Potatoes grow in Limerick,
and beef at Ballymore,
And buttermilk is beautiful,
And buttermilk is beautiful,
but that you knew before;
And Irishmen love pretty girls,
And Irishmen love pretty girls,
yet none could love more true,
Than little Paddy Whackmacrack,
Than little Paddy Whackmacrack,
lov'd Kate O'Donohoo.
'Would you care for some Jelly Babies?'
'Would you care for some Jelly Babies?'
'Yes, please,' he said, and took the whole bag from the lately arrived Tinker. He ate the yellow ones, fed the green ones to Norman--who spat them out, one by one, and stamped them into the tilled ground--, put the pink ones in his pocket, and handed back what was left.
'What are the pink ones for?' the Tinker asked, adjusting his hat against the sun. The tin dog whirred beside him.
'I’m going to plant them between the bananas and the Jammie Dodgers so I don‘t forget.' Silly question. What else was he to do with pink Jelly Babies?
'Ah,' the Tinker said, nodding. 'Don‘t forget what?'
'I don’t know. You see I’ve forgotten, but once they start to come up, I’ll remember, won’t I?'
'I suppose that makes sense in a nonsensical sort of way. My sort of thinking exactly.'
'I thought you‘d understand,' he said, turning the earth with his shovel as he walked along. 'I expect them to be quite lovely, when they bloom. And I’ll name each one. Martha, Zoe, Victoria, Nyssa, Sarah. I mustn’t forget Sarah. My Sarah Jane,' he sighed.
'No, no. You mustn’t forget Sarah,' agreed the Man with the Teeth and Curls.
'Master…'
'Not now, K-9,' said the man with the trailing scarf.
'But, Master…'
'Not now, K-9,' said the man with the brimmed hit.
'But Master…'
He rather fancied having a dog like that. And a hat like that. And a long scarf. Handy in winter, and for quick escapes from silos and possibly windmills. He didn’t think he would look quite right with the teeth or the hair. He looked down at the tin dog.
'Who’s a good dog?' he asked, scratching the metal head behind a metal ear.
'Affirmative!' the tin dog said, wagging a spindly tail.
'Will your dog be chasing the rabbits, then?' he asked, wiping the sweat from his brow.
'Having trouble with rabbits in the garden, are you?'
'No, they’re no trouble--except for Peter. He’s very naughty, you know…'
'Oh, yes. I do know.'
'Poor Peter lost his shoes,' he said absently, gazing at the sun. Half One, Two, Three…
'So, it would seem, have you.' He looked down at his bare feet.
'Poor Peter lost his shoes,' he said absently, gazing at the sun. Half One, Two, Three…
'So, it would seem, have you.' He looked down at his bare feet.
'I suppose I lost one amongst the cabbages--'
'--and there’s the other, amongst the potatoes.'
'Ah. So it is. Rose won‘t dance with me if I don‘t have my shoes.'
'You know we’re all rather worried about you,' the Tinker told him gently.
'Worried about me? Oh, I’m fine,' he said, turning over shovel’s full of rich, black dirt and dropping Jelly Babies in one by one. 'I’m always fine. Aren’t I always fine? I’m always… there, do you see? Flowers. They’ll do better when the moon comes up. Susan, and Tegan, and Dodo, and Ace. And Donna. And Boo Boo.'
'Boo Boo?'
'She’s my new companion. She’s a chicken. She‘ll never leave me.'
'They always leave.'
'They do, don’t they?' he asked sadly, knowing it was true.
'Yes, yes. I’m afraid they do. We always leave, too. Eventually.'
'I don’t want to go.'
'Ah. Well. Here then. Go ahead and take the rest,' the curly-haired man said, closing his hands around the bag of sweets. “You need them more than I do. Doctor’s orders.'
He was contemplating the sunset--and the checkerboard--when Frobisher arrived with a friend in a coat Joseph would have envied.
'Ah. Here you are. You aren’t really going to make that move are you?'
'I hadn’t decided yet.'
'If you do your opponent will clearly move that one.' the big man pointed, 'and then that, one, and before long you’ll be trapped. You’ll have walked right into it. Game over.'
'Well, don’t you have all the answers!'
'As a matter of fact, I do,' the Ringmaster told him pointedly, taking a seat opposite him at the checker board. 'And so would you if you took the time to listen to someone with some sense. Like me.'
'Is that what it is?' he asked, watching Frobisher water the herbs on his windowsill with a gravy boat.
'Did you suspect otherwise?'
'I… No. I like your coat.'
'Well I should think so,' the Ringmaster told him, brushing stray cat hairs from his sleeve. 'It’s the height of fashion.'
'Is it? Is it really? Could I--you know--try it on perhaps?'
'My coat? You want to try on MY coat?'
'Just the one you’re wearing.'
'Oh, well. Why didn’t you say,' the Ringmaster said, shrugging out of it. Beneath was an equally colourful waistcoat, but he didn‘t want to appear too greedy. He donned the coat. The Ringmaster straightened the lapels, shined up a cat badge, then stepped back.
'What do you think?' he asked, spinning around on his heels.
'I think it looked better on me. Besides, you have an appointment to keep and you‘re late. Later than late. Your procrastinating is bringing out the worst in you.'
'You can‘t make me. I won‘t go.' He handed back the coat.
'I don’t see as you have any choice.'
'There’s always a choice. Chocolate, vanilla, gooseberry…'
'We aren’t talking about milkshakes, man!'
'We could be.' He grinned. 'And I know just the place.'
'The cat,' he said.
'What about the cat?'
'Look what the cat dragged in.'
'And what would that be?' the Professor asked him, eyes twinkling.
'Lemonade?'
Seeing as he had not gotten a milkshake, he was very thirsty indeed. He examined the checkerboard. 'I see you’ve made your move.'
'And yours as well. You haven’t any other option. I suggest you face the facts. It is very, very late indeed.'
He backed away slowly. 'I… have plans.'
'And so you may,' the Professor told him, 'but you know the old saying. The best laid schemes o’ mice and mints?'
'Men.'
'Beg pardon?'
'Men. The best laid schemes o’ mice and men--' he began, but the little Professor interrupted.
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
'Well? Come on. Good isn’t it?'
'This is William Shakespeare. Almost.'
'It was my idea,' he said petulantly. 'He improved on it. Or will have. Here. Try this one instead. My best work. Molto bene!'
Era brillosto, e gli alacridi tossi…
'Wait, wait, wait, wait wait. Wrong one,' he said, snatching back the page, “this
one, this one…'
The Victorian Gentleman lifted a curious eyebrow, then cleared his throat and
began again.
THE NOX was lit by lux of Luna,
And 'twas a nox most opportuna
To catch a possum or a coona;
For nix was scattered o'er this mundus,
A shallow nix, et non profundus…
'You poor man. You really are quite insane. Is there nothing to be done?'
'I hope not,' he said, 'because if there is I’ll have to leave here and if I leave here I’m going to die and I don’t want to die.'
'We never die,' the Edwardian Gentleman said gently.
'We always die.'
'We Regenerate.'
'It might as well be death.'
And he took back the pages and took up his quill and wrote in his own blood I don’t want to go.
'They do, don’t they?' he asked sadly, knowing it was true.
'Yes, yes. I’m afraid they do. We always leave, too. Eventually.'
'I don’t want to go.'
'Ah. Well. Here then. Go ahead and take the rest,' the curly-haired man said, closing his hands around the bag of sweets. “You need them more than I do. Doctor’s orders.'
He was contemplating the sunset--and the checkerboard--when Frobisher arrived with a friend in a coat Joseph would have envied.
'Ah. Here you are. You aren’t really going to make that move are you?'
'I hadn’t decided yet.'
'If you do your opponent will clearly move that one.' the big man pointed, 'and then that, one, and before long you’ll be trapped. You’ll have walked right into it. Game over.'
'Well, don’t you have all the answers!'
'As a matter of fact, I do,' the Ringmaster told him pointedly, taking a seat opposite him at the checker board. 'And so would you if you took the time to listen to someone with some sense. Like me.'
'Is that what it is?' he asked, watching Frobisher water the herbs on his windowsill with a gravy boat.
'Did you suspect otherwise?'
'I… No. I like your coat.'
'Well I should think so,' the Ringmaster told him, brushing stray cat hairs from his sleeve. 'It’s the height of fashion.'
'Is it? Is it really? Could I--you know--try it on perhaps?'
'My coat? You want to try on MY coat?'
'Just the one you’re wearing.'
'Oh, well. Why didn’t you say,' the Ringmaster said, shrugging out of it. Beneath was an equally colourful waistcoat, but he didn‘t want to appear too greedy. He donned the coat. The Ringmaster straightened the lapels, shined up a cat badge, then stepped back.
'What do you think?' he asked, spinning around on his heels.
'I think it looked better on me. Besides, you have an appointment to keep and you‘re late. Later than late. Your procrastinating is bringing out the worst in you.'
'You can‘t make me. I won‘t go.' He handed back the coat.
'I don’t see as you have any choice.'
'There’s always a choice. Chocolate, vanilla, gooseberry…'
'We aren’t talking about milkshakes, man!'
'We could be.' He grinned. 'And I know just the place.'
Night had fallen by the time they reached their
destination. He lay on his belly in the field, the Ringmaster in
Joseph’s coat beside him.
'There are profound theoretical and philosophical reasons why cow tipping--by a
'There are profound theoretical and philosophical reasons why cow tipping--by a
single person--is impossible,' the Ringmaster said.
'Possible things are much less challenging than impossible ones,' he replied, scanning the moonlit field for a sleepy bovine to upturn. 'There. That one.'
They prepared to rush, in proper cow commando style--with sprigs of wheat clenched in their teeth.
'Where did you learn to do this?'
'Arkansas,' he said, eyes narrowing as he focused all attention on the task at
hand.
'Arkansas? You went there on purpose?'
'I had a dairy farm there,' he said matter-of-factly, dashing forward.
'Then why did you come here?' the Ringmaster asked, running like the wind next to him. Belatedly he recalled that, according to the Official Cow Tipping Manual, alcohol was required for a successful Tip. He could not remember if that was for the tipper or the tippee.
'Too many cows,' he said as they barrelled into the bovine.
He had no recollection of walking home.
A guest was waiting in the dim light of the bug zapper on the front porch when he reached the old farm house. The checker board rested on a table, tall glasses of lemonade beside it. The Professor pushed up his Panama hat and looked him up and down.
'Well. Look what the cattle dragged in.'
'Possible things are much less challenging than impossible ones,' he replied, scanning the moonlit field for a sleepy bovine to upturn. 'There. That one.'
They prepared to rush, in proper cow commando style--with sprigs of wheat clenched in their teeth.
'Where did you learn to do this?'
'Arkansas,' he said, eyes narrowing as he focused all attention on the task at
hand.
'Arkansas? You went there on purpose?'
'I had a dairy farm there,' he said matter-of-factly, dashing forward.
'Then why did you come here?' the Ringmaster asked, running like the wind next to him. Belatedly he recalled that, according to the Official Cow Tipping Manual, alcohol was required for a successful Tip. He could not remember if that was for the tipper or the tippee.
'Too many cows,' he said as they barrelled into the bovine.
He had no recollection of walking home.
A guest was waiting in the dim light of the bug zapper on the front porch when he reached the old farm house. The checker board rested on a table, tall glasses of lemonade beside it. The Professor pushed up his Panama hat and looked him up and down.
'Well. Look what the cattle dragged in.'
'The cat,' he said.
'What about the cat?'
'Look what the cat dragged in.'
'And what would that be?' the Professor asked him, eyes twinkling.
'Lemonade?'
Seeing as he had not gotten a milkshake, he was very thirsty indeed. He examined the checkerboard. 'I see you’ve made your move.'
'And yours as well. You haven’t any other option. I suggest you face the facts. It is very, very late indeed.'
He backed away slowly. 'I… have plans.'
'And so you may,' the Professor told him, 'but you know the old saying. The best laid schemes o’ mice and mints?'
'Men.'
'Beg pardon?'
'Men. The best laid schemes o’ mice and men--' he began, but the little Professor interrupted.
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!
'Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!' he replied, picking up the pace, backing further and further away.
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
His hearts beat wildly against his chest, as fearful as any wee timorous beastie‘s.
Wee timorous beastie… wee timorous…
'Awww, go on then! That isn‘t going to work on me!'
'And why not?' the Professor asked as he stood and hung an umbrella casually over one arm.
'Because you are, me! Or was me. Or I was you.'
'An excellent point. In which case you understand the dilemma.' The Professor took out a handsome fob watch and looked at it before popping up the umbrella. 'It’s beginning to rain, dear boy. You’re running out of time.'
'Then I’d better walk slower.'
To sleep, perchance to dream… but he did neither, so instead returned to the back porch. A scant four pieces remained on the checkerboard, only one of which was his. He left it without making a move and went out into the night to wax poetic under the stars.
'The moon is very bright tonight,' the Edwardian Gentleman told him ere long,
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
His hearts beat wildly against his chest, as fearful as any wee timorous beastie‘s.
Wee timorous beastie… wee timorous…
'Awww, go on then! That isn‘t going to work on me!'
'And why not?' the Professor asked as he stood and hung an umbrella casually over one arm.
'Because you are, me! Or was me. Or I was you.'
'An excellent point. In which case you understand the dilemma.' The Professor took out a handsome fob watch and looked at it before popping up the umbrella. 'It’s beginning to rain, dear boy. You’re running out of time.'
'Then I’d better walk slower.'
To sleep, perchance to dream… but he did neither, so instead returned to the back porch. A scant four pieces remained on the checkerboard, only one of which was his. He left it without making a move and went out into the night to wax poetic under the stars.
'The moon is very bright tonight,' the Edwardian Gentleman told him ere long,
sitting down beside him in the long, lush grass.
'Yes indeedy-do,' he replied, once more setting words to paper.
'And the stars. Look at the stars! I have it you are composing a sonnet?'
'Correcto-mundo… which I swore I’d never say again, but what the hell. Now’s not the time for limiting myself, is it?' he looked to make sure no one else was around, then grinned. 'I’m having a nervous breakdown.'
'You don’t say!'
'Oh, yes! I’m stark raving mad, billy-bonkers, tip-toeing through the tulips--'
'I rather thought you were writing a sonnet. May I read it?'
He looked at the paper, at the words in looping, ancient script. He wondered what he had written.
The Gentleman took the chicken feather quill from his hand and set it aside.
'My God, man, have you been writing with your own blood?'
'Might have been. What does it say?'
'Ode to the Moon on a Moonless Night--'
'I thought of that myself, just now,' he said, rocking back and forth with childish delight. No doubt it would be as inspired as the symphony he had composed.
'Indeed. Well then,' the Gentleman cleared his throat. 'Ode to the Moon on a Moonless Night by--'
'Shhhhh,' he said, pressing two fingers to his own lips and two fingers to his guest‘s lips. He looked around again then whispered. 'You mustn’t tell. You mustn’t ever tell.'
'Quite right, too. And so I won’t. But what would you have me read?'
He waved his hand, then sat back to absorb the words the muse had bestowed upon him.
O, swear not at the moon, the fantastic moon, the custard moon, that reverses her polarity, Lest that thy love prove liquorice and…
'Yes indeedy-do,' he replied, once more setting words to paper.
'And the stars. Look at the stars! I have it you are composing a sonnet?'
'Correcto-mundo… which I swore I’d never say again, but what the hell. Now’s not the time for limiting myself, is it?' he looked to make sure no one else was around, then grinned. 'I’m having a nervous breakdown.'
'You don’t say!'
'Oh, yes! I’m stark raving mad, billy-bonkers, tip-toeing through the tulips--'
'I rather thought you were writing a sonnet. May I read it?'
He looked at the paper, at the words in looping, ancient script. He wondered what he had written.
The Gentleman took the chicken feather quill from his hand and set it aside.
'My God, man, have you been writing with your own blood?'
'Might have been. What does it say?'
'Ode to the Moon on a Moonless Night--'
'I thought of that myself, just now,' he said, rocking back and forth with childish delight. No doubt it would be as inspired as the symphony he had composed.
'Indeed. Well then,' the Gentleman cleared his throat. 'Ode to the Moon on a Moonless Night by--'
'Shhhhh,' he said, pressing two fingers to his own lips and two fingers to his guest‘s lips. He looked around again then whispered. 'You mustn’t tell. You mustn’t ever tell.'
'Quite right, too. And so I won’t. But what would you have me read?'
He waved his hand, then sat back to absorb the words the muse had bestowed upon him.
O, swear not at the moon, the fantastic moon, the custard moon, that reverses her polarity, Lest that thy love prove liquorice and…
'Well? Come on. Good isn’t it?'
'This is William Shakespeare. Almost.'
'It was my idea,' he said petulantly. 'He improved on it. Or will have. Here. Try this one instead. My best work. Molto bene!'
Era brillosto, e gli alacridi tossi…
'Wait, wait, wait, wait wait. Wrong one,' he said, snatching back the page, “this
The Victorian Gentleman lifted a curious eyebrow, then cleared his throat and
began again.
THE NOX was lit by lux of Luna,
And 'twas a nox most opportuna
To catch a possum or a coona;
For nix was scattered o'er this mundus,
A shallow nix, et non profundus…
'You poor man. You really are quite insane. Is there nothing to be done?'
'I hope not,' he said, 'because if there is I’ll have to leave here and if I leave here I’m going to die and I don’t want to die.'
'We never die,' the Edwardian Gentleman said gently.
'We always die.'
'We Regenerate.'
'It might as well be death.'
And he took back the pages and took up his quill and wrote in his own blood I don’t want to go.