Labor Day

Today we celebrate the man who, with the Lord's help, makes our life of literature, music, art and nature possible~ Mr. Honey.

And we celebrate the ability to work-- the habits slowly ingraining themselves into my children: laundry, dishes, tidying up. Little by little, bit by bit, made easier by a song and a kind word.

We celebrate the work of our parents and grandparents, who sacrificed for us and raised us up to enjoy life and work for others. And the work of our Lord, which is finished and complete, lacking nothing.

A little Labor Day history. I find it interesting to note that the reason Labor Day in the U.S. is not on May 1 (as it is in some other countries) is because President Cleveland, while wanting to honor workers, did not want to strengthen the socialist movement in the United States.

And some Walt Whitman:

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;
Those of mechanics-- each one singing his, as it should be, blithe and strong;
The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam;
The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work;
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat-- the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench-- the hatter singing as he stands;
The woodcutter's song-- the ploughboy's, on his way in the morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;
The delicious singing of the mother-- or of the young wife at work-- or of the girl sewing or washing-- each singing what belongs to her and none else;
The day what belongs to the day-- at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths, their strong, melodious songs.

For more of Mr. Whitman, see the Carol of Occupations.

Here at home, Fanfare for the Common Man plays (along with other Copland favorites) and we rejoice in a day spent with Daddy. We are off to eat spareribs with the grandparents and revel in free time, as rain falls on our thirsty land.

Ecstasy

Sometimes a light surprises the Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises with healing in His wings;
When comforts are declining He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining to cheer it after rain.

Oh, had I wings, I would fly away and be at rest,
And I'd praise God in His bright abode!

In holy contemplation, we sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation, and find it ever new;
Set free from present sorrow, we cheerfully can say
E'en let the unknown morrow bring with it what it may.

Oh, had I wings, I would fly away and be at rest,
And I'd praise God in His bright abode!

It can bring with it nothing but He will bear us through
Who gives the lilies clothing will clothe His people too;
Beneath the spreading heaven no creature but is fed;
And He who feeds the ravens will give his children bread.

Oh, had I wings, I would fly away and be at rest,
And I'd praise God in His bright abode!

Tho' vine nor fig tree neither their wonted fruit shall bear,
Though all the field should wither, nor flocks nor herds be there,
Yet God the same abiding, His strength shall tune my voice;
For while in Him confiding, I cannot but rejoice.

Oh, had I wings, I would fly away and be at rest,
And I'd praise God in His bright abode!

--William Cowper, 1731-1800 (1779)

Mary Bennett and Mr. Collins

Triss and I are reading _Pride and Prejudice_ together. We have gotten as far as the ball at Netherfield. I was looking over the ol' blog tonight, when it suddenly occurred to me that sometimes my writing reads as ridiculous as the speeches of Mr. Collins and Mary Bennett. (LOL!) Purely unintentional, I assure you. I will attempt in future to be more natural and less longwinded in my figuring-out-of-things. :o) Yeah, we'll see how that goes.

Ah well, we all have to be something in this life. At least Mr. Collins and Mary Bennett are amusing.