Well, gentle friends, the hour has struck and the Captain is soon to retake his rightful place.

Hopefully he will find no cracks in his crystal egg.

As has been the custom, we begin with a quiet recitation of A. Shepard’s Prayer.

I hope my musings this week have been to your satisfaction.

I just put down the thoughts that came to me.

Obviously, my style is different front Mr. Smith’s. (Also,he knows how to use WordPress). I readily give way to his expertise on many subjects. My attempts were mainly devised to get you to consider things.

I doubt I could claim expertise in anything. I do have knowledge, along with scars and aches and pains.

I envy the tongue of the Bard:

“If we are mark’d to die, we are enough

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour

As one man more methinks would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmorland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse;

We would not die in that man’s company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,

And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.”

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say “These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.”

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he’ll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words—

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester—

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be rememberèd—

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England now a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.”

I did not want to trust that to my inadequate skills with linking.

This next, however, I must.

There is a tradition within a group to which I once belonged. I believe it continues to this day. A verse is sung on the Sabbath in remembrance of comrades departed.

I have encouraged that twice in my web of friends (see what I did there?).

Once for a man who had given much knowledge.

Once for a young woman taken far, far too soon.

Please, take a glass in hand.

And listen.

And remember.

[My apologies on having to copy and paste that in order to listen. You can also search for The High Kings Parting Glass].

edit: It worked!! It FINALLY worked!!

Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash. Wherever you are.