Mister Scribbles

“This out of all will remain—    They have lived and have tossed: So much of the game will be gain,    Though the gold of the dice has been lost.” They limped painfully down the bank, and once the foremost of the two men staggered among the rough-strewn rocks.  They were tired and weak, and their faces had the drawn expression of patience which comes of hardship long endured.  They were heavily burdened with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders.  Head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support these packs.  Each man carried a rifle.  They walked in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head still farther forward, the eyes bent upon the ground. “I wish we had just about two of them cartridges that’s layin’ in that cache of ourn,” said the second man. His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless.  He spoke without enthusiasm; and the first man, limping into the milky stream that foamed over...

1965 or so, and I think that's my sister's hand holding the photo.  Full circle!   Mom always liked me best.  

youtu.be/-GPIGi2-r4I Johann Peter Schickele, July 17, 1935 – January 16, 2024.  (P. D. Q. Bach, the "youngest and the oddest" of the twenty-some children of Johann Sebastian Bach).

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)     Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,     And saw, within the moonlight in his room,     Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,     An angel writing in a book of gold:—     Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,     And to the presence in the room he said,     "What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,     And with a look made of all sweet accord,     Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."     "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"     Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,     But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,     Write me as one that loves his fellow men."           The angel wrote, and vanished. ...

Sir William Quiller Orchardson, 1880.     A 74 gun third rate, the 'Billy Ruffian' saw it's share of action in the war with Napoleon's France.  The Emperor boarded the Bellerophon in 1815 to surrender, the beginning of his exile to St. Helena.  This stunning picture shows Napoleon as he must have looked.  The difference between victor and vanquished has been overturned here, Bonaparte is clearly thinking of how he will achieve his path back to power, and he was going to get it, you can bet. The powder monkey leaning over the rail and pointing his arse at the Emperor has no significance at all.

(Blood) understood the Native mind. He said: "We must be firm but kind." A Mutiny resulted. I never shall forget the way That Blood upon this awful day Preserved us all from death. He stood upon a little mound, Cast his lethargic eyes around, And said beneath his breath: "Whatever happens we have got The Maxim Gun, and they have not." Hillaire Belloc, The Modern Traveller . 1898. Photo of Henry Morton Stanley, who carried a Maxim gun on one of his expeditions.

 Robert Crumb is the best.

 I started this November 1st, All Souls Day.  I just couldn't bring myself to draw anymore of the same old thing yet I have to finish what I start, OCD speaking.  Whatever.  Billy has a bad conscience and a worse conscience and they both hate him.

`Consider your verdict,' the King said to the jury. `Not yet, not yet!' the Rabbit hastily interrupted. `There's a great deal to come before that!' `Call the first witness,' said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and called out, `First witness!' The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. `I beg pardon, your Majesty,' he began, `for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished my tea when I was sent for.' Mad Hatter arrives hastily in court to testify `You ought to have finished,' said the King. `When did you begin?' The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. `Fourteenth of March, I think it was,' he said. `Fifteenth,' said the March Hare. `Sixteenth,' added the Dormouse. `Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the ju...

This is Charlene, the world's most spoiled owl.  She is a Great Horned.  Those tufts are not ears but feathers, known as plumicorns.  They probably act as 'curb feelers' when the owl is flying through trees and brush in search of prey.  She has over 20,000 feathers, and would be totally silent as she flew.  Mice have no chance against a predator like this.  Charlene has a low opinion of me, and hisses and clacks her beak when I get near.  She has almost no attention span, although that is certainly a design to maximize survival.  Who, indeed.

On a September morning in 1912, French painter Paul Chabas finished the painting he had been working on for three consecutive summers. Thus completed, it was aptly titled "Matinee de Septembre" (September Morn). As was typical of his style, the painting was of young maiden posed nude in a natural setting. This time the icy morning waters of Lake Annecy in Upper Savoy formed the natural setting and the maiden was a local peasant girl. The head, however, had been painted from the sketch of a young American girl, Julie Phillips (later Mrs. Thompson), which he had made while she and her mother were sitting in a Paris cafe. Apparently, he had found her profile to be exactly what he was looking for. The completed painting was then sent off to the Paris Salon of 1912 to be exhibited. Although the painting won Mr. Chabas the Medal of Honor, it caused no flurry of attention. Hoping to find a buyer, the artist shipped the painting overseas to an American gallery. It was here in Americ...

The children pressed to each other like so many roses, so many weeds, intermixed, peering out for a look at the hidden sun. It rained. It had been raining for seven years; thousand upon thousands of days compounded and filled from one end to the other with rain, with the drum and gush of water, with the sweet crystal fall of showers and the concussion of storms so heavy they were tidal waves come over the islands. A thousand forests had been crushed under the rain and grown up a thousand times to be crushed again. And this was the way life was forever on the planet Venus, and this was the schoolroom of the children of the rocket men and women who had come to a raining world to set up civilization and live out their lives. “It’s stopping, it’s stopping!” “Yes, yes!” Margot stood apart from these children who could never remember a time when there wasn’t rain and rain and rain. They were all nine years old, and if there had been a day, seven years ago, when the sun came out for an hour a...