The Book of Memory

Turn me loose and let me be

Young once more and fancy free;

Let me wander where I will,

Down the lane and up the hill,

Trudging barefoot in the dust

In an age that knows no 'must,'

And no voice insistently

Speaks of duty unto me;

Let me tread the happy ways

Of those by-gone yesterdays.

Fame had never whispered then,

Making slaves of eager men;

Greed had never called me down

To the gray walls of the town,

Offering frankincense and myrrh

If I'd be its prisoner;

I was free to come and go

Where the cherry blossoms blow,

Free to wander where I would,

Finding life supremely good.

But I turned, as all must do,

From the happiness I knew

To the land of care and strife,

Seeking for a fuller life;

Heard the lure of fame and sought

That renown so dearly bought;

Listened to the voice of greed

Saying: 'These the things you need,'

Now the gray town holds me fast,

Prisoner to the very last.

Age has stamped me as its own;

Youth to younger hearts has flown;

Still the cherry blossoms blow

In the land loused to know;

Still the fragrant clover spills

Perfume over dales and hills,

But I'm not allowed to stray

Where the young are free to play;

All the years will grant to me

Is the book of memory.

                                                                                         by Edgar Albert Guest

Editorial Influence

It is a solemn thing, to think when you sit down to splatter ink, that

what you write, in prose or verse, may be a blessing or a curse.  The

gems of thought that you impart may upward guide some mind and heart;

some youth may read your Smoking Stuff, and say: "That logic's good

enough; the path of virtue must be fine; I'll have no wickedness in

mine."  And some day, when you're old and gray, that youth may come

along your way, and say, in language ringing true: "All that I've won I

owe to you!  When I was young I read your rot; it hit a most responsive

spot, encouraged me for stress and strife, and made me choose the best

in life."  And this will warm your heart and brain; you'll know you

have not lived in vain.  But if you write disgusting dope, that thrusts

at Truth, and Faith and Hope; if you apologize for vice, and show that

wickedness is nice, it well may chance, when you are old, and in your

veins the blood runs cold, there'll come your way some dismal wreck,

who'll roast you sore, and cry: "By heck!  And also I might say, by

gum!  'Twas you that put me on the bum!  Your writings got me headed

wrong; you threw it into Virtue strong; and in the prison that you see,

I'm convict No. 23!"

                                                                            by Walt Mason

1% rule (Internet culture)

In Internet culture, the 1% rule is a rule of thumb pertaining to participation in an internet community, stating that only 1% of the users of a website actively create new content, while the other 99% of the participants only lurk. Variants include the 1-9-90 rule (sometimes 90–9–1 principle or the 89:10:1 ratio), which states that in a collaborative website such as a wiki, 90% of the participants of a community only view content, 9% of the participants edit content, and 1% of the participants actively create new content. A related observation is that 1% of users generate the majority of revenue in free-to-play games

The terms lurk and lurking, in reference to online activity, are used to refer to online observation without engaging others in the community, and were first used by veteran print journalist, P Tomi Austin,when her presence was noticed by other users in chat rooms, who queried her reasons for not engaging in chat. There were repeated inquiries about her identity and her refusal to engage in chat. The etiquette was, apparently, to greet other users upon entry into the chat rooms/sites. At the time, (then in her 30s, surfing among users averaging in their teens and 20s) she was only identified as "Bilbo", she explained that she was a mature, but computer-literate, user and novice to chat, and preferred to lurk, or was lurking to familiarize herself with the chat culture, etiquette, and the sites to which she had logged on.

Words and Deeds

A fire broke out in Bildad's shack and burned it to the ground; and

Bildad, with his roofless pack, sent up a doleful sound.  And I, who

lived the next door west, hard by the county jail, went over there and

beat my breast, and helped poor Bildad wail.  Around the ruined home I

stepped, and viewed the shaking walls, and people say the way I wept

would beat Niagara Falls.  Then words of sympathy I dealt to Bildad and

his wife; such kindly words, I've always felt, nerve people for the

strife.  If I can kill with words your fears, or argue grief away, or

drown your woe by shedding tears, call on me any day.  I have a

sympathetic heart that bleeds for others' aches, and I will ease your

pain and smart unless the language breaks.  And so to Bildad and his

mate I made a helpful talk, with vital truths that elevate and break

disasters' shock; I pointed out that stricken men should not yield to

the worst, but from the wreckage rise again like flame from torch

reversed.

Then Johnson interrupted me as I was growing hoarse.  A rude, offensive

person he, a tactless man and coarse.

He said to Bildad, "Well, old pard!  You are burned out I see!  You

can't keep house here in your yard, so come and live with me!"

The neighbours who had gathered round applauded Johnson then, declaring

that at last they'd found the kindliest of men; not one appreciative

voice for me, who furnished tears, who made the sad man's heart

rejoice, and drove way his fears!

                              by Walt Mason

The Snowy Day

I like to watch the children play, upon a wintry, snowy day; like

little elves they run about, and leap and slide, and laugh and shout.

This side of heaven can there be such pure and unmixed ecstasy?  I lean

upon ye rustic stile, and watch the children with a smile, and think

upon a vanished day, when I, as joyous, used to play, when all the

world seemed young and bright, and every hour had its delight; and, as

I brush away a tear, a snowball hits me in the ear.

                                                                      

                                                                                                 by Walt Mason

Don’t Tell Me

Don’t tell me what you will do

 When you have time to spare;

Tell me what you did today

 To ease a load of care.

Don’t tell me what you will give

 When your ship comes in from the sea;

Tell me what you gave today

 A fettered soul to free,

Don’t tell the dreams you have

 Of conquest still afar;

Don’t say what you hope to be

 But tell me what you are.  

                                   

Author Unknown

Old-Fashioned Letters

Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!

And nobody writes them now;

Never at all comes in the scrawl

On the written pages which told us all

The news of town and the folks we knew,

And what they had done or were going to do.

It seems we've forgotten how

To spend an hour with our pen in hand

To write in the language we understand.

Old-fashioned letters we used to get

And ponder each fond line o'er;

The glad words rolled like running gold,

As smoothly their tales of joy they told,

And our hearts beat fast with a keen delight

As we read the news they were pleased to write

And gathered the love they bore.

But few of the letters that come to-day

Are penned to us in the old-time way.

Old-fashioned letters that told us all

The tales of the far away;

Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen;

And better than any fine magazine

Was the writing too, for it bore the style

Of a simple heart and a sunny smile,

And was pure as the breath of May.

Some of them oft were damp with tears,

But those were the letters that lived for years.

Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!

And, oh, how we watched the mails;

But nobody writes of the quaint delights

Of the sunny days and the merry nights

Or tells us the things that we yearn to know—

That art passed out with the long ago,

And lost are the simple tales;

Yet we all would happier be, I think,

If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.

                                              by Edgar Albert Guest