by picking up Walnuts, and cracking them with her front grindstones, when suddenaciously she stumbled over an almitey great hungry he-barr..  The critter seein’ her fine red shoulders bare, sprung at her as if determined to feast upon Crockett meat. He gin her a savaggerous hug, and was jist about biting a regular buss out on her check, when the child, resentin’ her insulted vartue, gin him a kick with her south fist in his digestion that made him hug the arth instanterly.  Jist as he war a-comin’ to her a second time, the little gal grinned sich a double streak o’ blue lightnin into his mouth that it cooked the critter to death as quick as think. She brought him home for dinner. She’ll be a thunderin’ fine gal when she gets her nateral growth, if her stock o’ Crockett lightnin don’t burst her biler, and blow her up.

David Crockett

Notes From Here

America The Beautiful by Katharine Lee Bates
(inspired looking down on the Colorado plain from Pike’s Peak)

Original Lyrics

Original poem (1893)

America. A Poem for July 4.

O beautiful for spacious skies,

For amber waves of grain,

For purple mountain majesties

Above the enameled plain!

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee,

Till souls wax fair as earth and air

And music-hearted sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet

Whose stern, impassioned stress

A thoroughfare for freedom beat

Across the wilderness!

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee

Till paths be wrought through wilds of thought

By pilgrim foot and knee!

O beautiful for glory-tale

Of liberating strife,

When once or twice, for man’s avail,

Men lavished precious life!

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee

Till selfish gain no longer stain,

The banner of the free!

O beautiful for patriot dream

That sees beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears!

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee

Till nobler men keep once again

Thy whiter jubilee!

1904 version

O beautiful for spacious skies,

For amber waves of grain,

For purple mountain majesties

Above the fruited plain!

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee,

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet

Whose stern impassioned stress

A thoroughfare for freedom beat

Across the wilderness.

America! America!

God mend thine ev’ry flaw,

Confirm thy soul in self-control,

Thy liberty in law.

O beautiful for glorious tale

Of liberating strife,

When valiantly for man’s avail

Men lavish precious life.

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

Till all success be nobleness,

And ev’ry gain divine.

O beautiful for patriot dream

That sees beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears.

America! America!

God shed His grace on thee,

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea.

1913 version

O beautiful for spacious skies,

For amber waves of grain,

For purple mountain majesties

Above the fruited plain!

America! America!

God shed his grace on thee

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet

Whose stern impassioned stress

A thoroughfare of freedom beat

Across the wilderness!

America! America!

God mend thine every flaw,

Confirm thy soul in self-control,

Thy liberty in law!

O beautiful for heroes proved

In liberating strife.

Who more than self their country loved

And mercy more than life!

America! America!

May God thy gold refine

Till all success be nobleness

And every gain divine!

O beautiful for patriot dream

That sees beyond the years

Thine alabaster cities gleam

Undimmed by human tears!

America! America!

God shed his grace on thee

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea!

Poems From Here

As promised here’s that one I wrote…and re-wrote…and re-wrote…and re-wrote…a companion of mine over the years. Just hope she approves of it. If she ever sees it, that is. I can only be so sorry and then just make up stupid poems hoping she’ll come back. Or, at the least, forgive me.