Remember, Man. . .

This was supposed to go up for Ash Wedesday, but I am at the mercy of the library computer for a couple of days. Not a cheery song, but oddly haunting.

'Tis the First Moth of Winter

It's the time of year when bold and early moths might be sighted, and while it always comes as a pleasant surprise to run across one, this is certainly the first time that I have had the delight of having the year's first moth literally handed to me. . .Also, it is the first one in my experience that has been made of paper. I have marvellous students.

Merry Indeed!

I had been long suffering under the impression that a book review was a utilitarian form of writing. Not that I don't appreciate the help a good one gives, whether to point me at something I should read, steer me away from something I shouldn't, or highlight all the points I missed in something that I already did. I cannot say, however that I ever enjoyed a book review with anything beyond a mild appreciation, a timid awe, or perhaps, in the case of something I had already read, with a certain sense of polite camaraderie with the reviewer. Until this morning, that is. I can now say that I have read a book review that, of itself, just plain made me glad to be alive. A good, and a boisterous review, a cheery, brawling, quarter-staff-wielding--oh really, never mind all of this introduction. Just go and read what Sean Fitzpatrick wrote about Howard Pyle's The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood. It's jolly!