I have been asked by Mr. Kerry Fortune, current President of the Abilene Boys Ranch, to write a short story/blog/newsletter about my experience of the Ranch and what my brothers and I are doing today. I do this with pleasure because I'm extremely proud of what my grandparents "Richey" created and the fact that it is still in operation today.
The Abilene Boys Ranch was founded by my grandparents, Ben Richey and Jaime Grace Yeager Richey, in 1947. I don't remember the first time I visited the Ranch, but when I was old enough to remember it was clear that it was a special place where young boys were taken care of whose families were not able to care for them. It was also easy for my two brothers and me to mingle with the boys because many of them were our age. This was always true when we visited (usually twice a year, Christmas and during the summer) because the age range of the boys was such that there were almost always boys there younger and older than us.
I have very vivid memories of all my visits to the Abilene Boys Ranch (before it was renamed the Ben Richey Boys Ranch) during my young life. I knew then and now that both my grandparents were loved as people and for the gift they gave the boys who lived under their care. My brothers and I became friends with many of the boys while we were visiting. It was like having a temporary extra home and circle of friends. And even though Craig and Evan and my background was different than many of the boys living at the Ranch, we were all still boys and we always found ways to become part of their resident family: eating with them in the Richey Hall, going to movies with them, playing pool and ping pong, going to rodeos, watching TV together, celebrating Christmas by helping them decorate their tree, helping them with their ranch chores (feeding the hogs and the "moo moos!"), riding horses together, participating in their softball tournament (unfortunately we usually lost), etc.
I remember one particularly funny moment with one of the boys. It was summer and my family and I had been camping at KOA campgrounds. We had a VW Campmobile for many years and drove it for all our family vacations. For some reason, on this trip we had only carried one bar of soap in the car. One morning during one of our stops at a KOA campground, so that my mom and us "men" each could have soap for our showers, my dad spontaneously bit the single bar of soap in half and handed one half to our mother. When we arrived at the Ranch and had met some of the boys (or seen them again because we already knew them), I asked one of the boys if he wanted to help me unpack the car. He agreed and we went to the car and opened the large sliding rear door. I opened a drawer to empty its contents and we both saw one of the half-bars of soap. From my dad's generous offering to my mom, it naturally had teeth marks. Before I could say anything to explain, the boy got a funny look on his face and asked, "Does someone in your family eat soap?!" (I want to say that the boy was Tony or Danny Floyd, but I don't remember well enough. Evan feels pretty sure that it was Danny!)
Among the boys I recall most vividly over the years were Barry Gibson (one of the smartest), Jimmy Merrick (a very friendly boy and one of my best friends there), Tony and Danny Floyd, Edward Twilley (could run like the wind), Charles Messer (he was a budding artist), and Dusty and Billy (can't remember their last name, but I think they were brothers) and a boy named Stacey.
I don't think many of the boys were musical, but they enjoyed the fact that we were. We always found music in common though if there was a guitar around. I remember a couple who were the resident parents of the younger boys at one point, Mr. and Mrs. Burns. We enjoyed all of them so much that my brothers and I were given beds in their sleeping quarters so we could literally "live" with them during our visit. That was loads of fun. Mr. Burns would get out his guitar and sing for and with us. What a treat that was!
My "grandmommy" Richey lived longer than my "granddad," Ben (he died of a heart attack when I was in the 5th grade), and my dad, David Frank (dad died of a brain tumor in 1977). She was essentially the resident "mother" for a long time after until her death. I visited her regularly even when she was no longer doing much of the work, but still living in her section of the building. Though she was not tending to her former amount of daily chores, everyone there treated her with love and respect and knew that she and her husband had been the reason for the existence of the Ranch.
On a very poignant note, my grandmommy Richey said that she didn't want to live any longer than she could take care of herself. She actually got that wish. As it was related to me by my brother Craig (as he had heard from Jaime's late sister, Elizabeth), one windy day she was walking along the walkway next to one of the buildings. The winds blew open a screen door that wasn't latched hitting her and knocking her to the ground. We're not sure if the door hitting her actually injured her or if it was the fall, hitting her head on the concrete, but it doesn't matter. She never regained consciousness. Her death was quick and painless, so she never had to experience the invalidity that she feared. It was also a blessing of a death because I knew that she missed my granddad and dad very much. It was very difficult for her that she had outlived them both.
My brothers Craig and Evan and feel very proud and fortunate to come from such good "stock." In our personal and professional lives we are in our own ways carrying on the family tradition of caring for young people in our teaching and parenting. Craig is in Los Angeles and is a piano and accompanying teacher at Cal-State Long Beach and a very successful film composer. Evan is the co-owner of Ovation Sound recording studio in Winston-Salem, N.C. and has two beautiful children, Carter and Rosalie. I am the cellist with Phantom, The Las Vegas Spectacular! and I teach privately and at two area schools of music. We are all happy and healthy and owe a great debt of gratitude to both our grandparents and our parents (on both sides of the family!). They were all marvelous people.
http://www.benrichey.org/
http://www.benrichey.org/html/history_of_the__ranch.html
www.leerichey.com
http://www.craigrichey.com/craigrichey.com/Bio.html
http://www.ovationsound.com/
For Elaine Stetson Lee Richey (Ben and Jaime's son David Frank Richey's wife, 1932-1997), go to Facebook and type in the Search field: Elaine Lee Richey
Welcome to my blog about my life and great memories. I hope you will enjoy reading the entries as much as I enjoyed writing them! Please feel free to leave comments.
My Fond Memories
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The picture above is of me as a baby, my dad David Richey (center), and my granddad Ben Richey (left). There is no date on back of the photo, but it had to have been 1959 because that's the year I was born! I'm lucky to have this picture. Three generations of men in one shot!!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Mom read The Hobbit to us!
I have a special association and feeling for J.R.R. Tolkien's, The Hobbit. My mother read it to Craig, Evan, dad, and me incrementally almost every night before bed, I believe in the summer of 1968, our second summer at the Sun Valley Music Camp. I don't remember the exact summer, but it was probably 1968 because the revised version of the book was published in 1966 (the book was originally published in 1937) and we spent four summers in Sun Valley from 1967 to 1971. (Mom was a guest teacher and performer there. Dad was the chauffeur (mom didn't drive yet!), supportive husband and father, and used the time to compose and enjoy the beauty of the surroundings. We were faculty brats and ran around the grounds of Sun Valley during the day playing and getting into mischief!)
This is one of the most enjoyable memories I have of being read to. I was nine years old and I remember being mesmerized and riveted by the story. From the opening sentence and first exchanges between Bilbo and Gandalf ("Good morning!" from Bilbo...and "What do you mean?" from Gandalf.), to the chapter "Riddles in the Dark," to the end sentence, I was captivated. It helped immensely that my mother also had a particular fondness for the book because she read it well. She brought the characters and the narrative to life. She was particularly good with the dialogue.
My favorite chapter is still "Riddles in the Dark." I find it so interesting that the horror Bilbo feels at being alone deep down in mountain, having no idea whether he'll ever see his friends again, and then encountering the erie and slithery Gollum, is offset by the almost humorous game as they exchange riddles to determine whether Bilbo gets eaten by Gollum if Bilbo loses, or whether Gollum shows Bilbo the way out of the mountain if Gollum loses. The ingeniousness of the writing juxtaposes playfulness and extreme horror splendidly. This chapter is of course also the introduction and turning point simultaneously of the entire plot of the one ring of power and how its power affects its bearer over time. As Bilbo discovers, (because Gollum has actually lost the ring and Bilbo finds it quite by accident and puts it in his pocket before he ever meets Gollum), the ring, when worn, gives the power of instant invisibility. Over time, however, the ring, also when worn, slowly decays and decimates its wearer. Gollum has become a vile wretch from wearing it, and now lives in a decrepit dwelling on a small island in the middle of a dark underground lake deep beneath the Misty Mountains. The chapter is brilliant in every way: in narrative, ambience, dialogue, and action.
I reread The Hobbit recently and was pleased to find myself remembering how I felt lying on the couch in our sweet little cottage in Ketchum, Idaho listening to my mom read it aloud. My mother later told me that though she enjoyed reading it to us as much as we enjoyed listening, she always felt a bit of frustration too. Even though we looked forward to it every night, we also almost always fell asleep while she was reading. She never knew quite where to start again the next night since Craig and Evan and I probably all fell asleep at different times! Regardless, I must not have fallen asleep too soon into her reading because I still remember the details of the book and the sound of her voice vividly!!
This is one of the most enjoyable memories I have of being read to. I was nine years old and I remember being mesmerized and riveted by the story. From the opening sentence and first exchanges between Bilbo and Gandalf ("Good morning!" from Bilbo...and "What do you mean?" from Gandalf.), to the chapter "Riddles in the Dark," to the end sentence, I was captivated. It helped immensely that my mother also had a particular fondness for the book because she read it well. She brought the characters and the narrative to life. She was particularly good with the dialogue.
My favorite chapter is still "Riddles in the Dark." I find it so interesting that the horror Bilbo feels at being alone deep down in mountain, having no idea whether he'll ever see his friends again, and then encountering the erie and slithery Gollum, is offset by the almost humorous game as they exchange riddles to determine whether Bilbo gets eaten by Gollum if Bilbo loses, or whether Gollum shows Bilbo the way out of the mountain if Gollum loses. The ingeniousness of the writing juxtaposes playfulness and extreme horror splendidly. This chapter is of course also the introduction and turning point simultaneously of the entire plot of the one ring of power and how its power affects its bearer over time. As Bilbo discovers, (because Gollum has actually lost the ring and Bilbo finds it quite by accident and puts it in his pocket before he ever meets Gollum), the ring, when worn, gives the power of instant invisibility. Over time, however, the ring, also when worn, slowly decays and decimates its wearer. Gollum has become a vile wretch from wearing it, and now lives in a decrepit dwelling on a small island in the middle of a dark underground lake deep beneath the Misty Mountains. The chapter is brilliant in every way: in narrative, ambience, dialogue, and action.
I reread The Hobbit recently and was pleased to find myself remembering how I felt lying on the couch in our sweet little cottage in Ketchum, Idaho listening to my mom read it aloud. My mother later told me that though she enjoyed reading it to us as much as we enjoyed listening, she always felt a bit of frustration too. Even though we looked forward to it every night, we also almost always fell asleep while she was reading. She never knew quite where to start again the next night since Craig and Evan and I probably all fell asleep at different times! Regardless, I must not have fallen asleep too soon into her reading because I still remember the details of the book and the sound of her voice vividly!!
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Dad and mom played us our lullaby...
One of the most wonderful memories I have of my parents is when, to coax Craig and Evan and me to bed at night, they would leave the door to our bedroom open and play sonatas together in our dining room where the old Everett baby grand piano was and the matching dining room table. Both our parents were superb musicians and performers separately, but when they played together there was a special magic. I didn't fully realize it as a child, but this "bedtime music" was not just the ordinary song on the radio or the phonograph (yes, we only had the record player back then for amplified music; cassette players could not amplify sound well enough yet...but it also meant that we were more dependent on live music which is highly preferable to any musician), these were two professional and seasoned artists, and husband and wife making the music. They were our parents too of course, but we were given the treat of a live professional performance as we drifted off to sleep. How marvelous that always was!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
My first experience on a farm
This is a pretty funny story. I was probably about four or five years old and my dad was driving Craig and me home from Charlotte one afternoon before the Interstate 77 was built, so we were on a country road as were most all of the non-residential roads at that time.
Unfortunately, our car either ran out of gas or had some other problem, because suddenly we had to pull over. We were out in the middle of nowhere. I remember my dad taking us to the closest place he could see which was a farm. In looking for someone to ask to use their phone, we walked into a barn. Whether I asked my dad if I could explore or my dad simply relaxed his hold on my hand I don't know, but I remember being suddenly free so I excitedly ran out of the barn.
Well, my exploration did not get me very far. I got only just outside the barn door when my feet encountered something extremely slippery and I became airborne. Next thing I knew I was sitting in fresh cow manure!
All I remember next was being held by my dad while he walked along the road we had been on (evidently the farm did not have a phone or we had found no one to ask) hitchhiking with Craig in tow; I don't think Evan was with us or was not yet born. My dad later recalled that the amusing, and slightly embarrassing thing was that, since I had soiled my pants in the cow manure, and he had had no other pants to change me into, I was exposed to the world from the waist down. An interesting sight for any prospective hitchhiker!
We must have been offered a ride, made it home safely, and successfully retrieved our car because the rest of that memory for me is incomplete and now just a laughable story; hitchhiking in those days was not the danger it is today, especially in a pretty country area. But like some people can say they know what soap tastes like (I can't), I know what cow manure feels like!!
Unfortunately, our car either ran out of gas or had some other problem, because suddenly we had to pull over. We were out in the middle of nowhere. I remember my dad taking us to the closest place he could see which was a farm. In looking for someone to ask to use their phone, we walked into a barn. Whether I asked my dad if I could explore or my dad simply relaxed his hold on my hand I don't know, but I remember being suddenly free so I excitedly ran out of the barn.
Well, my exploration did not get me very far. I got only just outside the barn door when my feet encountered something extremely slippery and I became airborne. Next thing I knew I was sitting in fresh cow manure!
All I remember next was being held by my dad while he walked along the road we had been on (evidently the farm did not have a phone or we had found no one to ask) hitchhiking with Craig in tow; I don't think Evan was with us or was not yet born. My dad later recalled that the amusing, and slightly embarrassing thing was that, since I had soiled my pants in the cow manure, and he had had no other pants to change me into, I was exposed to the world from the waist down. An interesting sight for any prospective hitchhiker!
We must have been offered a ride, made it home safely, and successfully retrieved our car because the rest of that memory for me is incomplete and now just a laughable story; hitchhiking in those days was not the danger it is today, especially in a pretty country area. But like some people can say they know what soap tastes like (I can't), I know what cow manure feels like!!
Friday, October 15, 2010
The man who killed the copperhead snakes!
I don't remember how old I was exactly, but I had to have been at least five. I was sitting on our back porch with my dad. Craig was about three years old and was playing in our back yard next to our sandpile (enclosed by four old logs). Suddenly, Craig let out a loud scream and began hobbling toward us. I, somewhat foolishly, think I said to dad that he had stepped on a pinecone. But when Craig got to where dad and I were sitting on the carport steps, he held out his foot for us to see. There on his foot, about a quarter of an inch apart, were two small red dots.
The rest was all a blur, but I later found out that Craig had been bitten by a copperhead snake. I also learned later that he had been bitten by a baby copperhead. Baby copperheads are more venomous than the adult copperheads; greater chance of survival for the babies. Very fortunately, even though the copperhead's mouth had widened all the way around Craig's foot (evidenced by the two red dots) only one fang had penetrated. Even that amount of venom had made Craig quite literally "deathly" sick because, as our mother told us, all the way to the Mooresville doctor she could see the blue color advancing up Craig's leg. Scared her to death, needless-to-say. Mom said that when they finally found someone who could get them a doctor that person said, "Well...sumpm' sure bit 'im!" Craig recovered from the bite and even, mom told us, leaned up and kissed the doctor on the cheek in relief and happiness. Though he wasn't consciously thinking it, he probably subconsciously knew that this doctor had saved his life. We also later learned that if both of the baby copperhead's fangs had penetrated Craig's foot, the remaining half of the snake's venom would have likely killed him.
Just before my parents had moved to Davidson in 1960, Lake Norman had been created to furnish power to the area (Duke Power) and provide beauty and recreation. When the lake water filled the lower land, which had been the natural habitat of many forms of wildlife, that wildlife moved upland to escape the water. The copperhead snakes were among that wildlife. Some of them escaped to the woods behind our back yard.
We experienced two more incidents with copperheads after Craig's encounter, but no one was bitten. My mom killed two on our backyard patio. She killed them with an old scythe. Nervously recalling, but with some slight humor, she said while she was chopping one up, the other was striking at the blade!! Another incident also involved Craig when he mistook a copperhead for a bird that the snake was preparing to strike. He ran right past the copperhead pointing to the bird, narrowly missing a second bite! My mom said the copperhead was probably too focused on the bird to turn its attention to Craig as he ran past. Whew!! (But who knows, even if Craig had been bitten again, perhaps he would have been immune to second bite!)
I don't remember how much more time passed, but suddenly I was aware that my dad had hired someone to hunt down and clean out our back woods of any more copperhead snakes. The man's name was Kaiser Brawley and he was African-American (we said "black" * in those days; the phrase African-American had not yet been adopted) and probably in his late seventies or early eighties. He was a tall, thin man and "drove" an old wooden cart pulled by a off-whitish mule named "Jeff." He was nearly toothless and what teeth he did have were unevenly spaced in his mouth. He was very focused, even stern-looking when he held the reins to steer the cart, but he was quite friendly and had a hearty laugh. I remember hearing him come up our gravel road, Dogwood lane, from the nearest paved road, Grey Road, urging his mule ahead with a soft jerk on the reins and two clicks of his tongue, "Tsch, tsch," and then with the gentle exhortation, "Git on Jeff!" He always brought at least one or two small black boys with him in the cart to help with the work.
I speculate that my dad hired Kaiser Brawley because he was famous in the area for being able to kill copperheads (and maybe other kinds of snakes as well) with his bare hands; he may have also been the relative of one of our baby-sitters and they recommended him. I never saw him do it, but according to what my mom had heard (or actually saw for herself) he would grab the copperhead by the tail and swiftly slap its head against a rock! That takes quite some nerve, but I guess if you kill enough of them that way, you get good at it. I learned from my parents that he killed 13 copperheads in our back yard. I don't know how many copperheads escaped this fate, but we never had another incident with copperhead snakes after Kaiser Brawley was finished.
*Incidentally, though I pointed out our use of the term "black" for "African-American" in the 1960s and '70s, I would also like to remind the reader that "black" was considered the politically correct term at that time (even though the phrase "politically correct" had not yet been coined). Out of respect, and because I find the "N" word among the most repugnant of the slang words, I will not write the "N" word in full. But it is curious to note that "black" was the accepted and preferred term then. I definitely heard some people use the "N" word, but no one who was educated and sensitive to anyone's feelings. "African-American" is now, of course, the politically correct term instead of "black." For the purposes of the nuance of the culture of the time in recounting the story, I continued to use the term "black" in place of "African-American" in describing the boys who worked with Kaiser. I was raised by parents who treated African-Americans with love and respect. The term "black" or even "negro" would have been terms they both used out of respect as with any other interesting aspect about the person, personally or culturally.
The rest was all a blur, but I later found out that Craig had been bitten by a copperhead snake. I also learned later that he had been bitten by a baby copperhead. Baby copperheads are more venomous than the adult copperheads; greater chance of survival for the babies. Very fortunately, even though the copperhead's mouth had widened all the way around Craig's foot (evidenced by the two red dots) only one fang had penetrated. Even that amount of venom had made Craig quite literally "deathly" sick because, as our mother told us, all the way to the Mooresville doctor she could see the blue color advancing up Craig's leg. Scared her to death, needless-to-say. Mom said that when they finally found someone who could get them a doctor that person said, "Well...sumpm' sure bit 'im!" Craig recovered from the bite and even, mom told us, leaned up and kissed the doctor on the cheek in relief and happiness. Though he wasn't consciously thinking it, he probably subconsciously knew that this doctor had saved his life. We also later learned that if both of the baby copperhead's fangs had penetrated Craig's foot, the remaining half of the snake's venom would have likely killed him.
Just before my parents had moved to Davidson in 1960, Lake Norman had been created to furnish power to the area (Duke Power) and provide beauty and recreation. When the lake water filled the lower land, which had been the natural habitat of many forms of wildlife, that wildlife moved upland to escape the water. The copperhead snakes were among that wildlife. Some of them escaped to the woods behind our back yard.
We experienced two more incidents with copperheads after Craig's encounter, but no one was bitten. My mom killed two on our backyard patio. She killed them with an old scythe. Nervously recalling, but with some slight humor, she said while she was chopping one up, the other was striking at the blade!! Another incident also involved Craig when he mistook a copperhead for a bird that the snake was preparing to strike. He ran right past the copperhead pointing to the bird, narrowly missing a second bite! My mom said the copperhead was probably too focused on the bird to turn its attention to Craig as he ran past. Whew!! (But who knows, even if Craig had been bitten again, perhaps he would have been immune to second bite!)
I don't remember how much more time passed, but suddenly I was aware that my dad had hired someone to hunt down and clean out our back woods of any more copperhead snakes. The man's name was Kaiser Brawley and he was African-American (we said "black" * in those days; the phrase African-American had not yet been adopted) and probably in his late seventies or early eighties. He was a tall, thin man and "drove" an old wooden cart pulled by a off-whitish mule named "Jeff." He was nearly toothless and what teeth he did have were unevenly spaced in his mouth. He was very focused, even stern-looking when he held the reins to steer the cart, but he was quite friendly and had a hearty laugh. I remember hearing him come up our gravel road, Dogwood lane, from the nearest paved road, Grey Road, urging his mule ahead with a soft jerk on the reins and two clicks of his tongue, "Tsch, tsch," and then with the gentle exhortation, "Git on Jeff!" He always brought at least one or two small black boys with him in the cart to help with the work.
I speculate that my dad hired Kaiser Brawley because he was famous in the area for being able to kill copperheads (and maybe other kinds of snakes as well) with his bare hands; he may have also been the relative of one of our baby-sitters and they recommended him. I never saw him do it, but according to what my mom had heard (or actually saw for herself) he would grab the copperhead by the tail and swiftly slap its head against a rock! That takes quite some nerve, but I guess if you kill enough of them that way, you get good at it. I learned from my parents that he killed 13 copperheads in our back yard. I don't know how many copperheads escaped this fate, but we never had another incident with copperhead snakes after Kaiser Brawley was finished.
*Incidentally, though I pointed out our use of the term "black" for "African-American" in the 1960s and '70s, I would also like to remind the reader that "black" was considered the politically correct term at that time (even though the phrase "politically correct" had not yet been coined). Out of respect, and because I find the "N" word among the most repugnant of the slang words, I will not write the "N" word in full. But it is curious to note that "black" was the accepted and preferred term then. I definitely heard some people use the "N" word, but no one who was educated and sensitive to anyone's feelings. "African-American" is now, of course, the politically correct term instead of "black." For the purposes of the nuance of the culture of the time in recounting the story, I continued to use the term "black" in place of "African-American" in describing the boys who worked with Kaiser. I was raised by parents who treated African-Americans with love and respect. The term "black" or even "negro" would have been terms they both used out of respect as with any other interesting aspect about the person, personally or culturally.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Just for fun remembering
It occurred to me that I want to write about fun, joyous things as well as serious stuff. And I have found myself lately remembering things quite vividly from my whole life, from my childhood on; hence the reason for my first post of the A.A. Milne poem. (I will be posting more of them...how marvelous they are!) I enjoy recounting fond memories and I hope these will be a nice break from my other more serious blogs.
So thank you, in advance, for reading, and I would love to read any comments or thoughts or feelings that you want to share.
Lee
So thank you, in advance, for reading, and I would love to read any comments or thoughts or feelings that you want to share.
Lee
Favorite poems
This poem, "Teddy Bear," by A.A. Milne, was one of my favorites when I was a child. It is one of a collection of poems in a book called When We Were Very Young. My parents read it to my two brothers and me before we learned to read. Besides the sheer imagination and beauty of the verse and rhyme, the author's use of correct grammar and sophisticated vocabulary were evident to me even then, though I couldn't articulate my sense for those details. In particular, I like the use of the word adiposity. What an interesting and erudite word to describe, simply, being a bit overweight. This poem is also endearing in that it conveys the message that some slight girth is nothing to be ashamed of. However, the poem is touching both to the slim and stout alike!
Our bear rejoiced like anything
"Are you," he said, "by any chance,
They stood beneath the window there
"Teddy Bear"
(a.k.a. Winnie the Pooh)
A bear however hard he tries
Grows tubby without exercise
Our Teddy Bear is short and fat
Which is not to be wondered at;
He gets what exercise he can
By falling off the ottoman,
But generally seems to lack
The energy to clamber back.
Now tubbiness is just thing
That gets a fellow wondering;
And Teddy worried lots about
The fact that he was rather stout.
He thought: "If only I were thin!
But how does anyone begin?"
He thought: "It really isn't fair
To grudge me exercise and air."
For many weeks he pressed in vain
His nose against the window-pane,
And envied those who walked about
Reducing their unwanted stout.
None of the people he could see
"Is quite (he said) as fat as me!"
Then, with a still more moving sigh,
"I mean," he said, "as fat as I!"
Now Teddy as was only right
Slept in the ottoman at night,
And with him crowded in as well
More animals than I can tell;
Not only these but books and things,
Such as a kind relation brings --
Old tales of "Once upon a time,"
And history retold in rhyme.
One night it happened that he took
A peep at an old picture-book,
Wherein he came upon by chance
The picture of a King of France
(A stoutish man) and, down below,
These words: King Louis So and So,
Nicknamed 'The Handsome'" There he sat,
And (think of it!) the man was fat!
Our bear rejoiced like anything
To read about this famous king,
Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat
And certainly the man was fat.
Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt.
The man was definitely stout.
Why then a bear, (for all his tub)
Might yet be named, "The Handsome Cub!"
Next morning (nose to window-pane)
The doubt occurred to him again
One question hammered in his head:
"Is he alive or is he dead?"
Thus nose to pane he pondered; but
The lattice window loosely shut,
Swung open. With one startled "Oh!"
Our Teddy disappeared below.
There happened to be passing by
A plump man with a twinkling eye
Who seeing Teddy in the street
Raised him politely to his feet.
And murmured kindly in his ear
Soft words of comfort and of cheer:
"Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all."
"Tut, tut! A very nasty fall."
Our Teddy answered not a word;
It's doubtful if he even heard.
Our bear could only look and look:
The stout man in the picture book!
That "handsome king" -- could this be he
This man of adiposity?
"Impossible," he thought. "But still,
No harm in asking. Yes I will!"
"Are you," he said, "by any chance,
His majesty the King of France?"
The other answered, "I am that."
Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat.
Then said, "Excuse me," with an air,
"But is it Mr. Edward Bear?"
And Teddy, bending very low,
Replied politely, "Even so!"
They stood beneath the window there
The King and Mr. Edward Bear,
And handsome, if a trifle fat,
Talked carelessly of this and that...
Then said His Majesty, "Well, well.
I must get on," and rang the bell.
"Your bear, I think," and smiled. "Good day!"
And turned, and went upon his way.
A bear, however hard he tries,
Grows tubby without exercise.
Our bear is short and fat,
Which is not to be wondered at.
But do you think it worries him
To know that he is far from slim?
No, just the other way about --
He's proud of being short and stout.
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