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Posted on 11/03/2004 6:16:42 PM PST by HairOfTheDog
Eleventh Thread: Wedding Edition: The Hobbit Hole XI - No One Admitted Except on Wedding Business!
New verse:
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Upon the hearth the fire is red, |
Still round the corner there may wait |
Home is behind, the world ahead, |
Evening Sam - "wild turkey" that should get a few comments. Smoked turkey is great, someday we may try doing it that ourselves.
A few years ago we took a couple pheasants in to a BBQ place for smoking. Turned out quite nice. Had to keep an eye out for #6 shot though.
Aw, man! Another of my favorites gone...
http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1273740/posts
Truly, truly one of my favorites.
Makes me want to get out Kiss Me Kate and Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.
My daughter ran over a squirrel yesterday, she is distraught.
If it's contained to one area, it might be a good idea to have that board replaced when the windows are done. Might be something in that one section of wood.
Well she made the right decision. This is not coming as a squirrel-hater but I've heard of people being killed in car wrecks sweerving to avoid squirrels in the road.
The key is knowing your abilities, then stickin' within 'em... good on yuh...
thanks fer the kudos... that is actually my second turkey with a crossbow... my first was four years ago at 30 yards... takin' one with a crossbow ain't near as challengin' as with a bow...
mmmmmmmm... turkey on the smoker...
Maybe I should go around the house pushing on wallboard. LOL
Dang! With all these commercials Frodo will never get to Mordor.
I'm trying to figure out whether I should tell her about the time I was driving 60mph or so down a curvy rural road in VA, when the car in front of me hit a squirrel, it was still twitching as I went past, split seconds later.
So I turned around and ran over it again, put it out of its misery.
Man, are you actually better, Corin? After all this time?
"Bump- bump"
"Back up. You've killed a squirrel!"
"Bump- bump"
heh heh... kewl... you just racked up 20 cool points fer that one...
what is this "sweerving" of which you speak?...
The combined action of swearing and swerving.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead--it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Sweerving: verb/ The combined action of swearing and swerving. Usually used in the context of a bitter person steering the automobile so as to run over a rodent.
I'll buy that...
classic... thanks...
~smiles~
Our (very libertarian and somewhat insane) neighbor from when I was growing up has that whole poem memorized and will ramble it off with very little prompting.
It's an interesting one, in any case! ;-)
can I have this?...
please?...
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