troubador

i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown i grieve for the glorious days of yore when gallantry ruled the earth for heroic knighthood my heart is sore though i be of humble birth how little joy to walk a land in which poetry never flowers where love must tremble at the priest’s raised hand and mammon cruelly glowers o black-clad men of reason who lay waste to the woods and fields in what untimely season must you set wolves on a poet’s heels? we are on this earth to love and for no other cause no angels line the skies above to enforce your cruel laws i am a wandering troubadour traveling from town to town i long for a lady’s soft amour but receive a burgomaster’s frown

old chums in chicago

i had long suspected cousin mark of murdering grandmother. wishing to get to the bottom of the matter i requested a leave of absence during the christmas holiday and journeyed back to the cedars, an undertaking i found quite lacking in stirring up nostalgic memories. by good fortune cousin mark was away, visiting old chums in chicago. i had a long talk with a gardener who had been in the employ of the estate since the aforementioned unpleasantness, and i prevailed on him to tell his tale. it was as i suspected, and after assuring the fellow that his livelihood would not be compromised i notified the authorities. i am retired now, and live alone at the cedars with only one servant. as i sit by the low fire with a good crackling log during the long chilly nights i often reflect on cousin mark and am drawn to the conclusion that he was guided not by malice, but only by weakness.