Thursday, October 12
Columbus Day at CTC: A member who was there sent us a report:
"It was a cozy but crowd-pleasing get-together of the determined Columbus Day 2000 potluck crew. The day dawned cool - well, to be truthful, downright cold, and it was doubtful at the beginning that more than a stalwart group of 4 would surface, but 4 more came by at mid-day, and 2 more soon after. By 1:00, 2 foursomes were hard at it in spirited combat with a family of 3 joining in on the back courts. The staff decided that this was a quorum and went for provisions. It was largely help yourself at the grill with dessert provided by attendees. At the end it was declared a great success by those who had braved the cold and defied the odds."
ISeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid they store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while they hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook:
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Court Conditions: Near perfection.
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