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"Autumn...the year's last, loveliest smile." — John Howard Bryant, Indian Summer —

The Tiny, Tiny Boy and the Big, Big Cow

Title: The Tiny, Tiny Boy and the Big, Big Cow

Author: Nancy Van Laan

Illustrator: Marjorie Priceman

Rating: ★★★★★

Age Category: Children's Literature

   All the tiny, tiny boy wants to do is milk the big, big Cow. But she has hard, hard heels, a long, long tail, and sharp, sharp horns - and she WON'T stand still! What's a tiny, tiny boy to do? Shake a fat, fat stick, find a sweet, sweet kitten, and try the perfect solution...

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"Some adventures require nothing more than a willing heart and the ability to trip over the cracks in the world." - Seanan McGuire -

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats

Ode on a Grecian Urn

by John Keats

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,

       Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

       A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:

What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape

       Of deities or mortals, or of both,

               In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

       What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

               What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard

       Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,

       Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

       Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

               Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;

       She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

               For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

         Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And, happy melodist, unwearied,

         For ever piping songs for ever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

         For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

                For ever panting, and for ever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

         That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,

                A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

         To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

         And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea shore,

         Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,

                Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?

And, little town, thy streets for evermore

         Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

                Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

         Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

         Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

         When old age shall this generation waste,

                Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

         "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all

                Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

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"So many of our dreams seem impossible, then they seem improbable, and then, when we summon the will, they soon become inevitable." - Christopher Reeves -

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"Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons." — Jim Bishop —

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"Giving up is the birth of regret." - Deshauna Barber -