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The cricket’s ballad sets the sun,
Bidding farewell, the day is done.
While twilight ushers in the dew,
Welcoming chirps, that bid adeau.
Vastness of dark, and night soon came,
Through wind and thunder, he still sang.
My quickened heart, forever still,
By friend outside, my window sill.
Hark! O’er the valley, and the dell,
His ballad echoes, all is well.
The cricket’s ballad sets the sun,
Bids farewell, the day is done.
Barry Clopton Lanier
On the grasshopper and cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the grasshopper’s – he takes the lead
In summer luxury, – he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
They were not looking at the cricket I saw.
This guy was.
David H., Cornish, ME
A happy cricket once did chirp
Upon our bathroom floor.
But now he floats inside our john
And so he chirps no more.
The Chinese say it’s lucky
To have a cricket in your home,
But now he is forever gone –
That’s why I write this poem.
One night of happy quiet chirps
I thought was really nice,
But four nights of this was just too much
And the cricket’s paid his price.
So rest in peace, our chirpy friend,
One flush and then you’re gone.
We’ll watch you spin and whirl away
At your funeral in our john.
And now for the same photos that were not photoshopped
This is a canned hunt.
Note the fences all over the video.
The lion was born and bred on the farm and was most probably handfed the day before.
Wrong on every level.
They were very lucky that this lion did not know how to hunt.
I don’t think much of a “canned” hunt. I am not above baiting a field for birds nor baiting a field for any wild game that I want to slaughter for food..but raising a lion just to shoot doesn’t appeal to me. Now, raising a lion to turn loose in the halls of congress might be fun..
# posted by GUYK : Saturday, February 10, 2007 3:12:00 PM
# posted by RSM : Saturday, February 10, 2007 3:40:00 PM
That’s like shooting your pet dog. I’m just sad the lion didn’t take one of them out.
# posted by K-nine : Sunday, February 11, 2007 1:59:00 AM
It is one thing to hunt an animal for food, or go hunting out in the bush for a predator that has become a danger to the local people. This was NOT what I would consider a hunt; it was no better than shooting an animal in a cage. I hope those people shit their pants when it tried to attack. A wild predator would have taken out most of them before they could have taken it down. Disgusting.
# posted by BobG : Sunday, February 11, 2007 5:30:00 AM
… that’s pretty fucked up…. too bad that lion missed…
# posted by Anonymous : Sunday, February 11, 2007 8:07:00 PM
From an unamed co worker.
We were discussing genetics vis a vis “balding”
He said “Balding is like diarrhea cos it runs in the jeans”
I have heard that and heard that it is supposed to be a maternal gene..nut my momma had a full head of hair and it wuz Pop that was bald.
# posted by GUYK : Friday, February 09, 2007 6:01:00 PM
My dad had a full head of hair in his seventies, didn’t even have any gray in it (his beard was white, however). I started losing in my thirties; nowdays my forehead extends to the back of my head.
# posted by BobG : Friday, February 09, 2007 8:01:00 PM
you have to look at your maternal grandfather- you will probably lose/not lose you hair the same way, unles of course both parents are coneheads, then it’s a mot point…
# posted by Holder : Saturday, February 10, 2007 5:56:00 PM
….. when people refer to you as:
Posted in fairness and jealousy.
Swoon . . . ;-)
# posted by Sissy Willis : Friday, February 09, 2007 3:19:00 PM