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The Evantine AbbeyMy former landlord, self-proclaimed futilitarian
Roots by the RiverThe elder Wilson, providing practical encouragement to Christian living
Christus RexHe's masculine during the week and feminine on Sundays
Trozzort's TalesGot married, cut travel time to church by 75%
Blog of NashThe Nashes like football and their kids
Joy in the Journey
Has cute kids.
Pointyshoes87Those funny stories aren't made up
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Danger BlogSeeing the glory of God in the ordinary
Sacra DoctrinaTheology and family of Joel Garver
A MinorCommunity-oriented blogger
This Classical LifeYoung family living the classical life
A Cup of RichFellow Celto-phile
Sir JakeHe's happily taken
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Down To A Sunless SeaWhen Florida and Minnesota collide
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Shepherd of the Lake
In the forgotten times of ancient long ago, I was born into the world. My people were a fading race, reduced to wandering the face of the earth, seeking a place to shelter us, but no longer was there any to be found. Our time was passing. I, Cymbrealdhras, was last of my kind, and this is my song. Let him hear it who will.
Within the rolling green hills of the north, tucked inside a hidden valley, sheltered beneath the spreading branches of a forest of ageless trees, I discovered the last stream untouched by the world: perfect in its purity. This clear stream is fed by a fall which spings from a source high in the overshadowing mountain, and flows into a secluded deep blue lake. Never has a man stepped foot in its waters. Never has it been crossed by armies, nor espied by a lord's lusting eye. Untainted with the blood of warring men, never filled with their smoke and debris. Touched by none but the stooping muzzle of a thirsty fawn. This place was my home, and I sat under an elm tree on a small grassy hill contemplating the beauty and serenity of the place. Surely here was the source of the world, the last vestige of a bygone glory.
Passing the lake, the stream pursues an underground course, emptying into a larger river outside the forest. Such is the strength of the little stream's current that nothing flows into the lake from the world outside; only its pure water flows out. The larger river joins another river, and this joins another which flows into the sea, and the sea passes the shores of many lands until it enjoins an inlet. This inlet feeds a river which flows into all the other rivers and oceans of the world.
The seasons turned countless times in their quick established course, and there came a day when a band of men, wearing un-dyed, plain cloaks entered the forest and approached the lake. I summoned the mysteries of the living forest to destroy these men, but halted. These men had a serene, humble aspect about them, and I, pulling my cloak tightly about me and becoming invisible with the forest, waited to see how the first men would respond to the lake. In this momentous fragment of time, man was put to the test. Sighting the lake, they halted in awe and wonderment. Atop a small hill a short distance away they proceeded to build a humble round timber and mud structure. They raised their coarse man-voices in joyous song to the rhythm of their work. I perceived them to be holy men of their people's religion, their structure a shrine to their God within this holy sanctuary. Here the priests studied and worshipped in solitude. It is good that this holy place should be consecrated such.
The good brothers knew and honored the laws of the lake, and guarded it well. None bathed in the lake, nor drew water from its banks, and never was a line cast in with which to draw a fish. They found nourishment in one of the smaller streams they knew to feed from the Pure Lake, and devoted themselves to cultivating and caring for this stream.
In time the priests went out to see where the lake's water flows, and raised more shrines throughout the way, cultivating the land as they travelled. Wicked-hearted men noticed this change in the world, and sought to find and destroy the source, and hinder the holy priests. They cast their filth into their rivers, defiant in their numbers and dark malice. Even the priesthood became contaminated by corruption, and in frustration lost their way back to the water's source.
Short are the days of men, fleeting as a deer who leaps disappearing into the forest. Five fives of generations passed, and the shrine has been nearly forgotten. Now only a handful assemble from time to time, remaining guardians of the first truth. Battle rages in the world outside, but they do not lose hope.
I, who was guardian and shepherd of the lake, must now depart. My time has drawn near, established before this worlds-realm came to be, begun shortly after the world was re-made. The slow wheel of the ages has turned, and I must ascend the mountain to the source of the stream, where my kindred have gone before.
Reluctantly, I leave it to the race of men to preserve the purity of the stream. With great anxiety I relinquish my ancient charge; the winds whisper that men are nearly all corrupt, and ill at preserving the uprightness and purity even of their own persons.
On and on for the remainder of time this stream will flow and empty into the world, and I pray the heirs of those first good brothers will uphold the purity of the lake and shepherd its course throughout the world, so that forests may spring upon the waterbanks until all the world is filled with this ancient paradise.
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 E l s e w h e r e
Scientists find bugs that eat waste and excrete petrol (link added 06.16.08)
Crude oil is being created from genetically modified bug excretions.
Read it
Pringles can designer buried in his work (link added 06.03.08)
Designer of the Pringles can was cremated and his remains kept in a Pringles can.
Read it
P o e t r y
Contented Wi' Little, And Cantie Wi' Mair - Robert Burns
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought;
But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught.
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blythe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the Deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae!
Come Ease or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain,
My warst word is:- ' Welcome, and welcome again!'
S t o r y
R e a d i n g / R e a d
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