I Think This Is The Beginning Of A Beautiful Phriendship...

[Ancilla Domini]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxPgplMujzQ

[Ancilla Domini]

“Love is a Fallacy”

by Max Schulman

    Cool was I and logical.  Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these.  My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, as precise as a chemist's scales, as penetrating as a scalpel.  And—think of it!—I was only eighteen.

    It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect.  Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university.  Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox.  A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs.  Emotional type.  Unstable.  Impressionable.  Worst of all, a faddist.  Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason.  To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender yourself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness.  Not, however, to Petey.

    One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis.  â€œDon't move,” I said. “Don't take a laxative.  I'll get a doctor.”

    “Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.

    “Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.

    “I want a raccoon coat, “ he wailed.

    I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental.  â€œWhy do you want a raccoon coat?”

    “I should have known it, he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they'd come back when the Charleston came back.  Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can't get a raccoon coat.”

    “Can you mean, “ I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”

    “All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them.  Where've you been?”

    “In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.

    He leaped from the bed and paced the room.  â€œI've got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately.  â€œI've got to!”

    “Peter, why?  Look at it rationally.  Raccoon coats are unsanitary.  They shed.  They smell bad.  They weigh too much.  They're unsightly.  They—”

    “You don't understand,” he interrupted impatiently.  â€œIt's the thing to do.  Don't you want to be in the swim?”

    “No,” I said truthfully.

    “Well, I do,” he declared.  â€œI'd give anything for a raccoon cat.  Anything!”

    My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear.  â€œAnything?”  I asked, looking at him narrowly.

    “Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.

    I stroked my chin thoughtfully.  It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat.  My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home.  It also happened that Petey had something I wanted.  He didn't have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it.  I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.

    I had long coveted Polly Espy.  Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature.  She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head.  I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.

    I was a freshman in law school.  In a few years, I would be out in practice.  I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer's career.  The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women.  With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.

    Beautiful she was.  She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt sure that time would supply the lack.  She already had the makings.

    Gracious she was.  By gracious, I mean full of graces.  She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding.  At table her manners were exquisite.  I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.

    Intelligent she was not.  In fact, she veered in the opposite direction.  But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up.  At any rate, it was worth a try.  It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart, than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.

    “Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”

    “I think she's a keen kid,” he replied, Bit I don't know if you'd call it love.  Why?”

    “Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her?  I mean are you going steady or anyhting like that?”

    “No.  We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates.  Why?”

    “Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”

    “Not that I know of.  Why?

    I nodded with satisfaction.  â€œIn other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open.  Is that right?”

    “I guess so  What are you getting at?”

    “Nothing, nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out of the closet.

    “Where you going?” asked Petey.

    “Home for the week end.” I threw a few things into the bag.

    “Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you're home, you couldn't get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”

    “I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.

    “Look,” I said to Petey, when I got back Monday morning.  I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.

    “Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently.  He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face.  â€œHoly Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.

    “Would you like it?” I asked.

    “O yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him.  Then a canny look came into his eyes.  â€œWhat do you want for it?”

    “Your girl,” I said, mincing no words.

    “Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper.  â€œyou want Polly?”

    “That's right.”

    He flung the coat from him.  â€œNever,” he said stoutly.

    I shrugged.  â€œOkay.  If you don't want to be in the swim, I guess it's your business.”

    I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey.  He was a torn man.  First he looked at the coat with an expression of a waif at a bakery window.  Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely.  Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face.  Then he turned away, but with no so much resolution this time.  Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing , resolution waning.  Finally he didn't turn away at all' he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.

    “it isn't as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly, “Or going steady or anything like that.”

    That's right,” I murmured.

    “What's Polly to me, or me to Polly?”

    “Not a thing,” said I.

    “It's just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that's all.”

    “Try on the coat,” said I.

    He complied.  The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops.  He looked like a mound of dead raccoons, “Fits fine,” he said happily.

    I rose from my chair  â€œIs it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.

    He swallowed.  â€œIt's a deal,” he said and shook my hand.

    I had my first date with Polly the following evening.  This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required.  I took her first to dinner.  â€œGee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant.  Then I took her to a movie.  â€œGee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left he theater.  And then I took her home.  â€œGee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.

    I went back to my room with a heavy heart.  I had gravely underestimated the size of my task.  This girl's lack of information was terrifying.  Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information.  First she had to be taught to think.  This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and first I was tempted to give her back to Petey.  But then I got thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.

    I went about it, as in all things, systematically.  I gave her a course in logic.  It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my finger tips.  â€œPolly,” I sad to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”

    “Oo, terrif,” she replied.  One think I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.

    We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly, “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.

    “Logic.”

    She thought this over  for a minute and decided she liked it.  â€œMagnif,” she said.

    “Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking.  Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic.  These we will take up tonight.”

    “Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.

    I winced, but went bravely on.  â€œFirst let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”

    “By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.

    “Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization.  For example: Exercise is good.  Therefore everybody should exercise.”

    I agree,” said Polly earnestly.  â€œI mean exercise is wonderful.  I mean it builds the body and everything.”

    “Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy.  Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization.  For instance, if you have heat disease, exercise is bad, not good.  Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise.  You must qualify the generalization.  You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people.  Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter.  Do you see?”

    “No,” she confessed.  â€œBut this is marvy.  Do more!  Do more!”

    “it will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued.  â€œNext we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization.  Listen carefully: You can't speak French.  I can't speak French.  Petey Bellows can't speak French.  I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”

    “Really?” said Polly, amazed.  â€œNobody?”

    I hid my exasperation.  â€œPolly, it's a fallacy.  The generalization is reached too hastily.  These are too few isntances to support such a conclusion.”

    “Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly.  â€œthis is more fun than dancing even.”

    I fought off a wave of despair.  I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere.  Still, I am nothing if not persistent.  I continued, “Next comes Post Hoc.  Listen to this:  Let's not take Bill on our picnic.  Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”

    “i know somebody just like that, “she exclaimed.  â€œA girl back home—Eula Becker, he name is.  It never fails.  Every single time we take her on a picnic—”

    “Polly,” I said sharply, “it's a fallacy.  Eula Becker doesn't cause the rain.  She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”

    “”I'll never do it again,” she promised contritely.  â€œAre you mad at me?”

    I sighed.  â€œNo, Polly, I'm not mad.”

    “Then tell me some more fallacies.”

    “All right.  Let's try Contradictory Premises.”

    “Yes, let's,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.

    I frowned, but plunged ahead.  â€œHere's an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won't be able to lift it?”

    “Of course,” she replied promptly.

    “But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.

    “Yeah,” she said thoughtfully.  â€œWell, then I guess he can't make the stone.”

    “But He can do anything,” I reminded her.

    She scratched her pretty, empty head.  â€œI'm all confused,” she admitted.

    “of course you are.  Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument.  If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object.  If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force.  Get it?”

    “Tell me some more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.

    I consulted my watch.  â€œI think we'd better call it a night.  I'll take you home now, and you go over all the things you've learned.  We'll have another session tomorrow night.”

    I deposited her at the girls' dormitory, where she assured me that she had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room.  Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet.  For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he would have his girl back.  It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure.  The girl simply had a logic-proof head.

    But then I reconsidered.  I had wasted one evening: I might as well waste another.  Who know?  Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few embers still smoldered.  Maybe somehow I could fan them int flame.  Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.

    Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”

    She quivered with delight.

    “Listen closely,” I said.  â€œA man applies for a job.  When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing ot eat, no clothes to war, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal for the cellar, and winter is coming.”

    A tear rolled down each of Polly's pink cheeks.  â€œOh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.

    “Yes, it is awful,” I agreed, “but it's no argument.  The man never answered the boss's question about his qualifications.  Instead he appealed to the boss's sympathy.  He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam.  Do you understand?”

    “Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.

    I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes.  â€œNext,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy.  Here is a n example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations.  After all, surgeons have X rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial,carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house.  Why, then,  shouldn't students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”

    “There now, “ she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I've head in years.”

    “Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong.  Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren't taking a test to see how much they are learned, but students are.  The situations are altogether different, and you can' t make an analogy between them”

    “I still think it's a good idea,” said Polly.

    “Nuts,” I muttered.  Doggedly I pressed on.  â€œNext we'll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”

    “Sounds yummy,” was Polly's reaction.

    “Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”

    “True, true,; said Polly, nodding her head.  â€œDid you see the movie?  Oh, it just knocked me out.  That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy.  I mean he fractures me.”

    “If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that the statement is a fallacy.  Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered it.  Maybe any number of things would have happened.  You can't start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”

    “They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly.  â€œI hardly ever see him any more.”

    One more chance, I decided.  But just one more.  There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear.  â€œthe next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”

    “How cute!” she gurgled.

    “Two men are having a debate.  The first one gets up and says, my opponent is a notorious liar  You can't believe a word that he is going to say,”  ...Now Polly, think.  Think hard.  What's wrong?”

    I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration.  Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes.  â€œWhat chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”

    “Right!” I cried exultantly.  â€œOne hundred per cent right.  It's not fair.  The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it.  He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start... Polly, I'm proud of you.”

    “Pshaw,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.

    “You see, my dear, these things aren't so hard.  All you have to do is concentrate.  Think—examine—evaluate.  Come now, let's review everything we have learned.”

    “Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her had.

    Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her.  Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup.  It was like digging a tunnel.  At first everything was work, sweat, and darkness.  I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even  if I would.  But I persisted.  I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded.  I saw a chink of light.  And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.

    Five grueling nights this took, but it was worth it.  I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think.  My job was done.  She was worthy of me at last.  She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.

    It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl.  Quite the contrary.  Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine.  I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting.  The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.

    “Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”

    “Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.

    “My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together.  We have gotten along splendidly.  It is clear that we are well matched.”

    “Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.

    “I beg your pardon,” said I.

    “Hasty Generalization,” she repeated.  â€œHow can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”

    I chuckled with amusement.  The dear child had learned her lessons well.

    “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty.  After all, you don't have to eat a whole cake to know that it's good.”   

    “False Analogy,” said Polly promptly.  â€œI'm not a cake.  I'm a girl.”

    I chuckled with somewhat less amusement.  The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well.  I decided to change tactics.  Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love.  I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper words.  Then I began:

    Polly, I love you.  You are the whole world to me, and the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space.  Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless.  I will languish.  I will refuse me meals.  I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”

    There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.

    “Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.

    I ground my teeth.  I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat.  Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me.  At all costs I had to keep cool.

    “Well, Polly,” I sad, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”

    “You're darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.

    “And who taught them to you, Polly?”

    “You did.”

    “That's right.  So you do owe me something, don't you, my dear?  If I hadn't come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”

    “Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.

    I dashed perspiration from my brow.  â€œPolly,” I croaked, “you mustn't take all these things so literally.  I mean this is just classroom stuff.  You know that the things you learn in school don't have anything to do with life.”

    “Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.

    That did it  I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull.  â€œWill you or will you not go steady with me?”

    “I will not,” she replied.

    “Why not?” I demanded.

    “Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”

    I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it.  After he promised, after me had a deal, after he shook my hand!  â€œThe rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf.  You can't go with him, Polly.  He's a liar.  He's a cheat.  He's a rat.”

    “Poisoning the Well,” said Polly, “and stop shouting.  I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”

    With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice.  â€œAll right,” I said.  â€œyou're a logician.  Let's look at the thing logically.  How could you choose Petey Bellows over me?  Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future.  Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who'll never know where his next meal is coming from.  Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”

    “I certainly can,” declared Polly.  â€œHe's got a raccoon coat.”

[Oremoose]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mxPgplMujzQ

 

 

I want dem SKILLLZZZ

[Ancilla Domini]

I want dem SKILLLZZZ

 

Haha, same here!! I really really want to learn to tap-dance. :P

[SilentJoy]

 

“Love is a Fallacy”

by Max Schulman

 

Thanks! I read this years ago and loved it but couldn't find it again.

[Ancilla Domini]

So far, every post on my thread here has been completely random and unrelated to the post above it. At some point, I'll get the hang of this my-thread rot, and then my thread will become more interesting. :D

 

While I'm waiting to figure it all out, though:

Who else here thinks that The Great Escape is the best movie in the world?

[Oremoose]

So far, every post on my thread here has been completely random and unrelated to the post above it. At some point, I'll get the hang of this my-thread rot, and then my thread will become more interesting. :D

 

While I'm waiting to figure it all out, though:

Who else here thinks that The Great Escape is the best movie in the world?

 

Best in the world...Eh I cannot say in the top. Totally.

[Ancilla Domini]

Piotr Beczala (one of my favorite opera singers) will be signing CD's at the Metropolitan Opera House on Tuesday!! And I'm going!! :)

[Ancilla Domini]

The Printer's Error - By P.G. Wodehouse

 

As o'er my latest book I pored,

Enjoying it immensely,
I suddenly exclaimed 'Good Lord!'
And gripped the volume tensely.
'Golly!' I cried. I writhed in pain.
'They've done it on me once again!'
And furrows creased my brow.
I'd written (which I thought quite good)
'Ruth, ripening into womanhood,
Was now a girl who knocked men flat
And frequently got whistled at',
And some vile, careless, casual gook
Had spoiled the best thing in the book
By printing 'not'
(Yes,'not', great Scott!)
When I had written 'now'.

On murder in the first degree
The Law, I knew, is rigid:
Its attitude, if A kills B,
To A is always frigid.
It counts it not a trivial slip
If on behalf of authorship
You liquidate compositors.
This kind of conduct it abhors
And seldom will allow.
Nevertheless, I deemed it best
And in the public interest
To buy a gun, to oil it well,
Inserting what is called a shell,
And go and pot
With sudden shot
This printer who had printed 'not'
When I had written 'now'.

I tracked the bounder to his den
Through private information:
I said, 'Good afternoon', and then
Explained the situation:
'I'm not a fussy man,' I said.
'I smile when you put "rid" for "red"
And "bad" for "bed" and "hoad" for "head"
And "bolge" instead of "bough".
When "wone" appears in lieu of "wine"
Or if you alter "Cohn" to "Schine",
I never make a row.
I know how easy errors are.
But this time you have gone too far
By printing "not" when you knew what
I really wrote was "now".
Prepare,' I said, 'to meet your God
Or, as you'd say, your Goo or Bod,
Or possibly your Gow.'

A few weeks later into court
I came to stand my trial.
The Judge was quite a decent sort.
He said, 'Well, cocky, I'll
Be passing sentence in a jiff,
And so, my poor unhappy stiff,
If you have anything to say,
Now is the moment. Fire away.
You have?'
I said, 'And how!
Me lud, the facts I don't dispute.
I did, I own it freely, shoot
This printer through the collar stud.
What else could I have done, me lud?
He'd printed "not"...'
The judge said, 'What!
When you had written "now"?
God bless my soul! Gadzooks!' said he.
'The blighters did that once to me.
A dirty trick, I trow.
I hereby quash and override
The jury's verdict. Gosh!' he cried.
'Give me your hand. Yes, I insist,
You splendid fellow! Case dismissed.'
(Cheers, and a Voice 'Wow-wow!')

A statue stands against the sky,
Lifelike and rather pretty.
'Twas recently erected by
The P.E.N. committee.
And many a passer-by is stirred,
For on the plinth, if that's the word,
In golden letters you may read
'This is the man who did the deed.
His hand set to the plough,
He did not sheathe the sword, but got
A gun at great expense and shot
The human blot who'd printed "not"
When he had written "now".
He acted with no thought of self,
Not for advancement, not for pelf,
But just because it made him hot
To think the man had printed "not"
When he had written "now".'

[Ancilla Domini]

Infant Joy - by William Blake

 

I have no name

I am but two days old.— 

What shall I call thee?

I happy am 

Joy is my name,— 

Sweet joy befall thee!

Pretty joy!

Sweet joy but two days old,

Sweet joy I call thee; 

Thou dost smile. 

I sing the while 

Sweet joy befall thee.

 

[Ancilla Domini]

Damon and Pythias: A Romance - By P.G. Wodehouse

 

Since Earth was first created,

  Since Time began to fly,
No friends were e’er so mated,
  So firm as Jones and I.
Since primal Man was fashioned
  To people ice and stones,
No pair, I ween, had ever been
  Such chums as I and Joes.

In fair and foulest weather,
  Beginning when but boys,
We faced our woes together,
  We shared each other’s joys.
Together, sad or merry,
  We acted hand in glove,
Until—’twas careless, very—
  I chanced to fall in love.

The lady’s points to touch on,
  Her name was Julia White,
Her lineage high, her scutcheon
  Untarnished; manners, bright;
Complexion, soft and creamy;
  Her hair, of golden hue;
Her eyes, in aspect, dreamy,
  In colour, greyish blue.

For her I sighed, I panted;
  I saw her in my dreams;
I vowed, protested, ranted;
  I sent her chocolate creams.
Until methought one morning
  I seemed to hear a voice,
A still, small voice of warning.
  “Does Jones approve your choice?”

To Jones of my affection
  I spoke that very night.
If he had no objection,
  I said I’d wed Miss White.
I asked him for his blessing,
  But, turning rather blue,
He said: “It’s most distressing,
  But I adore her, too.”

“Then, Jones,” I answered, sobbing,
  “My wooing’s at an end,
I couldn’t think of robbing
  My best, my only friend.
The notion makes me furious—
  I’d much prefer to die.”
“Perhaps you’ll think it curious,”
  Said Jones, “but so should I.”

Nor he nor I would falter
  In our resolve one jot.
I bade him seek the altar,
  He vowed that he would not.
“She’s yours, old fellow. Make her
  As happy as you can.”
“Not so,” said I, “you take her—
  You are the lucky man.”

At length—the situation
  Had lasted now a year—
I had an inspiration,
  Which seemed to make things clear.
“Supposing,” I suggested,
  “We ask Miss White to choose?
I should be interested
  To hear her private views.

“Perhaps she has a preference—
  I own it sounds absurd—
But I submit, with deference,
  That she might well be heard.
In clear, commercial diction
  The case in point we’ll state,
Disclose the cause of friction,
  And leave the rest to Fate.”

We did, and on the morrow
  The postman brought us news.
Miss White expressed her sorrow
  At having to refuse.
Of all her many reasons
  This seemed to me the pith:
Six months before (or rather more)
  She’d married Mr. Smith.

Edited January 28, 2014 by Ancilla Domini

[ChristinaTherese]

Kind of related to your screen name:
Today in class a professor asked if we could think of any handmaidens in the Bible.
Me: Mary.
Dr. S: and what did she say?
Me: Ecce ancilla Domi-- I am the handmaiden of The Lord. Be it done unto me according to thy word.

[Ancilla Domini]

Kind of related to your screen name:
Today in class a professor asked if we could think of any handmaidens in the Bible.
Me: Mary.
Dr. S: and what did she say?
Me: Ecce ancilla Domi-- I am the handmaiden of The Lord. Be it done unto me according to thy word.

 

Once, when I was saying the rosary with my family, I was leading a decade, and I said, "'Ave Maria, gratia plena' - ahem um... - 'Hail Mary, full of grace...'" ;) (When I'm by myself, I said it in Latin, so it sort of slipped out. :hehe2:)

[Oremoose]

Boom my 2,450 post

 

Edited January 30, 2014 by Oremoose

[Ancilla Domini]

Boom my 2,450 post

 

 

I'm trying to figure out if I ought to feel honored that you chose my thread to post your 2450th post on. XD