Sceptics

We live in an era in which our children are not allowed to celebrate "Christmas" in their classrooms, it is argued that church property should be taxed, and malcontents complain about the ringing of church bells—(because it's too early for them to go Sunday shopping?)  In that context it is interesting to know that this little doggerel was written over a century ago.

 

 

The Sceptics

 

Said Grass, "What is that sound

So dismally profound,

That detonates and desolates the air?"

 

"That is St. Peter's bell,"

Said rain-wise Pimpernel;

"He is music to the godly,

Though to us he sounds so oddly,

And he terrifies the faithful unto prayer."

 

Said Grass, "And whither track

These creatures all in black,

So woebegone and penitent and meek?"

 

"They're mortals bound for church,"

Said the little Silver Birch;

"They hope to get to heaven

And have their sins forgiven,

If they talk to God about it once a week."

 

Said Grass, "What is that noise

That startles and destroys

Our blessed summer brooding when we're tired?"

 

"That's folk a-praising God,"

Said the tough old cynic Clod;

"They do it every Sunday,

They'll be all right on Monday;

It's just a little habit they've acquired."

 

                        --Bliss Carman  (the guy who wrote "The Ships of Yule")

 

 

In another aside, now that I'm forced to arise at 2:30 AM for a 4:00 AM shift and although we live in a 24/7 society it would seem the world still begins at 7:00. I'm beginning to feel a mild sense of discrimination.  Weather reports refer to tonight's weather—but it's actually last night's; today in history is a day old; the comics are yesterday's; and the news is history.