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Grantian FlorilegiumDr. Grant: literary, bibliophile, wordsmithy, and professor
Blog and MablogPastor and professor in Moscow, Idaho
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The Evantine AbbeyMy former landlord, self-proclaimed futilitarian
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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
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A MinorCommunity-oriented blogger
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Wittenberg HallDiscussing Christianity and beer
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A Character Study
Hodges revelled in the swift drum of his light feet in their sure, rhythmic sprint, and exhilarated in the cool late-afternoon spring breeze that sailed over the peaceful sparkling lake and brought relief to his sweat-glistened forehead and exertion-reddened face. The College bell tower tolled a regal seven times as Hodges quickened down the tree-lined, sloping path, then up a slightly curving grade. The departing sun scattered amber dust over the spreading heights of the green trees visible over the crown of the rise on the far side of the lake. With delicious anticipation, Hodges turned his thoughts to cold dark beer, tobacco, and pleasant company ahead in the evening.
Hodges towelled his face and neck as he hurried across the Commons Park on the way to the Residence Halls. The landsmen were making their silent drifting rounds lighting the tall iron-stemmed lamps lining the pathway. One determined girl still sat on a bench hunched over a book, defying the dying light as she hungrily sought to grasp the piquant illumination of the text. Over here on the lawn a group of four merrily and good-naturedly made plans for the night. Another student was bustling purposefully across the far grass in long strides, books slung over his shoulder, as he made his way home from the day's final class. Emboldened crickets had started to come out and sing, and a solitary unseen bird remained trilling a fond remembrance of a glorious day heralding summer.
Quarter till eight, a refreshed Hodges pulled on a sweater over his button-up shirt, scooped up his bookbag, and harnessed it over his shoulder. Emerging from his lodging and into a still-bright night he made his way across a lawn, past the imperious stone chapel, and up a hill to the graduate student lodgings. Built like the rest of the college in a Gothic/Renaissance architectural style, the hall provided magnificent accomodations for senior scholars. The spacious interior was walled and floored with the finest cherry-colored woods, and proud national antiques and paintings of great price and exquisite beauty were provided generously to each room. The rooms themselves were large: two private bedrooms, a small kitchen, a dining space, a sitting room lined with bookshelves, and a great stone fireplace.
Resident Ernest Greyfriar sat on a large dark couch, dressed in equally dark evening attire of the slightly formal sort peculiar to the graduate students of the college. He sat in the corner of the long couch, right leg thrown over left knee, the Courier tucked under an arm. He was conversing with another young man, Friedrich, a dark curly-haired upperclassman, who sat poised with pen in hand and notepad on lap ready to resume composing a paper.
The lodging's other resident, William Cliffstone, sat impressively in a wooden armchair before the fireplace, and reached up to the mantlepiece to obtain his tobacco box. Across from Mr. Cliffstone lounged the student of literature and whimsical Romantic Sam Cavyar, one leg casually thrown over the arm of his chair, leaning back against the other arm and gazing merrily up at a copy of Foucault suspended bwtween himself and the ceiling - laughing. His friend the student of philosophy, Pierre Descartes, of whom Sam had procured the Foucault, sat bearing a dignified frown directed at the jolliness of his friend.
The hairy red Scotsman Walter MacDommaghil sat on a small couch puffing religiously at his pipe, eyeing Cliffstone with a hard squinting stare as he prepared to engage in speech. He was a mathematician. Beside him sat Hodges, with an open volume of Catullus.
Presently Greyfriar rose and approached the adjacent room's heavy cedar dining table, and procuring a tool began unfastening the seals of seven bottles of dark imported beer, then proceeded to silently and gravely distribute them among his fellows. The recipients, on the other hand, accepted these drinks with much merry acclaim and pleased verbal expressions.
Cavyar held his bottle aloft by the neck and raising himself in his chair proclaimed "To my studious friends: may our companionship always be as keen as our minds, and as our bodies remain full of health, and stout."
"And stout!" chorused six vigorous voices in answer.
Cavyar tilted the bottle to his lips, and the others following his example took long draughts from theirs.
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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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