I should just kill it now! In two hours I'll be on my way to Ottawa, the Nation's Capital and will miss the

I'll help a little RUTH...but only for you!

the race is on...go get it....

oh COME ON!!!

I gotta pee....

WARNING: roused, harem, joy.
 

. . .

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!"
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp's supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse thrust his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornëd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.

. . .

Bill did it!!!!
Kill, Ruth, kill!!!

What a bunch of losers!!!!!!!!!

Losers? Some one say losers? Ha...I am learning much poise here... thanks to my literary posters! And to think I thought about killing the tread with:
Jack be Nimble....

I see we did it AGAIN.

Good to see you Operator - hope Christmas didn't mellow your style.

Glad to see you back!!! And with your usual style and grace. We missed you,girl.

are we that screwed up we can't even kill a freakin' thread?

Request a mercy killing
 

. . .
All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
A solitude made more intense
By dreary-voicëd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind,
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.
. . .

[645 lines to go.]

Warning: thongful.
 

. . .

. . .
Yet, haply, in some lull of life,
Some Truce of God which breaks its strife,
The worldling's eyes shall gather dew,
Dreaming in throngful city ways
Of winter joys his boyhood knew;
And dear and early friends -- the few
Who yet remain -- shall pause to view
These Flemish pictures of old days;
Sit with me by the homestead hearth,
And stretch the hands of memory forth
To warm them at the wood-fire's blaze!
And thanks untraced to lips unknown
Shall greet me like the odors blown
From unseen meadows newly mown,
Or lilies floating in some pond,
Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond;
The traveller owns the grateful sense
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence,
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare
The benediction of the air.



[All done; no lines to go. This thread may die. No replacement is required.]

Why don't we just ddddddddrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaagggggggggggg gggg this out BARGOO and RUTH.....