Seligor's Castle, fun for all the children of the world. Magic
Magic Words And Magic Moments
THE VOICE OF THE GRASS
Sarah Roberts Boyle [1812-1869] Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
dusty roadside, On the sunny hillside, Close by the noisy brook,In
every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere; All round the open
door, Where here sit the aged poor; Here where the children play, In
the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; In the noisy city street My
pleasant face you'll meet, Cheering the sick at heart Toiling his busy
part, - Silently creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; You cannot see me
coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming; For in the starry night, And the
glad morning light, I come quietly creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; More welcome than the
flowers In summer's pleasant hours; The gentle cow is glad, And the
merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; When you're numbered with the
dead In your still and narrow bed, In the happy spring I'll come And
deck your silent home, - Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.
Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere; My humble song of
praise Most joyfully I raise To Him at whose command I beautify the
land, Creeping, silently creeping everywhere.
Magic Words And Magic Moments Mr Nobody
I know a funny little man, As quiet as a mouse, Who does the michief that is done In everybody's house! There's no one ever sees his face, And yet we all agree That every plate we break was cracked By Mr. Nobody.
'Tis he who always tears our books, Who pulls the door ajar, He pulls the buttons from our shirts, And scatters pins afar; That squeaking door will always squeak For, prithee, don't you see, We leave the oiling to be done By Mr. Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire, Tat kettles cannot boil; His are the feet that ring in mud, And all the carpets soil. The papers always are mislaid, Who had them last but he? There's not one tosses them about But Mr. Nobody.
The finger-marks upon the door By none of us are made; We never leave the blinds unclosed,To let the curtains fade; The ink we never spill; the boots That lying round you see Are not our boots; they all belong To Mr. Nobody.
What is this? Magic Moments! Well I reckon we need to add a little sorcery to liven things up. So my lovelies have a wonderful time listening to the music, watching the films and don't forget your pop corn and OJ, pop corn won't be banned in Seligor's Castle. :)
always wise to check through all the video clips in the Menu for
sometimes the odd strange one can get through and you mightn't want
your littlest ones to see it. The same applies to all video links
really. What amuses some cultures does not always amuse others. xxx
Watch how the little fishes follow your mouse pointer
A Small Child's Bootie.
A small child's bootie half-buried in sand, bright colours and animal emblem like an exotic orchid cradled in my hand.
A group of giggling schoolgirls posing on a bridge, nudging one another as they glance in my direction, prim but seductive in crisp blue and white school uniforms.
A tiny hut, yellow lamplight in its window, beneath soft velvet skies of twilight, glimpsed through a grimey train window, the hump-backed shapes of asian mountains behind it like great protective beasts.
A young boy tending a rice field, a flute stuck down his trouser belt; small cows running excitedly towards a dusty jeep bringing them their breakfast.
Scenes of life and intimacy just beyond my reach, scenes glimpsed through a grimey train window, hurtling through the day and night, a million worlds in a collision so light and brief no-one hardly notices it.
Moths and insects are caught up by the engine's passage, sucked inside open windows and doors and carried a hundred miles from where they were born, battering themselves to death against impenetrable glass through which now, the black night gleams showing back my weary reflection, every crease and age-line magnified as if etched in ink...
A small child's bootie half-buried in sand, bright colours and animal emblem like an exotic orchid cradled in my hand. Always just beyond reach - is it your seeming unattainibility that makes you appear so luminous?
Such beauty can only be written by Willowdown. September 2007 copyright.
A Willowdown /Seligor Promotion.Plc Share The Star Children
Long years ago, when I was small, I scampered from bed one night, And through the moonlit window pane I watched the stars that shone so bright. They twinkled in the far off sky, and seemed to nod and smile at me; While here and there the little ones Leant down to kiss the silver sea.
Then, somehow, as I watched, I saw The great white moon look down and smile; The stars all gathered round and cried: "Oh, Mother, may we play a while?"
Then off they ran with shouts of glee; I heard their laughter shrill and sweet, and in and out the fleecy clouds They danced about on fairy feet. They raced across the cloud flecked sky, They rested on the sleeping sea; They frolicked round old Mother Moon, who smiled and kissed them tenderly.
And then one little, merry star within my window took a peep, and laughing very slyly, said: "All little boys should be asleep"
this verse came from a book called CHATTERBOX No 13. it was written by Stephen Southwold. Stephen Southwold (1887-1964) was a prolific British writer. Born Stephen Henry Critten, he used a number of pseudonyms, eventually changing his name to one of them, Neil Bell. He wrote also as Miles, Stephen Green, S. H. Lambert, and Paul Martens.
He was born in Southwold, Suffolk. His first change of name was apparently a reaction against his father. Initially writing a number of science fiction
books, he later concentrated on conventional novels. He also wrote a
large number of short stories, many of them under the Southwold name
being for children.
THESE ARE ONE OF THE NEW KPOP STARS THAT ARE TAKING THE TEENAGER MUSIC SCENE BY STORM. Boy and girl bands who not only sound terrific but look fantastic as well.
SWEET RELIEF Strangled by nature, turned brown under sodden strands of wilting yellow. Choked stems try to reach up to catch hold of the suns powerful rays. Thorns dig deep into the fragile growth of youth, gouging out crevasses that will never be healed. Dying....all around the cries of starvation can be heard on the wind. Then new voices are heard, hands wrestle with the undergrowth, pulling, twisting, turning, letting light through to the darkened soil.
Oh sweet relief.... I can feel a breeze upon my face. Look, look, there is a light. There, high above me, a faint light shining. Is this me, saved? Are we all to be saved from this hell that has befallen us. Reach out, reach up, climb the sunbeam to a new life, stretch your backs, flex your arms, lift your heads high. Fresh mown hay gives way to a blanket of green. Birds sing in the trees above us, bees fly deep into our bellies, taste the sweet honey which flows freely from within us.
Days pass by, life gets stronger, hearts begin to beat again. Peach and purple, azure and turquoise, russet and gold. Colour creeps across the horizon like a rainbow reborn. Scarlet fuchsia dance gaily above the chamomile lawn. Tangerine montbretia sway to and fro, like fronds of fire, swaying beneath the lilac buddleia which is, in turn kissed gently by the painted lady.
Sweet... sweet perfume fills the air, carried on the wind to each hidden corner. The sickly smell of the honeysuckle tells us that night is descending, Scented stock adds to the evenings mystic aroma. Tomorrow we shall awake and feel the dew on our petals, see the whiteness of the clouds in the summer sky, feel the softness of the rose petals as they fall upon our delicate blades.
Tomorrow we shall fill our bodies with the silver raindrops as they fall to the sepia ground beneath our leaves. Tenderly stretch our roots deeper into the soft earth below. But now to sleep, to dream in the shadows. Sleeping quietly, waking sometime, then drifting back to sleep. The moonlight kisses us whilst we rest, then comes the morning and we awake knowing we have been blessed. Dorothy Milnes Sinclair.Copyright 1997 Songs for your MP3 Player
What has happened to the sun? Have they taken it away? And the grass so green, So green, like an emerald forest, Have we lost it a bit day by day? In this pit so cold and damp, By the candlelight with chisel, Block and slate. Where the time drifts by, Clothes wet, rarely dry, We look to the pit for our fate. In the fumes and the dust, Told not to fuss, That's the life that we chose, You and I. Mustn’t grumble, or complain, In our chest there’s the pain, With our cheeks cold and wet, Still we try.
In that soft, cosy bed, White pillow at my head, The sheets so cool upon my skin. Not the dark dusty cave, Where the answer is a grave, In this hollow, that we made, Deep Within
Dorothy Milnes Copyright 1976
This short poem I wrote as part of a play. Many poetry competitions were held yearly in the slate quarries of North West Wales, all the competitors had to be slate quarry workers in the slate caverns at Llechwedd and the adjoining quarries. Diddily wrote it many years ago for the Television, it was commendated but it didn't win..
In 1830 Blaenau
Ffestiniog was only a Welsh phrase to describe the cliffs towering above
a narrow shelf of farmland about 2½ miles north of the old village
of Ffestiniog. Slate was to change the face of the area forever and now
mountains of discarded inferior slate tower over Blaenau Ffestiniog village.
Although slate is still worked in the area the once world famous Llechwedd
slate caverns now cater for visitors.
in the home of Slate Heritage International there is a choice of two spectacular
rides into the vast underground caverns. The Miners' Underground Tramway,
opened in 1972, takes you through a network of enormous caverns of cathedral
proportions, supplemented with tableaux. It allows you to experience the
working conditions of the Victorian miner and discover how millions of
tons of rock were moved using simple tools, gunpowder and muscle. In the
Deep Mine you will walk through 10 son et lumière sequences where
the ghost of a Victorian miner unfolds the social life of a community
which roofed Europe's industrial revolution.
THE LOST SIXPENCE
I lost a silver sixpence, a shining silver sixpence, I know a fairy found it in the garden where we play; I had it in my fingers, and I dropt it and I lost it, It glittered in the grass, and then it vanished clean away.
You know the summer fairies, the watching ready fairies, They love a silver sixpence that is shining like the day; I really should not wonder if they bowl it or they spin it For a hoop of light with laughter in their lands of fairy play.
They kept my pretty sixpence, my new and shining sixpence, And I have no money now for shopping things to pay; But the little baby fairies they are glad they are happy, For they have my silver sixpence for their very own today.
The Lost Sixpence and Nets for Dreams; are two short verses found in Kathleen Rich's Junior Reciters Repertory they were written by Berwick Sayers, and although myself and my sister looked for some identity to this gentleman, we only found reference to a W.C. Berwick Sayers. If anyone can help us, do get in touch. as they are both very lovely little verses.
NETS FOR DREAMS
Where you go a walking on an autumn morn Dewy-silver cobwebs all the little trees adorn, And spiders in the middle are goblin elves, they say, Waiting for the foolish flies who wander from their way.
So the people tell me, but I'd sooner think These are shining nets the fairies fashion link by link Out of threads of silver from the moon's stray beams, And hang them on the little trees for catching dreams.
WHO WILL LOVE THE CHILD
Who will love the child when the Mother steps aside? Who will love the child when the father wanders far and wide? Will the wild wind feed it, will the moonlight and the foxes suckle it or the owls bring it tit bits and worms or the pine forest sing it lullabies beneath the twinkling stars? O the night is very cold, and the little child is naked.
Who will teach the child when the Mother turns her face away, who will instruct the child when the father has no word to say? Will the badger or the scarecrow educate it in the simple ways of survival, will the little sparrow share its store of wisdom and joy or the squirrel show it where to look for nuts? Will it build itself a nest of moss and snow, will the pale winter sunlight warm it or the busy bee of summer share its golden wealth of honey? O how long will the little child live, - days or merely hours?
Who will look after the parent-less child, the little bundle on the battlefield - who will give him milk to drink and fill his hungry belly, who will wrap him in a shawl of rags and let him suck their fingers? Who will protect him from the rain of shells, from the teeth of predators and carrion-eaters, from the guns of soldiers and the bayonets of the depraved? Whose sweet breast will he nestle against when the Mother steps aside, who will shelter and provide for him when the father wanders far and wide - who will look after the little child, O who will love the child?
The Star-Mill An invisible Giant harvests the stars with a scythe as dark and as wide as all of empty space. He gathers them up in a sack upon his back and carries them up the Hill behind the Sun,
where he tips them into his Star-mill and grinds them down.
Slowly, slowly, a thin trickle of silver moisture oozes from a spigot at the bottom of the Star-mill -
it takes a million stars to manufacture just one tiny drop.
When the Giant has enough to fill a tiny phial, he assumes a smaller, although still invisible form, and goes about the Universe applying
the star-elixir to the eyes of new born babies.
It is this that makes them glimmer and shine with laughter,
or, when they are sad, combines with ordinary water (although of course it's not really ordinary)
to form the stuff of tears.
Once, when I was very young,
I thought I saw the outline of the invisible Giant against the dark night sky outside my bedroom window.
Frightened I ran into my parents bedroom and the safety of their big warm bed,
where I allowed them to convince me it was only the shadow of a tree that I had seen
Thankfully, now I am not so sure......... willow2007
Tulip, What are you clutching in your tiny hand? I can see its light shining through your delicate fingers. Is it a dew drop, full of pearly light?
Is it a piece of the moon that has slowly settled to earth after falling through perfumed space? Is it a crystal of ice from beyond the North Pole where the coloured witches hold mad revels in the sky? No, no, it shines like a tiny star, it's shimmering brilliance
staining your fingers with cool white radiance.
Is it perhaps a piece of the ocean that some mischievous wind
has lifted up and carried inland to thoughtlessly abandon
on the forest floor amongst the golden shadows and fallen leaves? There is a smell of the sea about it, I think, but the smell of love and sorrow also, beautiful with the slow passage of time.
Let me see, little Tulip, open your delicate hands and let me see your treasure - I will not steal it, I merely wish to satisfy my curiosity. Why, it is a tear! A solitary silver tear, fallen from some mortal's eye. How clever of you to find it, little Tulip. Of course I shall keep it a secret, otherwise all the other flowers will want to have one too. Goodbye Tulip, thankyou for sharing your secret with me! Share
A flower said to a star: "Oh beautiful and wondrous star, shining like a radiant pulsing jewel in the night, what wonderful things do you see from your vantage on high?"
"Everything is dark, "said the star.
"You are close to God,"said the flower. "Tell me, O splendid orb of blazing brightness, how is it to burn in glory, in such close proximity to the angels and the divine?
"It is cold,"said the star.
"Wise and elevated star,"continued the flower. "Unsullied you are by soil or mortal clay, the dirt of the world does not touch you. Whilst flowers fade and die you continue to shine, a living beacon in the night."
The star replied:
"My roots are cold and chill, drawing sustenance from the Nothingness. Do you not think I envy you the warmth and heat of the soil? You rise up out of it, nurtured by the heat and goodness of the sun. You put forth leaves and buds, and in spring bees and insects come to drink of your marvellously scented joy. There is little warmth or sunlight in Space.
I put forth no sweet leaves or buds, no bees or insects come to drink of my cold and flickering light. Fold up your perfumed petals and sleep, little flower, the night is cold and long. In the morning the crimson sun will come and awaken you. Your life is short but it is sweet. And when you perish .... well, who knows?"
Stars speak very slowly. This was the longest speech he had made for over seventeen thousand and nine hundred million years, and by the time he had finished, the sky was already beginning to lighten to grey.The little flower was fast asleep, and a troop of solemn fairies were tip-toeing quietly in-between the soft wet dew over their tightly curled petals. As the fiery brightness of day took tentative handholds of the horizon, ready to leap up out of the shadows and onto the world, the star closed up his own silver petals and drew his cloak of invisibility about him.