RHYMING DINING

I return once again to my Grandfather's college book - 'Pierrot's Album' most of which was written in the first half of the 1900's. This is a page in his own handwriting which I assume to be his creation. I hope you will enjoy it's humour and its sneak peek at a time of innocence.

The page consists of a few short verses which are all related to food. He has titled them 'UnBeeton Menus' - a play on words related to Mrs Beeton who was the Delia Smith of Grandad's era. As you will see, the casual use of French was all the rage. I have provided translations just in case you are Napoleonically challenged.

Oeuf = egg, poulet = chicken, lapin = rabbit, Jeunesse Doree = golden youth,

Les Oeufs

Two oeufs is human, four or five divine

(As I'm sure you have realised, this is another play on words for 'To err is human, to forgive divine').

Poulet en Casserole

In restaurants why does it happen

That poulet's so frequently lapin

Is it just one of those things

Or is it that neither has wings?

Jeunesse Doree

On menus every pigs a suckling,

Fowl is chicken, duck is duckling,

Restaurants possess in truth

The secret of eternal youth.

Artichokes

One sort of artichoke is a globe

The other is Jerusalem

But which is which I cannot probe

I always seem to confusalem.

Herbert Pearce.

FUNGAL FUN

You may recall dear reader, that a while ago, I published a post called 'Pierrot' which introduced you to my grandfather's college yearbook. The book was put together between 1904 and 1907 and 'Grampa' (Herbert Pearce) continued to add to it throughout his life.

I love the thought that I am able to keep these jottings alive by reproducing them here. He was a lovely man and would no doubt have been astonished to be told that his notes would survive and make it into cyberspace in the form of the internet!

I promised that we would return to Pierrot's album and so I present you with a poem written by Herbert in August, 1944. This was about 4 months after my parents married. It tells the salutary tale of the boy who assisted the milkman in the days when milk was delivered to your doorstep in glass bottles. The illustration was drawn by Grampa too.

Please enjoy the tale of:

The Mushroom

A mushroom grew in the early dawn
On a small, trim, green suburban lawn.

The lawn's fat owner smiled with joy -
He took small heed of the milkman's boy.

Damp and warmth and the week wore on -
A child's cry - 'Father! The mushroom's gone!'


The fat man's wife at the garden gate -
Why is the milkman's boy so late?

The milkboy rests 'neath funeral pall.
It was not a mushroom after all.

PIERROT

Between 1904 and 1907, my paternal grandfather trained as a schoolmaster at St. Paul's College, Cheltenham. During that time he acquired the nickname of 'Pierrot'. As you may know, Pierrot is a white faced clown as shown in the picture on the cover of 'Pierrot's album' which is a sort of college yearbook containing anecdotes, drawings and poems written by my Grandpa and his college friends. He continued to add his thoughts in the book, throughout his life.

There is an inscription inside the front cover which reads 'For Anthony some day'. In fact I didn't receive the book until 1963, eight years after Pierrot's death. My Grandpa and his book have inspired me through the years and I shall return to it in future posts. For now though, I want to share with you a poem which he wrote in the album. It is called:

When I die
What a nuisance then will be, all that shall remain of me!
Shelves of books I've often read, piles of notes undocketed,
Shaving brushes, razors, strops; bottles that have lost their tops,
Boxes full of odds and ends, letters from departed friends.
Faded ties and broken braces, tucked away in secret places.
Baggy trousers, ragged coats, stacks of ancient lesson notes -
and that ghostliest of shows - boots and shoes in horrid rows.

Though they are of cheerful mind, my family whom I leave behind,
when they find these in my stead will be sorry I am dead.

Burn the papers, sell the books! Clear out all the pestered nooks...
And when you have done away with all that is of yesterday -
if you feel a thrill of pain - master it and start again.

and here's my response written in February 1963 when I was first given the book:

Dear Grandpa - it was as you said, for not long after you were dead,
The papers were burned, the books were sold, and gone was all the dust of old.
Forgive us - but forget not too, that this was nothing, you are you.
It's you we want to meet above, it isn't boots or shoes we love!