A Sweet Unrest
Nov 2nd, 2006 by dopealope
Wayfarers All“O, we’re not off yet, if that’s what you mean,” replied the first swallow. “We’re only making plans and arranging things. Talking it over, you know-what route we’re taking this year, and where we’ll stop, and so on. That’s half the fun!”
“Fun?” said the Rat; “now that’s just what I don’t understand. If you’ve got to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you’ve just settled into, why, when the hour strikes I’ve no doubt you’ll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe you’re not very unhappy. But to want to talk about it, or even think about, till you really need-”
“No, you don’t understand, naturally,” said the second swallow. “First, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons. They flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day. We hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.”
To Florida, To Florida, jig-a-de-jig
To that dopey doberman.
To throw a ball for the long suffering Chesapeake.
To get Jack Attacked.
To muck the horses.
To Publix.
To Tony’s Big Oak.
To Billy’s Tap Room
To the Old Crow Bar-b-que.
To High Tides at Snack Jack
To the popcorn at Target.
To cigars by the fire pit, with a not-so-wee dram of Laphroaig.
To spend the holidays with those that I love,
and wish that time would stand still …
Home again home again, jig-a-de-jig