Introduction and Welcome

Welcome to All Things Bright and Beautiful. If you are new to this site, I would recommend that you read my very first entry - which is an introduction and welcome to this blog. You can view it here

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Albert Bierstadt - Giant Redwood Trees of California, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Le Nozze di Figaro, James Whitcomb Riley - The Raggedy Man

Albert Bierstadt painted this wonderful painting of the California Redwoods.  If you look up close you can see how tiny the people are in contrast with the majestic pines.  I thought the little waterfall and pool were also lovely.  

Giant Redwood Trees of California - Albert Bierstadt -
Giant Redwood Trees of California by Albert Bierstadt

There are a couple more pieces of music by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart that I would like to feature before we move on.  One is the overture from the opera The Marriage of Figero called Le Nozze di Figaro.  I hope you enjoy this lovely piece of music. Mozart - Marriage of Figaro - Overture

James Whitcomb Riley was sometimes called the children's poet.  Here are two links to biographical sketches.  The first is also a good source of his wonderful poetry.  
James Whitcomb Riley Com
A Short Biography of America's Children's Poet

Today's poem - The Raggedy Man

O The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed - an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen - ef our hired girl says he can -
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. -
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W'y, the Raggedy Man -he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin'4 an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do. -
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple6 down fer me -
An' 'nother 'n' too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann -
An' 'nuther 'n' too, fer The Raggedy Man. -
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' The Raggedy Man one time say he,
Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree,
An' et 'em - all ist roast' an hot! -
An' it's so, too! - 'cause a corn-crib got
Afire one time an' all burn' down
On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town -
On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes - an' the hired han'
'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! -
Ain't he the beatin'est Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do -
An' won't run off - 'less you want him to!
I drived him wunst way down our lane
An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain,
An' ist rared up an' squealed and run
Purt' nigh away! - an' it's all in fun!
Nene he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can...
Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', rite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabeth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late,
An' pigs ist root' thru the garden-gate,
He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said,
"Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!"
An' race' an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run
When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun
An' go "Bang!-Bang!" nen 'tend he stan'
An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man!
He's an old Bear-Shooter Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on
We're little prince-children, an' old King's gone
To git more money, an' lef' us there -
And Robbers is ist thick ever'where:
An' nen - ef we all won't cry, fer shore -
The Raggedy Man he'll come and "splore
The Castul-Halls," an' steal the "gold" -
An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold
An' pack us off to his old "Cave"! - An'
Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man! -
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man - one time, when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his -
An' be a rich merchunt - an' wear fine clothes? -
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

Thursday, November 15, 2012

Albert Bierstadt - The Oregon Trail, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart - Serenade No. 13 for Strings, James Whitcomb Riley - When the Frost is on the punkin

The Oregon Trail by Albert Bierstadt is another example of his marvelous far-reaching scenes of grand landscapes.  In this painting you also have the human element and a reference to history.  His skies are wonderfully dramatic and colorful but this doesn't diminish his careful attention to portraying realistically the details in the foreground.  This painting was painted in 1869 and is 30 7/8 inches by 49 3/8 inches. It would be fun to see this painting  up close in full size....

The Oregon Trail - Albert Bierstadt -
The Oregon Trail - Albert Bierstadt

Today's featured piece by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart is Serenade No. 13 for Strings.  Hear it performed here

Today's poem, When the Frost is on the Punkin, has been on my mind all Fall. It is by James Whitcomb Riley Here it is.  Hope you enjoy it.  Next week we'll do the biographical sketches of our new poet.

You may enjoy this  YouTube video of Kent Risley reciting this poem.

01 - When the Frost is on the Punkin

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here --
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries -- kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawsack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover overhead! --
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin, and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angles wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me --
I'd want to 'commodate 'em -- all the whole-indurin' flock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Albert Bierstadt - , Wolfgang Amadeaus Mozart - Violin Concerto No. 1 ,

If you haven't had a chance yet to look at the many gorgeous paintings by Albert Bierstadt you can view them on this link -
Here is another fine painting by this skilled artist.  He manages to capture this wave and the light shining through it as well as the rocks, shells and sand of the seashore.  This might be a fun painting to try to copy in watercolor or colored pencil.
Emerald Sea - Albert Bierstadt -

This is the first of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Violin Concertos.  It was written in 1775 when Mozart was only 19.  It has three parts with a slower movement sandwiched between two faster movements. The following is a definition of "concerto" by Wikipedia:  concerto is a musical composition usually composed in three parts or movements, in which (usually) one solo instrument (for instance, a pianoviolincello or flute) is accompanied by an orchestra.
You can listen to Mozart's Concerto No. 1 here

I am reluctant to leave John Greenleaf Whittier and his wonderful poetry but it's time to move on to another poet.  There are many more fine poems he has written - we've barely scratched the surface.  If you would like to continue with this poet here are a couple of links to more of his works. 
Ambleside Online - John Greenleaf Whittier
 Poet's Corner - John Greenleaf Whittier
 Poem Hunter = John Greenleaf Whittier
 A final poem by John Greenleaf Whittier -

              The Barefoot Boy

    BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
    Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
    With thy turned-up pantaloons,
    And thy merry whistled tunes;
    With thy red lip, redder still
    Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
    With the sunshine on thy face,
    Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
    From my heart I give thee joy,-
    I was once a barefoot boy!
    Prince thou art,- the grown-up man
    Only is republican.
    Let the million-dollared ride!
    Barefoot, trudging at his side,
    Thou hast more than he can buy
    In the reach of ear and eye,-
    Outward sunshine, inward joy:
    Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
    Oh for boyhood's painless play,
    Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
    Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
    Knowledge never learned of schools,
    Of the wild bee's morning chase,
    Of the wild flower's time and place,
    Flight of fowl and habitude
    Of the tenants of the wood;
    How the tortoise bears his shell,
    How the woodchuck digs his cell,
    And the round mole sinks his well
    How the robin feeds her young,
    How the oriole's nest is hung;
    Where the whitest lilies blow,
    Where the freshest berries grow,
    Where the groundnut trails its vine,
    Where the wood grape's clusters shine;
    Of the black wasp's cunning way,
    Mason of his walls of clay,
    And the architectural plans
    Of gray hornet artisans!-
    For, eschewing books and tasks,
    Nature answers all he asks;
    Hand in hand with her he walks,
    Face to face with her he talks,
    Part and parcel of her joy,-
    Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
    Oh for boyhood's time of June,
    Crowding years in one brief moon,
    When all things I heard or saw
    Me, their master, waited for.
    I was rich in flowers and trees,
    Humming birds and honeybees;
    For my sport the squirrel played,
    Plied the snouted mole his spade;
    For my taste the blackberry cone
    Purpled over hedge and stone;
    Laughed the brook for my delight
    Through the day and through the night,
    Whispering at the garden wall,
    Talked with me from fall to fall;
    Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
    Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
    Mine, on bending orchard trees,
    Apples of Hesperides!
    Still, as my horizon grew,
    Larger grew my riches too;
    All the world I saw or knew
    Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
    Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
    Oh for festal dainties spread,
    Like my bowl of milk and bread,-
    Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
    On the doorstone, gray and rude!
    O're me, like a regal tent,
    Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
    Purple-curtained, fringed with gold;
    Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
    While for music came the play
    Of the pied frog's orchestra;
    And to light the noisy choir,
    Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
    I was monarch: pomp and joy
    Waited on thebarefoot boy!
    Cheerily, then my little man,
    Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
    Though the flinty slopes be hard,
    Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
    Every morn shall lead thee through
    Fresh baptisms of the dew;
    Every evening from thy feet
    Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
    All too soon these feet must hide
    In the prison cells of pride,
    Lose the freedom of the sod,
    Like a colt's for work be shod,
    Made to tread the mills of toi,
    Up and down in ceaseless moil:
    Happy if their track be found
    Never on forbidden ground;
    Happy if they sink not in
    Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
    Ah! that thou shouldst know thy joy
    Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
    John Greenleaf Whittier