megustaleer

4th booster? I had my spring booster, and the winter booster is not starting until next week - when were the other two? ..................................................................................................................................................... Christmas catalogues now arriving, got my first a fortnight ago and a couple more since.

Good to see you here, Mister Hg. I will look out for your book reviews, they are always interesting. I have often been temped to read a particular book on the basis of your review. Or was until the list got longer than I could catch up with!

Presumably, but it would be good if that was made clear

Author?

And me.

Bookgroup Online has reached the end of the road and will close on June 6th.

I presume I came across Noddy first, as my early reading days were well before they drew the attention of the PC police. However,I have no memory of actually reading them. I think the first Enid Blyton I recall, possibly at aged about seven, was the Faraway Tree trilogy: The Magic Wood, The Faraway Tree and The Folk of The Faraway Tree. They were not my books, but belonged to my best friend, so were probably my first experience of talking about books with another reader and started me on a life-long involvement with reading groups. I still remember with fondness the inhabitants of these books, Moon-Face, Silky the fairy, The Saucepan Man, Dame Washalot, and many others. Thanks to Suzanne for starting this thread and bringing back memories of a very happy period of my childhood.

There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground, And swallows circling with their shimmering sound; And frogs in the pools singing at night, And wild plum trees in tremulous white Robins will wear their feathery fire, Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire; And not one will know of the war, not one Will care at last when it is done. Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree, If mankind perished utterly; And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn Would scarcely know that we were gone. There Will Come Soft Rains - Sara Teasdale

St George was out walking He met a dragon on a hill, It was wise and wonderful Too glorious to kill It slept amongst the wild thyme Where the oxlips and violets grow Its skin was a luminous fire That made the English landscape glow Its tears were England’s crystal rivers Its breath the mist on England’s moors Its larder was England’s orchards, Its house was without doors St George was in awe of it It was a thing apart He hid the sleeping dragon Inside every English heart So on this day let’s celebrate England’s valleys full of light, The green fire of the landscape Lakes shivering with delight Let’s celebrate St George’s Day, The dragon in repose; The brilliant lark ascending, The yew, the oak, the rose The True Dragon - Brian Patten

Between the brown hands of a server-lad The silver cross was offered to be kissed. The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad, And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced. (And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.) Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had, (And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.) Young children came, with eager lips and glad. (These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.) Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte. Above the crucifix I bent my head: The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead: And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling. (I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.) Maundy Thursday - Wilfred Owen

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green, Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes, Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes. I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration, Faces of people streaming across my gaze. And I, what fountain of fire am I among This leaping combustion of spring? My spirit is tossed About like a shadow buffeted in the throng Of flames, a shadow that’s gone astray, and is lost. The Enkindled Spring - D.H. Lawrence

One for St Patrick's Day When things go wrong and will not come right Though you do the best you can When life looks black as the hour of night A pint of plain is your only man When money's tight and hard to get And your horse has also ran When all you have is a heap of debt A pint of plain is your only man When health is bad and your heart feels strange And your face is pale and wan When doctors say you need a change A pint of plain is your only man When food is scarce and your larder bare And no rashers grease your pan When hunger grows as your meals are rare A pint of plain is your only man In time of trouble and lousy strife You have still got a darling plan You still can turn to a brighter life A pint of plain is your only man The Workman’s Friend - Flann O’Brien

And one for Shrove Tuesday, by Christina Rossetti: Mix a pancake, Mix a pancake, Stir a pancake, Pop it in the pan; Fry the pancake, Toss the pancake— Catch it if you can.

A bit of Dylan Thomas for St David's Day Here In This Spring Here in this spring, stars float along the void; Here in this ornamental winter Down pelts the naked weather; This summer buries a spring bird. Symbols are selected from the years' Slow rounding of four seasons' coasts, In autumn teach three seasons' fires And four birds' notes. I should tell summer from the trees, the worms Tell, if at all, the winter's storms Or the funeral of the sun; I should learn spring by the cuckooing, And the slug should teach me destruction. A worm tells summer better than the clock, The slug's a living calendar of days; What shall it tell me if a timeless insect Says the world wears away?

A few days late with this, but for those with leftover haggis still to eat, here are the first three stanzas of the traditional Burns Night greeting on its arrival at the table Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o' a grace As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o need, While thro your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An cut you up wi ready slight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich! Address To A Haggis - Robert Burns