A Barn to House Thee

There was no room for Him, once long ago, Only a cold and drafty barn, and, like a blow, The smell of dung did greet Him, Who came from heaven, none to meet Him, save the displaced cows and sheep Whose restless night disturbed His sleep. Only some sheep men came to pray. No scholars came to mark the day. Still as of old the world denies Room to its King and from Him shies, The Cross His only gift from men And man as brutal now as then. Lord, if again a barn do not offend Thee, This dung and filth would comprehend Thee, Here is my heart, with its unclean floor A barn to house Thee, as of yore. ~ R. J. Rushdoony, 1951

Chocolate Martini

Chill two martini stems ~

Fill a large cocktail shaker with ice cubes and add these four ingredients in order.

3 oz Absolut vanilla vodka
3 oz Godiva chocolate liqueur
3 oz Patron dark cafe liqueur
3 oz half and half (not pictured)


Shake vigorously.  Dampen the rim of both glasses and coat with powdered cocoa mix.  Shake mixer once again.

Strain into stems.


PS  Light a candle, place a flower, and grab your napkin - Cheers!

A Christmas Colloquy

THE country farmer has his joys 
Of little city girls and boys 
When brother Thomas brings his brood 
Of motherless brats in Christmas mood 
To try our country air and food. 
And O what splendid pies and cakes 
Their pleased and pretty grandma makes! 
And O what squeals and stomach-aches! 


Poor Thomas shepherds him a flock 
Of city souls as hard as rock, 
And though they will not fill his larder 
He only preaches Christ the harder. 
But Ann, though seven years my niece, 
Is still a pagan little piece, 
And as she often hints to me 
She hates the sound of piety. 
Fair Inez is my ancient setter 
Who lies by the fire when we will let her: 
Alas, this amiable dog 
Heard all the bitter dialogue 
That passed between my niece and brother 
Misunderstanding one another. 

ANN: 
Father, what will there be for me 
To-morrow on the Christmas tree? 
Have you told Santa what to bring, 
My pony, my doll, and everything? 

THOMAS: 
My daughter, Santa will know best 
What to bring you, and what the rest. 
But father and his little girl 
And everybody in the world 
Should dwell to-night on higher things, 
For hark! the herald angel sings, 
And in a manger poor and lowly 
Lies little Jesus, high and holy. 

ANN: 
Father, don't talk of little Jesus, 
You're only doing it to tease us, 
It isn't nearly time for bed, 
And I want to know what Santa said. 

THOMAS: 
Jesus is better than any toys 
For little sinning girls and boys, 
For Jesus saves, but sin destroys. 

And O, it gives him sad surprise, 
There must be tears in Jesus' eyes, 
When little girls with bad behavior 
Forget to own their Lord and Savior. 

ANN: 
I didn't, you know it isn't true! 
I say my prayers, I always do, 
I know about Jesus very well, 
And God the Father, Heaven, and Hell. 
O please don't say it any more, 
You've said it so many times before, 
But tell me all about Santa instead, 
And about the horns on his reindeer's head, 
And what he will bring me on his sled. 

THOMAS: 
This night he was born on earth for us, 
And can my daughter mock him thus, 
And care more for her worldly pleasures 
Than Jesus' love and heavenly treasures? 
For Jesus didn't like to be 
So crowned with thorns and nailed to tree, 
But there was a sinful world to free, 
And out he went to Gethsemane-- 

ANN: 
And left the twelve and went apart-- 
O father, I know it off by heart, 
Please, father, please don't finish it out, 
There's so much else to talk about! 
I ask about Santa, and there you go, 
And now you're spoiling my Christmas so, 
And you are the wickedest man I know! 

Disgraceful scenes require the curtain, 
But lest the moral be uncertain, 
I briefly bring the good report 
That valiant Thomas held the fort, 
And wicked Ann was quite defeated, 
In vain denied, in vain entreated, 
In vain she wailed, in vain she wept, 
And said a briny prayer, and slept. 
While Inez, who had been perplexed 
To see good kinsfolk so much vexed, 
When peace descended on the twain, 
Lay down beside the fire again.


John Crowe Ransom
American literary critic, poet, essayist
1888-1974


Bonus Link to Robert Penn Warren's essay
 John Crowe Ransom: A Study in Irony