I was born in Maryland and spent my first thirty years living there, first in the Appalachian Mountains, then on the Eastern Shore, and later in suburban Washington. After a year in South Carolina, I moved to Georgia in 1977. I soon met another park ranger who worked in Florida. She was a wonderful woman who became my best friend. then my wife, and soon the mother of our three children. I spent over eleven years working in the historic city of Savannah, Georgia, and on the moss-draped sea islands nearby before moving to Atlanta.. In 2007, I retired from the National Park Service and a career dedicated to preserving and interpreting resources and themes in the cultural and natural history of the United States. It was a most rewarding experience. Today, I enjoy living in the rolling hills and woods of the Appalachian Piedmont east of Atlanta.
On this day in 1517, Martin Luther posted ninety-five theses on the door of All Saints Church in Wittenburg, Germany. He could no longer tolerate what he thought were errors within the Catholic church, including the collection of increasingly commercialized indulgences said to reduce the punishment of sinners seeking salvation. Today, Protestants commemorate this event every October 31 as Reformation Day. Luther chose this day, All Hallows Eve, because he knew the church would be filled with influential people within and outside the church as they gathered for a vigil in preparation for All Saints Day on November 1 and on the festival day itself. Luther's action became the tipping point for reformation within the Christian church.
Luther As An Augustinian Monk Lucas Cranack the Elder, 16th century
Eight years later, Johann Sebastian Bach, the musical voice of the Reformation in the Baroque period, wrote the following cantata for Reformation Day 1725:
Gott der Her ist Sonn und Schild
1. Chorus
God the Lord is sun and shield.
The Lord gives grace and honor,
He will allow no good to be lacking from the righteous.
2. Aria A
God is our sun and shield!
Therefore this goodness
shall be praised by our grateful heart,
which He protects like His little flock.
For He will protect us from now on,
although the enemy sharpens his arrows
and a vicious hound already barks.
3. Chorale
Now let everyone thank God
with hearts, mouths, and hands,
Who does great things
for us and to all ends,
Who has done for us from our mother's wombs
and childhood on
many uncountable good things
and does so still today.
4. Recitative B
Praise God, we know
the right way to blessedness;
for, Jesus, You have revealed it to us through Your word,
therefore Your name shall be praised for all time.
Since, however, many yet
at this time
must labor under a foreign yoke
out of blindness,
ah! then have mercy
also on them graciously,
so that they recognize the right way
and simply call You their Intercessor.
5. Aria (Duet) S B
God, ah God, abandon Your own ones
never again!
Let Your word shine brightly for us;
although harshly
against us the enemy rages,
yet our mouths shall praise You.
6. Chorale
Uphold us in the truth,
grant eternal freedom,
to praise Your name
through Jesus Christ. Amen.
Martin Luther Seminary, Mequon, Wisconsin
We can only imagine the exhilaration Luther had on posting his objections. He placed his worldly apprehensions in the hands of Jesus, continued to call for reform within the Catholic Church, and eventually developed a new vision of faith all the while professing he ramained a Catholic. Luther wrote a number of hymns based on scripture during his last three decades. A Mighty Fortress Is Our God (Ein feste Berg ist unser Gott) is perhaps the best known.
It's here!. An evening that promises to bring lots of fun to kids, and those who remember being kids, has finally arrived. Have a safe and happy Halloween and don't eat too much of your kid or grandkids treats.
The Adventures of Ichabod and Mister Toad, a Walt Disney film classic was released in 1949. The Ichabod adventure appeared again in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a 1955 production for the television series, Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color. I turned nine years old in 1955, still the perfect age for the big event. By that year, our gang on Wood Street had already been veterans at looking out for the Headless Horseman and his fiery pumpkin on Halloween. In western Maryland the night was always an adventure with freezing winds, sometimes rain, and even heavy snow showers that roared off Lake Erie about 140 miles to the northwest. Those Halloweens were unforgettable rites of passage for us.
Midnight tonight brings an end to our Halloween countdown. It is the last day to dream about the sights, sounds, and fun to be had, not to mention the treats. Tomorrow it will all be very real, but mask, mystery, and imagination will make it happen.
Today's music, words, and image will set the mood for what is to come:
The Raven
by Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
This it is and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
’Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”
But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
The Boathouse, Dylan Thomas's last home (1949-52), Laugharne, Carmarthenshire,Wales
Earlier in the week we remembered the American writer, Pat Conroy, but he's not the only significant writer born in late October. Today we recall the birthday (October 27, 1914) of the writer, Dylan Thomas. an artist whose work reflected his immersion in the themes and images of living on the coast of his beloved homeland, Wales . His lyrical descriptive writing, poetry and unforgettable voice brought him great fame in the United States in the decade prior to his untimely death in New York in 1953.
Thomas in a London park
Thomas and his native land have special meaning to me. My great grandparents on my father's side immigrated from Cardiff, Wales, to the United States in the 1870's. Though I never knew my grandmother - she died before my second year - my father often recalled how she took pride in her Celtic roots and the Welsh love for song and singing.
It is interesting that he should remember the talk of song and singing. Many critics and authorities write that Thomas's recitations are spoken words that approach song. Readers can reach their own conclusion by listening to the poet reading Poem in October, his recollections of his thirtieth birthday. Audio quality isn't the best. I suggest earphones and closed eyes for this sound journey if you choose not to read along at the link.
What an unforgettable voice. I first heard a recording of Thomas sometime in elementary school. There's a good chance few students in any grade have that opportunity today. How unfortunate. We often think education has come a long way over the last seven decades. Perhaps it has, but somewhere on that journey we have undoubtedly lost some very precious cultural experiences. If we could hear Thomas's truth singing every year, we would know so much better who we are as individuals and as a people.
Here is Thomas reciting most famous poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, a powerful, emotion-filled villanelle addressing the end of earthly life.
My family likely became aware of Thomas through his trips to the U.S. made over a span of about four years beginning in 1950. The journeys here always made sensational news for he was not only a rising star worshiped in metropolitan and university salons but also a boisterous character prone to drunkenness, colorful language, and wild behavior. Indeed, his trip to New York in 1953 ended in death from pneumonia likely brought on by his well-known excesses. One could say he covered the full spectrum of life and when he spoke of it in verse or prose he made music. It has been a pleasure to experience Thomas and his work for almost 70 years.
On our penultimate countdown day, here is a poem from the pen of the American editor, novelist, and satirist, John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922).
Hallowe'en
The ghosts of all things past parade,
Emerging from the mist and shade
That hid them from our gaze,
And, full of song and ringing mirth,
In one glad moment of rebirth,
And again they walk the ways of earth
As in the ancient days.
The beacon light shines on the hill,
The will-o'-wisps the forests fill
With flashes filched from noon;
And witches on their broomsticks spry
Speed here and yonder in the sky,
And lift their strident voices high
Unto the Hunter's Moon.
The air resounds with tuneful notes
From myriads of straining throats,
All hailing Folly Queen;
So join the swelling choral throng,
Forget your sorrow and your wrong,
In one glad hour of joyous song
To honor Hallowe'en!
Our International Art Publishing Company postcard dates from 1908 and is the work of the American illustrator, Bernhardt Wall (1872-1956). Wall was self-taught and at the height of his career was represented by as many as fifteen postcard companies. He is often called the "Postcard King" having illustrated more than 5000 cards, including a series of propaganda cards during World War I.
Our Halloween music today was composed by Paul Smith who worked for Walt Disney Productions for over thirty years beginning in 1930. In 1939 he won an Academy Award for his collaborative work on music for the film, Pinocchio. In following years he had seven additional Academy Award nominations for work on films, including Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella, Song of the South, and Three Caballeros. In all, Smith provided arrangements and scores for more than eighty animated and theatrical film projects for the Disney company. I was ten years old when this cartoon appeared and just beyond the peak of my trick or treating days. It's now a classic in the Disney archive and one I've enjoyed for 65 years. It's never aged and still makes me laugh.
Here's a perfect bit of brew for our run-up to Halloween. I wonder how many people graduate from high school these days without reading these lines or better yet hearing them in performance:
A dark Cave. In the middle, a Caldron boiling. Thunder. Enter the three Witches.
1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. 2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d. 3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time! 1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go; In the poison’d entrails throw.— Toad, that under cold stone, Days and nights has thirty-one; Swelter’d venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot! ALL. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting, Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,— For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf; Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark; Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark; Liver of blaspheming Jew; Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse; Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips; Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,— Make the gruel thick and slab: Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron, For the ingrediants of our caldron. ALL. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 2 WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood, Then the charm is firm and good.
Act IV, Scene 1 from Macbeth (1606) by William Shakespeare
Our graphic for today is an International Art Publishing Company postcard featuring the work of Ellen H. Clapsaddle' the leading card artist of her era. It's one of many the mysterious "Katherine" sent to my great uncle in 1911.
We end today's edition with a dance. Be sure to click the "Show More" link for a description of the story behind the music and the music itself.
Teddy Roosevelt at Union Station, Washington,DC, 1916
Theordore Roosevelt was born into a prominent New York family on this day in 1858. Through his strong determination and a robust program of excercise and outdoor activity, he overcame severe asthma in his youth to become our 26th President, serving from 1901 to 1909. On his way to the White House he wrung about as much out of life as possible. You can read a rather detailed outline of his life at his Wikipedia entry. For purposes of this post I would like to focus primarily on activities within our national park system that contributed to him being known as our conservation president. It is a remarkable record including law and policy that continues to impact us more than a century after its creation.
In his eight years as President, Teddy Roosevelt signed legislation creating five national parks:
Crater Lake, Oregon
Wind Cave, South Dakota
Sullys Hill, North Dakota (later deignated a wildlife preserve)
Mesa Verde, Colorado
Platt, Oklahoma (now a portion of Chickasaw National Recreation Area
Although the new national parks were landmarks in his presidency, his signing of legislation expressed in the Antiquities Act of 1906 would come to have a huge impact on our national landscape through the creation of national monuments. The act established the nation's first broad national historic preservation policy in addition to protecting natural resources. Futhermore, it allowed for the establsiment of such monuments through administrative action rather than legislation as had been done in the creation of Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming, in 1872 and Casa Grande Ruins, Arizona, in 1892. In a matter of months following his signature of the act, Roosevelt proclaimed four monuments:
Devils Tower, Wyoming
El Morro, New Mexico
Montezuma's Castle, Arizona
Petrified Forest, Arizona
Grand Canyon, Arizona
In addition he proclaimed several monuments that would later be transferred to the Department of the Interior and eventually administered by the National Park Service following its creation in 1916.
Theordore Roosevelt's role as an American president and conservationist is now commemorated at six legacy units established over the last century:
Theodore Roosevelt Birthplace National Historic Site, New York City
Sagamore Hill National Historic Site, Oyster, Bay, New York
Theodore Roosevelt Inaugural National Historic Site, Buffalo, New York
Theordore Roosevelt National Park, North Dakota
Theodore Roosevelt Island, Washington, DC
Mount Rushmore National Memorial, South Dakota
The next time you visit a National Park Service unit, large or small, there's a very good chance Theodore Roosevelt had either a direct link to its creation or to his remarkable conservation and preservation legacy. Although he never established the agency his work certainly formed its foundation ten years after he left the presidency. It's also important to remember that his work extended beyond the national parks to include 150 national forests, 51 federal bird reserves, and four national game preserves. And in many ways his work has never ended. Our current generation and those to come will be far richer because Theodore Roosevelt, the conservation president, cared.
Sources
Photos and Illustrations: All photos are public domain
Our countdown continues with another 1910 postcard from Katherine to my great uncle, Charles. We have scores of postcards from Katherine in the archive but she never signed her last name, and to this day she remains a mystery woman to the family. As usual she included a "friendly" message.
Dear Friend, Charles: I sincerely hope you are enjoying life to the full extent. I suppose you will be out for mischief tomorrow night. Halloween is always the biggest night in the year for me. Katherine
I'm sure it was an appropriate message as Charles was a succcessful banker and life-long bachelor who was well known in the community for his mischief.
With music by Cy Coleman and words by Carl Leight, here is Frand Sinatra's 1963 version of Witchcraft.
And in closing here is a fitting poem about Halloween by Carl Sandburg from his Chicago Poems (1916).
Searched my Internet sources today looking for a post or two about the birth of the American novelist, Pat Conroy, born in Atlanta on this day in 1945. Alas, there was nothing to find and I'm was left with the happy task of writing a few words about a favorite author and his work.
Even in his fiction, Pat Conroy has a way of writing about himself and all of us as we face the challenges and adversities - mental and physical - of growing into young adulthood and beyond. Stated another way, Conroy has extraordinary skill in probing the long childhoods many of us face as we grow old. For him, it's an arduous journey, carried out with the same reality that comes with recognizing nature as a cruel mother. Yes, there is beauty and light along the way, but the mountains can't stand without the valleys, and Conroy's reality has its share of darkness. Some may not enjoy that journey, but it is a good dose of reality and I and millions of other readers hold Conroy in high esteem.
In 1977, Conroy's book, The River is Wide, was hardly five years old when I moved to the edge of the ocean east of Savannah and a mere five miles across the sound from the book's setting on Daufuskie Island. In a matter of months, I succumbed to life on a sea island and having lived there for eleven years - there's a poem about it - was never quite the same. The coast obviously had a similar effect on Conroy a decade earlier, and over the next forty years he would blend his experience with the Lowcountry setting and produce many books. One of his last books, My Reading Life (2010), is a memoir of sorts recalling his love of reading as well as an interesting list the essential and influential books in his life.
Over thirty years have passed since those quiet evenings when I sat reading in my den, feeling and hearing the low frequency vibrations from ship screws in the channel a few thousand feet away. That may seem like an odd recollection from the complex experience of the natural setting and its cultural overlay, but it approaches the unique and remains one of many fond memories. For the most part - small flashes of creativity being the exception - I simply enjoyed them. Pat Conroy, on the other hand, took the everyday and unique events in his life journey and turned them into some of the most lyrical writing of our time.
Charleston has a landscape that encourages intimacy and partisanship. I have heard it said that an inoculation to the sights and smells of the Carolina lowcountry is an almost irreversible antidote to the charms of other landscapes, other alien geographies. You can be moved profoundly by other vistas, by other oceans, by soaring mountain ranges, but you can never be seduced. You can even forsake the lowcountry, renounce it for other climates, but you can never completely escape the sensuous, semitropical pull of Charleston and her marshes.
The Prince of Tides
Pat Conroy passed away in his beloved adopted hometown of Beaufort, South Carolina, in February 2016. Not far from Charleston and Daufuskie Island where the river is wide.
Our postcard for the day comes from the Ullman Manufacturing Company. The card is described as an American Colorgravure Post Card, Hallowe'en Series 182, Subject 2759. There is no copyright date but it bears a 1911 postmark. Obviously this card suffers from poor registration but, given the subject, a blurred image almost adds somewhat to the effect.
And here is some very fitting music for the pumpkins, cats, and smiling moon on a cold, windy, creepy Halloween night.
Today's poem is a literary feast for readers who enjoy language. Granted this is a long poem but it is Robert Burns's wonderful description of the Halloween traditions of Scotland. Here is the introduction in the poet's own words:
The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood; but for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes are added to give some account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among th emore unenlightened in our own. R.B. 1785
[Notes appear after the poem. Some readers may find them more helpful if read before the poem.]
[Footnote 1: Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniversary,.-R.B.]
[Footnote 2: Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.-R.B.]
[Footnote 3: A noted cavern near Colean house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed, in country story, for being a favorite haunt of fairies.-R.B.]
[Footnote 4: The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick.-R.B.]
[Footnote 5: The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each a "stock," or plant of kail. They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells-the husband or wife. If any "yird," or earth, stick to the root, that is "tocher," or fortune; and the taste of the "custock," that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the "runts," are placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the people whom chance brings into the house are, according to the priority of placing the "runts," the names in question.-R. B.]
[Footnote 6: They go to the barnyard, and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk wants the "top-pickle," that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come to the marriage-bed anything but a maid.-R.B.]
[Footnote 7: When the corn is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack-builder, by means of old timber, etc., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind: this he calls a "fause-house."-R.B.]
[Footnote 8: Burning the nuts is a favorite charm. They name the lad and lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire; and according as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be.-R.B.]
[Footnote 9: Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, throw into the "pot" a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue off the old one; and, toward the latter end, something will hold the thread: demand, "Wha hauds?" i.e., who holds? and answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and surname of your future spouse.-R.B.]
[Footnote 10: Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjungal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder.-R.B.]
[Footnote 11: Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then: "Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, "Come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in which case, it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say: "Come after me and harrow thee."-R.B.]
[Footnote 12: This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You go to the barn, and open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which in our country dialect we call a "wecht," and go through all the attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times, and the third time an apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, marking the employment or station in life.-R.B.]
[Footnote 13: Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a "bear-stack," and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellow.-R.B.]
[Footnote 14: You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring, or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and, some time near midnight, an apparition, having the exact figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it.-R.B.]
[Footnote 15: Take three dishes, put clean water in one, foul water in another, and leave the third empty; blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand; if by chance in the clean water, the future (husband or) wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered.-R.B.]
[Footnote 16: Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper.-R.B.]
Time for a Glencairn of scotch?
Sources:
The Burns poem, footnotes, and introduction were taken from robertburns.org.
