DEDICATION The Verse Book of a Homely Woman by Faye Inchfond, a pseudonym of Elizabeth Rebekah Ward, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka, dedicated to my first love, my mother. END OF DEDICATION This recording is in the public domain. PART 1 INDOORS The Long View by Faye Inchfond, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Some day of days, some dawning yet to be, I shall be clothed with immortality, and in that day I shall not greatly care, that Jane spilt candle-grease upon the stair. It will not grieve me then, as once it did, that careless hands have chipped my teapot lid. I groan being burdened, but in that glad day I shall forget vexations of the way. That needs were often great, when means were small, will not perplex me any more at all. A few short years at most, it may be less, I shall have done with earthly storm and stress. So for this day I lay me at thy feet, O keep me sweet, my master, keep me sweet. END OF POEM This recording is in the public domain. Within My House by Faye Inchfond, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. First there's the entrance, narrow and so small, the hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall. That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend, the carpet rucks and rises up on end. Then all the rooms are cramped and close together, and there's a musty smell in rainy weather. Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard, to have the only tap across a yard. These creaking doors, these draughts, this battered paint would try, I think, the temper of a saint. How often had I railed against these things, with envies and with bitter murmurings, for spacious rooms and sunny garden-plots, until one day, washing the breakfast-dishes, so I think, I paused a moment in my work to pray. And then and there, all life seemed suddenly made new and fair, for like the psalmist's dove among the pots, those endless pots that filled the tiny sink, my spirit found her wings. Lord, thus I prayed. It matters not at all that my poor home is ill-arranged and small. I, not the house, am straightened, Lord, to's I. Enlarge my foolish heart, that by and by I may look up with such a radiant face, thou shalt have glory, even in this place. And when I trip, or stumble, unawares, in carrying water up these awkward stairs, then keep me sweet, and teach me, day by day, to tread with patience thy appointed way. As for the house, Lord, let it be my part, to walk within it with a perfect heart. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Housewife by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. See, I am combered, Lord, with serving, and with small vexatious things. Upstairs and down, my feet must hasten, sure and fleet. So weary that I cannot heed thy word, so tired I cannot now mount up with wings. I wrestle, how I wrestle, through the hours, nay, not with principalities, nor powers, nor spiritual foes of gods and mans, but with antagonistic pots and pans, with footmarks in the hall, with smears upon the wall, with doubtful ears, and small, unwashin' hands, and with a babe's innumerable demands. I toil with feverish haste, while teardrops glisten, O child of mine, be still, and listen, listen. At last I laid aside important work no other hands could do so well, I thought, no skill can drive so true. And with my heart's door open, open wide, with leisure'd feet and idle hands, I sacked. I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat, sat down to listen and to learn, and lo, my thousand tasks were done the better so. End of poem.  I wonder how you could be always kind and good, so quick to hear, to tend my smallest ills, to lend such sympathizing ears, swifter than ancient seers. I never yet knew hands so soft and kind, nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind so full of tender thoughts. Dear mother, now I think that I can guess a little how you must have looked for some response, some sign, that all my tiresome wayward heart was thine. And sure it was, you were my first dear love, you who first pointed me to God above, you who seemed hearkening to my lightest word, and in the dark night seasons always heard when I came trembling, knocking at your door. Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore your patient heart, or if in later days I sought out foolish, unfamiliar ways.  End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. In Such an Hour, by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Sometimes when everything goes wrong, when days are short and nights are long, when washday brings so dull a sky that not a single thing will dry, and when the kitchen chimney smokes, and when there's not so queer as folks. When friends deplore my faded youth, and when the baby cuts a tooth, while John, the baby last but one, clings round my skirts till day is done. When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum, and Butcher's man forgets to come. Sometimes I say, on days like these, I get a sudden gleam of bliss. Not on some sunny day of ease he'll come, but on a day like this, and in the twinkling of an eye these tiresome things will all go by. And tis a curious thing, but Jane is sure just then to smile again, or out the truant sun will peep, and both the babies fall asleep. The fire burns up with roar sublime, and Butcher's man is just in time, and oh my feeble faith grows strong, sometimes when everything goes wrong. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Daily Interview by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Such a sensation Sunday's preacher made, Christian he cried, What is your stock in trade? Alas, too often nil. No time to pray, no interview with Christ from day to day. A hurried prayer may be just gabbled through, a random text for any one will do. Then gently, lovingly, with look intense, he leaned toward us. Is this common sense?  I heard it all, and something inly said that all was true. The daily toil and press had crowded out my hopes of holiness. Still, my old self rose, reasoning. How can you, with strenuous work to do, real slogging work, say, how can you keep pace with leisured folks? Why, you could grow in grace if you had time. The daily interview was never meant for those who wash and bake. But yet a small voice, whispered, For my sake, keep trist with me. There are so many minutes in a day, so spare me ten. It shall be proven then. Ten minutes set apart can well repay.  Lord if I do set ten apart for you, I dared, yes dared, to reason thus with him. The bakers sure to come, or Jane will call to say some visitor is in the hall. Or I shall smell the porridge burning, yes, and run to stop it in my hastiness. There's not ten minutes, Lord, in all the day, I can be sure of peace in which to watch and pray. But all that night, with calm, insistent might, that gentle voice spake softly, lovingly, keep trist with me. You have devised a dozen different ways of getting easy meals on washing days. You spend much anxious thought on hopeless socks. On moving iron mould from tiny frocks. T'was you who found a way to make the sugar-lumps go round. You who invented ways and means of making nice spicy buns for tea hot from the baking, when margarine was short. And cannot you, who made time to join the butter-cue, make time again for me? Yes, will you not, with all your daily striving, use woman's wit in scheming and contriving, to keep that trist with me? Like ice, long bound, on powdered, frosty ground. My airing will all suddenly gave way. The kind soft wind of his sweet pleading blue, and swiftly, silently, before I knew, the warm love loosed and ran. Life-giving floods began, and so most lovingly I answered him, Lord, yes, I will, and can, I will keep trist with thee, Lord, come what may. It is a wondrous and surprising thing, how that ten minutes takes the piercing sting from vexing circumstance, and poisonous dart hurled by the enemy, straight at my heart. So to the woman tempest tossed, and tried by household cares, and hosts of things beside.  One yester eve in the waning light, when the wind was still and the gloaming bright, there came a breath from a far country, and the ghost of a little house called to me. Have you forgotten me? No, I cried. Your hull was as narrow as this is wide. Your roof was leaky, the rain came through, till a ceiling fell on my new frock, too. In your parlor flooring a loose board hid, and wore the carpet you know it did. Your kitchen was small, and the shelves were few, while the fireplace smoked, and you know it's true. The little ghost sighed, Do you quite forget my window-boxes of minyanette, in the sunny room where you used to sow, when a great hope came to you long ago. Ah me, how you used to watch the door, where a latch-key turned on the stroke of four, and you made the tea, and you poured it out, from an old brown pot with a broken spout. Now times have changed, and your footmen waits with the silver urn and the fluted plates, but the little blind love with the wings has flown, who used to sit by your warm hearthstone.  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE HOUSE MOTHER, by Fay Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Across the town the evening bell is ringing, clear comes the call, through kitchen windows winging, Lord, knowing thou art kind, I heed thy call to prayer, I have a soul to save, a heart which needs, I think, a double share of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave. Hope, faith, and diligence, and patient care, with meekness, grace, and lowliness of mine, Lord, wilt thou grant all these to one who prays, but cannot sit at ease?  They do not know, and if they knew, then would they greatly care, that thy tired handmaid washed the children's hair, or with red roughened hands scoured dishes well, while through the window called the evening bell, and that her seeking soul looks upward yet. They do not know, but thou wilt not forget. I know it all, I know, for I am God, I am Jehovah, he who made you what you are, and I can see the tears that wet your pillow night by night, when nurse has lowered that too brilliant light, when the talk ceases and the ward grows still, and you have doffed your will. I know the anguish and the helplessness. I know the fears that toss you to and fro, and how you wrestle, wearyful, with hosts of little strings that pull about your heart, and tear it so. I know. Lord, do you know I had no time to put clean curtains up, no time to finish darning all the socks, nor so clean frilling in the children's frocks? And do you know about my baby's cold, and how things are with my sweet three-year-old? Will Jane remember right their cough mixture at night, and will she ever think to brush the kitchen flues or scrub the sink? And then there's John, poor, tired, lonely John. No one will run to put his slippers on, and not a soul but me knows just exactly how he likes his tea. It rends my heart to think I cannot go and minister to him. I know. I know. Then there are other things, dear Lord, more little strings that pull my heart. Now baby feels her feet. She loves to run outside into the street. And Jane's hands are so full, she'll never see, and I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't be aired, at least not properly. And oh, I can't. I really can't be spared. My little house calls so. I know. And I am waiting here to help and bless.  Lay down your hopelessness, and let me speak.  You are so weak. But let us reason out the darkness and the doubt, this torturing fear that tosses you about. I hold the universe. I count the stars. And out of shortened lives I build the ages. But Lord, while such high things thy thought engages, I fear, forgive me, lest amid those limitless, eternal spaces, thou shouldst, in the high and heavenly places, pass over my affairs as things of naught. There are so many houses just like mine, and I so earthbound and thyself divine. It seems impossible that thou shouldst care. Just what my babies wear, and what John gets to eat. And can it be a circumstance of great concern to thee, whether I live or die? Have you forgotten, then, my child, that I, the infinite, the limitless, laid down the method of existence that I knew, and took on me in nature just like you? I labored day by day in the same dogged way that you have tackled household tasks. And then, remember, child, remember once again, your own beloveds, did you really think, those days you toiled to get their meat and drink, and made their clothes, and tried to understand their little ailments?  I gave them life, and life is more than meat. Those little limbs, so comely and so sweet, you can make a grayment for them, and are glad. But can you add one cubit to their stature? Yet they grow.  I guarded hither, too. I guard them still. I have let go at last. I have let go. And oh, the rest it is, dear God, to know my dear ones are so safe, for thou wilt keep. Hands off at last. Now I can go to sleep. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Convalescence by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Not long ago I prayed for dying grace. For then I thought to see thee face to face. And now I ask, Lord, to the weaklings cry, that thou wilt give me grace to live, not die. Such foolish prayers I know, yet pray I must. Lord help me, help me not to see the dust. And not to nag, nor fret, because the blind hangs crooked, and the curtain sags behind.  It will take at least a month to get them right. And that last cocoa had a smoky taste. Yet all the milk has boiled away to waste. And no, I resolutely will not think about the saucepans, nor about the sink. These light afflictions are but temporal things. To rise above them wilt thou lend me wings. Then I shall smile when Jane, with tousaled hair, and the lumpy gruel, clatters up the stair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Homesick by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I shut my eyes to rest them just a bit ago, it seems, and back among the Cotswolds I were wandering in me dreams. I saw the old gray homestead with the rick-yard set around, and catched the lowen of the herd, a pleasant, home-like sound. And on I went to singing, through the pastures where the sheep was lying underneath the elms, a tryon for to sleep. And where the stream was trickling by, half-stifled by the grass, heaped over thick with butter-cups, I saw the corn-crake pass. For it was summer, summer, summer, and the blue forget-me-naughts wiped out this dusty city and the smoky chimbley-pots. I clean-forgot my lady's gown, the dazzling sights I've seen. I was back among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been. Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, a stiffish climb, right to the bridge where all our sheep comes up at shearing time. There was the wild briar roses hangin' down so pink and sweet, a drop another fragrance on the clover at my feet. In here me heart stopped beatin' for down by Gatcombe's wood. My lad was workin' with his team, as only my lad could. Come back was what the tricklin' brook and breezes seemed to say, tis lonesome on the Cotswold now that Mary drew's away. And back again I'm goin', for me wages has been paid, and they're lookin' through the papers for another kitchen made. Back to the old gray homestead and the uplands, cool and green, to my lad among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On washing-day, by Faye Inchefond, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I'm goin' to Grandmas for a bit. My mother's got the copper-lit, and piles of clothes are on the floor, and steam comes out the wash-house door, and Mrs. Griggs has come, and she is just as cross as she can be. She's had her lunch and ate a lot. I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot, and when I helped her make the starch, she said, Now, miss, you just quick-march, what? Touch them soap-suds, if you durst, I'll see you in the blue-bag first.  I'm off to Grandmas for, you see, At home they can't put up with me. But down at Grandmas, tis so nice, If Grandmas making current cake, She'll let me put the ginger-spice, And grease the tin, and watch it bake. And then she says she thinks it fun, To taste the edges when it's done. That's Grandmas house, why hip, hooray! My grandma's got a washing-day, For grandpa's shirts are on the line, And stockings, too, six, seven, eight, nine. She'll let me help her, yes, She'll tie her apron round to keep me dry, And on her little stool I'll stand up to the wash-tub, Twill be grand. There's no cross, Mrs. Griggs, to say, Young miss is always in the way, And me and Grandma will have tea at dinner-time, Just her and me. And eggs, I spec'd, and treacle rice, My goodness, won't it all be nice?  Grandma, I'll peg the hankies out, Grandma, I'll stir the starch about. Grandma, I'm come, because, you see, At home they can't put up with me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When Baby Strayed by Faye Inchvon Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica When Baby Strayed it seemed to me, Sun, Moon, and stars waned suddenly. At once, with frenzied haste, My feet ran up and down the busy street. If ever in my life I prayed, It was the evening, Baby Strayed. And yet my great concern was this, Not dread of losing Baby's kiss, And Baby's soft small hand in mine, And Baby's comrade-ship divine, T'was Baby's terror, Baby's fears, Whose hand but mine could dry her tears. I, without Baby, in my need, I were a piteous soul indeed. But piteous far beyond all other, A little child without a mother, And God in mercy graciously, Gave my lost darling back to me. Oh high and lofty one, Thou couldst have lived to all eternity apart from me, In majesty upon that emerald throne, Thou with thy morning stars, thy dons, With golden bars, And all the music of the heavenly train. Possessing all things, What hadst thou to gain by seeking me? Was I, and what am I, less than not, And yet thy mercy sought? Yea, thou hast set my feet upon the way of holiness, And sweet it is, to seek the daily unafraid. But this I learnt the night that Baby Strayed. Here was thy chief, thy great concern for me, My desolate estate, apart from thee. End of poem This recording is in the public domain.  If John remembered not to throw his papers on the ground, And oh, if he would put his pipes away, And shake the ashes on the tray, Instead of on the floor close by, And always spread his towel to dry, And hung his hat upon the peg, And never had bones in his leg. Then there's another thing. If Jane would put the matches back again, Just where she found them, It would be a save of time to her and me. And if she never did forget to put the dustbin out, Nor yet contrived to gossip with the baker, Nor need ten thunderbolts to wake her, Ahem! If wishes all came true, I don't know what I'd find to do, Because if no one made a mess, There'd be no need of cleanliness, And things might work so blissfully in time, Who knows? They'd not need me.  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Listening by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. His step? Ah, no, tis but the rain that hurtles on the window pane. Let's draw the curtains close, And sit beside the fire awhile and knit. Two pearl, two plain, A well-shaped sock and warm. I thought I heard a knock, But twas the slam of Jones's door. Yes, Good Scotch yarn is far before the fleecy wools, A different thing and best for wear. Was that his ring? No, tis the muffin-man I see, We'll have three penny-worth for tea. Two plain, two pearl, That heel is neat. I hear his step far down the street. Two pearl, two plain, The sock can wait. I'll make the tea, He's at the gate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dear Folks in Devon, by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Back in the dear old country tis Christmas, And tonight I'm thinking of the mistletoe And hollyberry's bright. The smoke above our chimbly pots I dearly love to see, And those dear folks down in Devon, How they'll talk and think of me. Ode ban will bring the letters Christmas morn, And if there's one as comes across from Canada, Straight from their absent son, My mother's hands will tremble, And my dad'll likely say, Don't seem like Christmas time no more, With our dear lad away.  Ah, me, if I could just have wings, And in the dimzy light go stealing up The cobbled path this lonesome Christmas night, Lift up the latch with gentle hand, My, what a shout there'd be, From those dear folks down in Devon, What a welcome in for me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE REASON by Fay Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Why shouldst thou be as a wayfaring man, That turneth aside to tarry for a night? Jeremiah, Book 14, verse 8. Nay, do not get the venison pasty out, I shall not greatly put myself about. Hungry he may be, yes, And we shall spare some bread and cheese, Tis truly wholesome fare. We have to-morrow's dinner still to find, It's well for you I have a frugal mind. Not the best bed, no, no, whatever next. Why with such questionings should I be vexed? The man is not to us, why should we care? The little attic-room will do, Tis bear, but he'll be gone before to-morrow's light, He has but come to tarry for a night. I shall not speak with him, oh, no, not I, Lest I should pity over much, or buy some poultry wear of his. Nay, altar-bed, and he can sup alone, Well warmed and fed, Tis much to take him in a night like this, Why should I fret me with concerns of his? Grey morning came, and at the break of day The man rose up and went upon his way. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Two women, by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I beseech Uodias, and beseech Sintikey, That they be of the same mind in the Lord. Philippians, Book Four, Verse Two Uodias. But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am sure he never would expect me to endure. There is a something in her very face Antagonistic to the work of grace. And even when I would speak graciously, Somehow Sintikey's manner ruffles me. Sintikey. No, not for worlds. Uodias has no mind, So slow she is, so spiritually blind. Her tongue is quite unbridled, Yet she says she grieves to see my aggravating ways. Ah, no one but myself Knows perfectly how odious Uodias can be. Uodias, yet in the Lord, Ah, that's another thing. Sintikey, yet in the Lord, That alters it indeed. Uodias, for his sake I'll endure her whispering. Sintikey, for his sake I'll consent to let her lead. Uodias, Lord teach me to forbear, Yes, day by day. Sintikey, Lord keep me gentle now and all the way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Prize Fight by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I am a boxer who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body. First Corinthians, Book 9, verse 26, Weymouth's translation. Twas breakfast time, and outside in the street, the factory men went by with hurrying feet, and on the bridge, in dim December light, the news boys shouted of the Great Prize Fight. Then, as I dished the bacon, and served out the porridge, all our youngsters gave a shout. The letter box had clicked, and through the din, the picture news was suddenly pushed in. John showed the lads the pictures, and explained just how the fight took place, and what was gained by that slim winner. Then he looked at me as I sat, busy, pouring out the tea.  And John smiled. Yet she fights on. Young the Jack, with widened eyes, said, Dad, how soon will mother get a prize? We laughed, and yet it set me thinking, how I beat the air because a neighbor's cow munched at our early cabbages, and ate the lettuce up, and tramped my mignonette. And many a time I kicked against the pricks, because the little dog at number six disturbed my rest. And then, how cross I got, when Jane seemed discontented with her lot, until poor John, in desperation, said he wearied of the theme, and went to bed. And how I vexed myself that day, when he brought people unexpectedly for tea, because the tablecloth was old and stained, and not a single piece of cake remained, and how my poor head ached, because, well there, it uses lots of strength to beat the air. I am a boxer. Here and now I pray for grace, to hit the self-life every day. And when the old annoyance comes once more, and the old temper rises sharp and sore, I shall hit hard and straight, oh tender wise, and read approval in thy loving eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Home Lights by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. In my father's house the words bring sweet cadence to my ears. Wandering thoughts like homing birds fly all swiftly down the years to that wide casement, where I always see bright love lamps leaning out to welcome me. Right it was how sweet to go to the warn familiar door. No need to stand awhile and wait outside the well-remembered gate. No need to knock the easy lock turned almost of itself, and so my spirit was at home once more. And then, within, how good to find the same cool atmosphere of peace, where I, a tired child, might cease to grieve or dread or toil for bread. I could forget the dreary fret, the strivings after hopes too high, I let them every one go by. The ills of life, the blows unkind, these fearsome things were left behind. Envoy. O trembling soul of mine, see how God's mercies shine, when thou shalt rise, and, stripped of earth, shall stand within an unknown land, alone, where no familiar thing may bring familiar comforting, look up, tis but thy father's house, and see his love lamps leaning out to welcome thee. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To an old teapot, by Faye Inchefond, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Now, from the dust of half-forgotten things, you rise to haunt me at the year's spring cleaning, and bring to memory dim imaginings of mystic meaning. No old-time potter handled you, I wean, nor yet were you of gold or silver molten. No derby stamp, nor worster can be seen, nor royal delton. You never stood to grace the princely board of monarchs in some oriental palace. Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is scored, as if in malice. I hesitate to say it, but your spout is, with unhandsome rivets held together. Mute witnesses of treatment meeted out in region's nether. O patient sufferer of many bumps, I ask it gently, shall the dustbin hold you, and will the dust heap with its cabbage-stumps at last enfold you? It ought, and yet with gentle hands I place you with my priceless delft and dresden china, for sake of one who loved your homely face in day's diviner. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To A Rebellious Daughter by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. You call authority a grievous thing. With careless hands you snapped the leading-string, and, for a frolic, so it seems to you, put off the old love and put on the new. For what does mother know of love, you say, did her soul ever thrill, did little tendernesses ever creep into her dreams, and override her will? Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap, as my heart leaps to-day? I who am young, who long to try my wings? How should she understand, she, with her calm, cool hand? She never felt such yearnings, and, beside, it's clear I can't be tied forever to my mother's apron-strings. There are infinities of knowledge, dear, and there are mysteries not yet made clear. To you, the uninitiate, life's book is open, yes, but you may only look at its first section. Youth is part, not all, the truth. It is impossible that you should see the end from the beginning perfectly. You answer, even so, but how can mother know, who meditates upon the price of bacon, on liberties the charwoman has taken, and on the laundry's last atrocities? She knows her cookery-book, and how a joint of English meat should look, but all such things as these make up her life. She dwells in tents, but I, in a vast temple, open to the sky. That time was, when that mother stooped to learn the language written in your infant face. For years she walked your pace, and none but she interpreted your chatter. Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter? O'er, weary, joined in all your games with zest, and managed with a minimum of rest? Now is it not your turn to bridge the gulf to span the gap between you? Nay, before death's angel overlean you, before your chance is gone. This is worth thinking on. Are mothers blameless then? Nay, dearie, nay, nor even tactful always, yet there may come some gray dawning in the by-and-by, when, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, you'll cry aloud to God for that despised thing. The Old Dear Comfort Mother's Apron String Up to the hall my lady there'll wear her satin gown, for little miss and master'll be coming down from town. Oh, aye, the children's coming! The children, did I say? Of course there man and woman grown this many and many a day. But still my lady's mouth do smile, and squire looks fit to sing, as master John and Miss Elaine is coming mothering. Then down to Farmer Westacott's there's doings fine and grand, because young Jake is coming home from sea, you understand. Put into port but yester-night, and when he steps ashore, to his coming-home the laddy is to Somerset once more. And so hers baking spicy cakes and stirring raisins in, to welcome of her only chick who's coming mothering. And what of we, ain't we got no children for to come? Well, yes, there's Sam and Henry, and they'll be coming home, and Ned is very nice six foot, and Joe is six foot three, but children still to my good man, and children still to me. And all the violets seem to know, and all the thrushes sing, as how our Kate and Bess and Flo is coming mothering. End of Poem. When little Fanny came to town, I felt as I could sing. She were the sprakest little maid, the sharpest, pertest thing. Her mother were as proud as punch, and as for I, well there. I never see, sitch-girt blue eyes, I never see, sitch-hair. If all the weens in Somerset, says I, was standing here, not one could hold a candle-light long side our little dear. Now Fanny's little fan have come. She's clinging round my knees. She's asking me for supps of tea, and bites of bread and cheese. She's climbing into Grandma's bed. She's stroking Grandma's face. She's tore my paper into bits, and strawed it round the place. If all the weens in all the world, says I, was standing here, not one could hold a far-than-dip to Fanny's little dear. For Fanny's little Fanny, oh, she's took the heart of me. Tis children's children is the crown of humble folk like we. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Naughty Day by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I've had a naughty day to-day. I scrunched a biscuit in my hair, and dipped my feeder in the milk, and spread my rusk upon a chair. When Mother put me in my bath, I tossed the water all about, and popped the soap upon my head, and threw the sponge and flannel out. I wouldn't let her put my hand inside the arm-hole of my vest. I held the sleeve, until she said, I really never should be dressed. And while she made the beds, I found her tidy, and took out the hairs. And then I got the water can, and tipped it headlong down the stairs. I crawled along the kitchen floor, and got some coal out of the box, and drew black pictures on the walls, and wiped my fingers on my socks. Oh, this has been a naughty day. That's why they've put me off to bed. He can't get into mischief there. Perhaps we'll have some peace, they said. They put the net across my cot, or else downstairs again I'd creep.  End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. To A Little White Bird, by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka.  Because God did it, so the wise ones said.  Thus you went out, alone and uncorrest, oh sweet soft thing, in all your infant grace. I never held you in my arms, nor pressed warm kisses on your face. But in the garden of the undefiled, my soul will claim you, you and not another. I shall hold out my arms, and say, my child, and you will call me mother. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Because by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Psalm 116. Because he heard my voice and answered me. Because he listened, ah, so patiently, in those dark days, when sorrowful, alone. I knelt with tears, and prayed him for a stone. Because he said me nay, and then instead, a wonderful sweet truth. He gave me bread, set my heart singing, all in sweet accord. Because of this I love, I love the Lord. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. When he comes, by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. When he comes, my sweetest when? See Rosetti. Thus may it be, I thought, at some day's close, some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose breathes forth its incense, may he find me there, in holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer, in some sweet garden-place, to catch the first dear wonder of his face. Or in my room above, in silent meditation of his love, my soul illumined with a rapture rare. It would be sweet if even then, these eyes might glimpse him coming in the eastern skies, and be caught up to meet him in the air. But now, ah, now the days rush by their hurrying ways. No longer know I vague imaginings, for every hour has wings, yet my heart watches as I work I say, all simply, to him, come, and if to-day, then wilt thou find me thus just as I am. Tending my household, stirring gooseberry jam, or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hoes, with puzzled forehead, patching some one's clothes, guiding small footsteps, swift to hear and run, from early dawn till setting of the sun. And when so ere he comes, I'll rise and go, yes, all the gladlier that he found me so. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. PART II. OUTDOORS. EARLY SPRING. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Quick through the gates of Fairyland the south wind forced his way. It was his to make the earth forget her grief of yesterday. To his mind cried he to bring her joy, and on his lightsome feet, in haste he slung the snow-drop bells, pushed past the fairy sentinels, and out with laughter sweet. Clear flames of crocus glimmered on the shining way he went. He whispered to the trees strange tales of wondrous sweet intent, when suddenly his witching voice, with timbre rich and rare, rang through the woodlands, till it cleft earth's silent solitudes, and left a dream of roses there. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE WITNESS. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. The master of the garden said, Who, now the earth seems cold and dead, Will by his fearless witnessing, Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring. But yet I am but half awake, all drowsily the primrose spake, and fast the sleeping daffodils had folded up their golden frills. Indeed the frail anemone said softly, Tis too cold for me. Wood hyacinths, all deeply set, replied, No ice has melted yet.  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. IN SUMMERSET. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. In Somerset they guide the plough from early dawn till twilight now. The good red earth smells sweeter yet behind the plough in Somerset. The selendines round last year's mow blaze out, and with his old time vow the south wind woos the violet in Somerset. Then every brimming dyke and trow is laughing wide with ripples now. And oh, Tis easy to forget, that wintry winds can sigh and sow when thrushes chant on every bough in Somerset. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. SONG OF A WOODLAND STREAM. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Silent was I, and so still, as day followed day, imprisoned until King Frost worked his will, held fast like a vice in his cold hand of ice, for fear kept me silent, and low he had wrapped me around and about with a mantle of snow. But sudden there spake one greater than he. Then my heart was awake and my spirit ran free. At his bidding my bands fell apart, he had burst them asunder. I can feel the swift wind rushing by me, once more the old wonder of quickening sap stirs my pulses. I shout in my gladness, forgetting the sadness, for the voice of the Lord fills the air. And forth through the hollow I go, where in glad April weather the trees of the forest break out into singing together. And here the frail windflowers will cluster, with young ferns uncurling, where broad water and deeper my waters go eddying, whirling, to meet the sweet spring on her journey. His servant to be, whose words set me free. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Luggage in advance by Faye Ingevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. The fairies must have come, I said. Or through the moist leaves, brown and dead, the primroses are pushing up. And here's a scarlet fairy-cup. They must have come, because I see a single wooden enemy, the flower that everybody knows the fairies use to scent their clothes. And hark! The south wind blowing fills the trumpets of the daffodils. They must have come. Then, loud to me, sang from a budding cherry-tree a cheerful thrush. I say, I say, the fairy folk are on their way.  They could not carry them, you see, those caskets crammed with witchery, so ready for the first spring dance they sent their luggage in advance. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE CROSS ROADS There I halted. Further down the hollow stood the township, where my errand lay. Firm my purpose till a voice cried, Follow, come this way, I tell you, come this way. Silence thrush, you know I think of buying a spring-tide hat. My frock is worn and old, so to the shops I go. What's that you're crying? Here, come here, and gather Primrose Gold. Well, yes, some day I will, but time is going. I haste to purchase silks and satins fair. I'm all in rags. The lady's smock is showing up yonder in the little coppice there. And wooden enemies spread out their laces. Each cell and dine has dawned a silken gown. The violets are lifting shy, sweet faces. And there's a chif-chaff, soft and slim and brown. But what about my hat? The bees are humming. And my new frock, the Hawthorne's budding free. Sweet! Oh! So sweet! Well, have your way, I'm coming, and who's to blame for that? Why me! Me! Me! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer Met Me. By Faye Inchvon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Summer met me in the glade with a host of fair princesses. Golden iris, fox-gloves stayed. Some beams flecked their gorgeous dresses. Roses followed in her train. Creamy elder-flowers beset me, singing, down the scented lane. Summer met me. Summer met me, hair-bells rang. Honey-suckle clustered near as the royal pageant sang songs enchanting to the ear. Rainy days may come a pace never more to grieve or fret me, since in all her radiant grace Summer met me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Carrier. By Faye Inchvon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. O' John's got past his work, said they, last week as ever was. Don't pay to send by him. He's stupid, too, and brings things what won't never do. We'll send by post. He is that slow, and that old hauls of his can't go. But smorning, well, twas fun to see the gentle folks run after we. Squire's lady stopped I in the lane. Oh, says she. Go into town again. You'll not mind calling into bings to fetch my cakes and buns and things. I've got a party coming on, and not to eat. So do we, John. Then up the street, who should I see but old mam Besson tailing me? And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs was wanting vitals for their pigs. And would I bring some? Well, what next? Granny Dunn has broke her specks, and wants a mended up in town. So would John call and bring him down to-night. And so the tail goes on. Tis sure you will now, do we, John? Well, tis a heevil wind that blows nobody any good. It shows as old John have his uses yet, though now and then he do forget. Ye up, bold gal.  End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lad's Love by the Gate, by Faye Ingefond, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Down in the dear west country, there's a garden where I know the spring is rioting this hour, though I am far away. Where all the glad flower faces are old loves of long ago, and each in its accustomed place is blossoming to-day. The lilac drops her amethysts upon the mossy wall, while in her bow's a cheerful thrush is calling to his mate. Dear breath of mignonette and stalks, I love you, know you all, and oh, the fragrant spices from the Lad's Love by the Gate. And wind from the west country, wet wind, but scented so that straight from my dear garden you seem but lately come. Just tell me of the yellow broom, the gilder's roses snow, and of the tangled climates where myriad insects hum. Oh, is there any heartsies left, or any rosemary, and in their own green solitudes, say, do the lilies wait? I knew it. The wind, but once, speak low and tenderly. How fares it? Tell me truly with the Lad's Love by the Gate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Thrush by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Across the land came a magic word when the earth was barren lonely, and I sit and sing of the joyous spring, for it was I who heard, I only. Then dreams came by of the gladsome days of many a wayside posy, for a crocus peeps where the wild rose sleeps, and the willow wands are rosy. Oh, the time to be, when the paths are green, when the primrose gold is lying beneath the hazel spray, where the catkins sway and the dear south wind comes sighing, my maiden eye, we shall build a nest so snug and warm and cosy, when the king-cups gleam on the meadow stream, where the willow wands are rosy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Endorset Deer by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Endorset Deer they're making hay, in just the old west country way. With fork and rake and old-time gear they make the hay endorset deer. From early morn till twilight gray they toss and turn and shake the hay, and all the countryside is gay, with roses on the fallen may, for tis the hay-time of the year endorset deer. The loaded wagons wend their way across the pasture-lands and stay beside the hedge, where fox-gloves peer. And ricks that shall be fashioned here will be the sweetest stuff, they say, in dorset deer. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Flight of the Fairies by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. There's a rustle in the woodlands, and a sighing in the breeze, but the little folk are busy in the bushes and the trees. They are packing up their treasures every one with nimble hand, ready for the coming journey back to sunny, fairy land. They have gathered up the jewels from their beds of mossy green, with all the dewy diamonds that summer morns have seen, the silver from the lichen and the powdered gold dust, too, where the butter-cups have flourished and the dandelions grew. They packed away the birdie songs, then lest we should be sad. They left the robins' carol out to make the winter glad. They packed the fragrance of the flowers, then lest we should forget. Out of the pearly scented box they dropped a violet. Then o'er a leafy carpet by the silent woods they came, where the golden bracken lingered and the maples were aflame. On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er their wings the moonbeams shone, music filtered through the forest, and the little folk were gone. The shopping had been tedious, and the rain came pelting down as she turned home again. The motor-bus swirled past with a rush and whir, not but its fumes of petrol left for her. The bloaters in her basket and the cheese malodorously mixed themselves with these. And all seemed wrong. The world was drab and gray as the slow minutes wept themselves away. And then a thwart the noises of the street, a violin flung out in Irish air. I'll take you home again, Kathleen. Ah, sweet! How tender-sweet those lilting phrases were! They soothed the way the weariness and brought such peace to one worn woman over wrought that she forgot the things which vexed her so. The two outrageous price of calico, the shop girl's look of pitying insolence because she paused to count the dwindling pence. The player stopped, but the rapt vision stayed. That woman faced life's worries unafraid. The sugar shortage now had ceased to be an insurmountable calamity. The kingdom was not bacon, no, nor butter, but things more costly still too rare to utter. And over chimney-pots so bare and tall the sun set gloriously after all. Oh, the garden ways are lonely. Winds that bluster, winds that shout, battle with the strong labyrinum, toss the sad brown leaves about. In the gay, herbaceous border, now a scene of wild disorder, the last dear holly-hawk has flamed his crimson glory out. Yet, upon this night of longing, souls are all abroad, they say. Will they come the dazzling blossoms that were here but yesterday? Will the ghosts of radiant roses and my sheltered lily closes, hold once more their shattered fragrance, now November's on her way? Wall flowers surely you'll remember. Let's recall it, will you not? How I loved and watched intended, made this ground a hallowed spot. Pansies with the soft, meek faces, hair-bells with a thousand graces. Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell me, have you quite forgot? Hush! They come! For down the pathway steals a fragrance, honey-sweet. Larkspurs, lilies, stalks and roses, hasten now my heart to greet. Stay! O stay! My hands would hold you, but the arms that would infold you crushed the bush of lad's love growing in the dusk beside my feet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE LOG FIRE In her last hour of life the tree gave up her glorious memories. Old scent of wooden enemy, the sapphire blue of April skies. With faint but ever strengthening flame, the dew-drenched hyacinthine spires were lost as red-gold bracken came, with maple bathed in living fires. Gray smoke of ancient climatis toward the silver birch inclined, and deep in thorny fastnesses the coral bryony entwined. And softly through the dusky room they strayed, fair ghosts of other days, with breath-like early cherry-bloom, with tender eyes and gentle ways. They glimmered on the somber walls, they danced upon the oaken floor, till through the loudly silent halls joy reigned majestical once more. Up blazed the fire, and dazzling clear one rapturous spirit radiant stood. "'Twas you at last, yes you, my dear, we two were back in Gatcombe wood.' End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. GOD SAVE THE KING by Faye Inchefond. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. It seems the church is full of bygone dreams. Long live our noble king. My own, it is hard to stand here all alone. GOD SAVE THE KING. But sweetheart, you are always brave to dare and do. Send him victorious, for then my darling will come home again. Happy and glorious, till be like heaven to him and what to me. Long to reign over us. My dear, and we'd been wedded one short year. GOD SAVE OUR KING. And Lord, I pray, keep my king safe this very day. Forgive us, thou great England's kingly king, that thus do women national anthem sing. End of poem. End of The First Book of a Homely Woman.


Ah, yes. It's our old friend, the offline dinosaur. We've talked about caching and the service worker, which can enable your app to work offline. But we haven't talked about what to do with slow or unreliable networks. We also need to think about performance and make sure your app remains fast to load under all conditions. Building a PWA does not mean starting from scratch. You can implement the steps progressively. First, you need to secure your connection. Service workers require HTTPS to keep malicious scripts out. However, given the importance of security and privacy, you should be using HTTPS anyway. Then you can cache your site's static assets using the service worker and cache APIs. This can improve the performance of your app and enable offline experiences. The next step is to migrate to an app shell. An app shell separates dynamic content from the logic used to render it. If you're building a modern single-page app, then you're probably using something similar to an app shell already. Using an app shell is the recommended approach to migrate existing apps and structure your PWA. This architecture provides connectivity resilience, and it is what makes a PWA feel like a native app to the user, giving it application-like interaction and navigation and reliable performance. Once you have an app shell, adding a manifest file and meta tags enables add to home screen. Adding an icon to the home screen makes it easier for users to return to your web experience. Finally, you can enhance your app with features such as push notifications, integrated payments, and automated login. These are built on the same underlying framework that enables PWAs. Here's an example app shell. The two screens on the left live in the app shell and contain all the common navigation parts. The screen on the right shows the content, which has been loaded from the network displayed in the app shell. If this looks familiar, it's essentially a single-page app. The service worker can cache this locally to make it available offline. Then as the user navigates around the app, the shell loads the content. The app shell plus dynamic content model keeps your UI local and pulls in content dynamically. This greatly improves app performance and works really well with service worker caching as a progressive enhancement. It's the secret to reliably good performance. Let's talk about the first step after enabling HTTPS, adding caching to your app. How you cache the app will depend on whether you're rendering it on the server or using a single-page app that renders on the client. Server-side rendering is a familiar technique used by many developers, where the server builds the whole page. This includes content-driven sites using a CMS. This is a difficult scenario to make work efficiently offline since the server returns the whole page. Client-side rendering is also a familiar technique, normally written as a single-page app. And in this case, the server has a static page with the content template and the client-side code. JavaScript running on the client makes requests to get data and display it on the page. And this can be a very good fit for the AppShell model. The AppShell also separates content from presentation, though you may need additional code to cache data for offline use. Caching server-rendered apps is simple. Cache the static parts that you can. And that normally includes your CSS files, JavaScript frameworks, and some images. If your server is rendering a small number of unchanging pages, you could cache them, though any forms will need logic to detect if the app is offline and disable the form. You can detect if the browser is on or offline by checking the Navigator offline property. And you can also listen for online and offline events on the Navigator. In any case, you should check your network requests for errors and fail gracefully. This will handle both offline access and unreliable networks. Caching client-rendered apps is also fairly simple. Single-page apps have a core that always lives on the client, so cache that. But they also depend on dynamic data, so you need to add code to handle that. We'll talk about this again after you've seen IndexedDB, but the general idea is that things with a URL go in the cache, and non-URL data goes in the database. One nice feature is to detect when the app is offline and remember user actions. For example, you could let the user build a shopping cart while offline and send it when they're online. We've talked about porting your existing app to include caching. Now, that gets you most of the way there, but we also need to think about some techniques for fine-tuning the user experience. Users will expect your PWA to act like a native app, so we have to take some pains to get things right. Many initial efforts to build a progressive web app always retrieve files from the network or from the cache. But we can use combinations of the cache and the network to improve your app. In a cache-first strategy, the service worker looks for a file in the cache and uses the network if that fails. Server-rendered apps might use this if they are also caching rendered pages and the app sees a new URL. On the other hand, a network-first strategy tries to get the file from the network and uses the cache if that fails. Use this strategy when you need the latest content, such as stock prices or the weather, but are willing to fall back on the cache when offline. In some cases, you may want to ask the cache and the network at the same time. In most cases, the cached data loads first and that is returned directly to the page. Meanwhile, the network response updates the previously cached entry, and this is useful for assets that change infrequently, but that you want to keep up to date, such as user icons. The next time the user loads the page, they'll see the updated asset. The good news is that we provide the code for these caching strategies. These libraries automate many of the details for you while also following best practices and avoiding common gotchas. SW Toolbox is an open-source library on GitHub that builds on top of service worker, cache, and fetch. It implements each of the strategies we discussed and makes them easy to integrate into your app. SW Precache Libraries is an open-source tool also on GitHub that can generate a service worker script for you. You can call it from the command line or integrate it into your build process. You can also use these tools to simplify your implementation. They support all of the standard caching strategies or you can add your own and include control over options such as maximum cache size and item lifetimes. I highly recommend you take a look at them, even if you want to build your own solution. Now that you have an app shell in the cache, let's see about adding other PWA features. Since your PWA behaves like a native app, the user will want to add it to their home screen. Each of the major browsers does this a little differently, so you'll need to add both a manifest file and meta tags to enable add to home screen. You might also add push notifications support. We'll go into the details in a later module, but at a high level, the service worker receives push message events, displays notifications, and responds to user actions on the notification. Progressive web apps can also simplify e-commerce. Instead of filling in a form with payment and address details, the browser pops up a simple UI for choosing these and then creates a secure transaction for the merchant server. The Credential Management API can securely remember the login details for a site and provide a one tap login. Both of these depend on the user being authenticated to their device, either by password or biometrics. We should take a moment to talk about performance. Caching can speed up your application, but don't depend on caching alone for speed. Users with browsers that don't support service worker or users who are seeing your app for the first time can suffer slow downloads if you're not careful. Remember, caching can only improve performance on subsequent page loads. All in all, we recommend four possible approaches. Now, the best option is a combination of server side and client side rendering. Your server can draw the first page quickly and then JavaScript takes over and renders future pages using dynamic data. This also works for users with browsers that don't support service worker. The next best option is a pure AppShell single page app approach. You should cache the AppShell and you can speed this up using HTTP streams to begin rendering content as it comes in. Option three is to use server side rendering and cache everything that you can. Finally, we come to the single page app that renders all its own content. Now, you might be surprised this is at the bottom of the list, but it's often slower to the first render than server rendered apps. That's due to the time it takes to load the JavaScript before rendering begins. The difference between this app and the AppShell is that the AppShell can render at least the navigation instantly and also often contains default content. Before I go, I want to emphasize two things. First, now, this is our recommended approach, but there may be use cases for each pattern. PWAs can be built with any mixture of server side rendering and client side rendering that best fits your needs. Second, the textbook that accompanies this video has a detailed chapter on PWA architectures with updated advice. If you want to see some real-world examples, we have a list in the slide deck, and these are just a handful of businesses reaping the benefits of progressive web apps. See PWA Rocks for a great showcase of businesses using PWA technologies to enhance their mobile web experience. There are loads of resources available where you can learn more. You can access these from the materials that accompany this video.


At this point, how much jelly gouache do you think you've used or have? It's a good question. It's a great question in fact and yeah, I obviously have a problem and if you click this video, I feel like you also share in that problem so don't blame me, okay? That's it. Hi, welcome back to the Average. My name is Steph. I'm the Average Artist and today we are looking at and using it every single one of my jelly gouache paints and it was painful. It was painful to unleash these jellies into the world and think about how I was going to get them back in the box, but I did it all for your entertainment so please like the video. No, I did it because I thought it would be interesting to see all these jelly paints together because I obviously have an addiction and also, I mean, let's call it spade, it's jelly paints do quite well on YouTube so I like to review the jelly paints because it seems like something that everyone enjoys and I mean, I want people to watch my videos. I don't think there's any harm in that trying to like grow my audience and stuff so I mean like maybe people have problems with it but I feel like the people who have problems with it probably didn't click on this video or they did and they're like, you suck, how could you use jelly paint again? What's wrong with you? Yes, probably, probably those people. Anyway, it was really, it was really unfun, it was really fun, a little bit unfun to unbox all these jelly paints because I wanted to see them all together and make a cool thumbnail. There is something really satisfying about watching it and knowing how I placed them all out and I plan to place them all in a rainbow formation because you'll see why but also because, you know, it's pleasing but also there's a reason for me putting them in a rainbow formation. So there are 134 colors here, I think, roughly. I counted them but I'm a bad counter so I don't know, roughly, which I think there's a little less than I thought was going to be here. I thought there was going to be a lot but I guess that's not right. As you know, I've already said that I wanted to create this in a rainbow colored, I spent I guess is the word and as I was placing stuff down I was realizing that I didn't have that much desk space and they needed to figure out like to dark and also how the colors work together, like is this actually in rainbow order and I realized it's not in rainbow order because rainbows go red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo then violet and I went red, purples, blues, greens, yellowy, orange and then brown. Also, I don't use the brown in the end so this video is a lie. You might as well just delete me from your life because I don't use all the jelly paints here. No, okay, I don't and here's the reason why.  I don't want it on my rainbow painting that I'm going to do, spoiler alert, it's going to be rainbow colored painting and also white. White didn't make much sense for me either, so okay, I use all of the colors that are pleasing to me in this piece. Also, there are a few jelly washes here that are super unsavable. I couldn't save them. When I went to dip into them it was like a rock and I was thinking I could go and put some like alcohol in this and revive them and stuff but it just, you know, just let it slide, okay? So here are all the colors, it's very pleasing and very, yes, I'm pleased with myself, okay? There I said it. These jelly paints, these jelly paints, obviously all different brands, so I'm going to name them. We have the Mia gouache HIMI gouache jelly paints, the original OGs that are in like the big palette form.  The white palette contains jelly gouache that comes in little pots and also big ones, half and half. Don't know why, recently did a review on it, still don't know why. The black ones are just loads of paints but they have a row of metallic in it which I actually don't use in the end because I thought it didn't really make sense. There's another caveat to this video is that I didn't use the metallic ones, I probably should have but you don't even see them so I don't, I shouldn't have brought it up, just forget I said anything. We also have the ink lab honeycomb shaped ones which I'm a big fan of as well which look very nice when they're out of their giant pot. We have the Marie's, what's this called? Marie's brand which has like the chocolate kind of lid. They're okay, I think they're pretty much exactly the same consistency as the Mia gouache ones but because they have this like lid that's not super airtight that they dry out a bit more easily. We also have these bigger shaped ones which come from an unknown brand, they're just super cheap. I think they were like the cheapest ones I found on Amazon and yeah they were like 10 quid for a set of 12. And then finally we also have the Artex ones which are basically the same as Mia gouache ones which are very nice as well and those are all the paints that we have here today but back to this jelly endeavour, it's time to paint I guess after seeing finally everything arranged after arranging it and then rearranging it into the colour spectrum that I wanted it to be, it's time to get my paint on and the painting begins. What did I do here? That may be the question on everyone's lips. I started the hispai just splotching down paint and I was thinking I was gonna do you know the satisfying videos where they have like the pigment of the paint in like one little colour and then it dots along and it changes colour and it's these neat little dots and I was gonna try and do that and then I remember that I mean that was never gonna, that was not gonna be happening. I'm too impatient, I'm too, I'm not controlled like that so I felt like this piece spoke way more to the way that I am and it's definitely super indulgent because it's just, it's it's it's abstract so I mean at the end of the day you're either gonna like this or hate it I think and I kind of like it and it's gonna go on my wall and just be like this little reminder of colour and joy and just yeah like this little moment of joy in my life of just having fun with paint and I guess that will be a reminder to me to just play sometimes and to have joy in creating art which is something that I struggle with sometimes and I think I always have this mantra of like you're supposed to be enjoying this and I think when you do enjoy something you're creating it does reflect back into the work you're doing and I think people can see that and I hope that you can see that in this this piece that I'm having fun with it at first it was a little bit stiff it was a little bit difficult because I was like is this good is this gonna be good or is this should I just waste loads of paint and a canvas that was perfectly good that could have been used for something else but I do like it in the end I think it is just like a reminder that I'm gonna put on my wall basically to have fun with painting and I hope that it's a reminder for you guys to have fun with painting too because I know that we all get lost in the in the work I'm gonna speed this footage up because I think it's just I think it's really fun looking at this splotching of paint in fast forward mode because I don't know something soothing about it something satisfying if you'll let me use that word again for the millionth trillionth time about splotching paint onto a canvas and it was so much fun and I had my little Jackson Pollock moment and I hope that you will both forgive and enjoy this piece also I'm sorry if you can hear my cat in the background because he is meowing to go outside he's an indoor cat we made the mistake of letting him outside for like half an hour once now he's punishing us by constantly meowing for every minute of the day that he's awake literally every minute so yeah here's my not so coloured rainbow in the sense that it's correct Lee college because it's not correct at all but I do like the way that it looks and I hope that you guys like it too those keen eyed amongst you might notice that yes I did indeed start with the red way too much way too much uh red there because um I forgot how many paints I had to go was that kind of slow realisation that I'm running out of paper you know when you start writing a word and then the paper is like coming to an end it was that fiasco but I like it because it felt like it was getting more intense as you go down the colors here so yeah the greens and the yellows and that are a little bit squished on but please forgive me I kind of like it and we're done that is the painting I hope that you guys liked it and just um let me be indulgent for a little bit with this fun jelly painting I know it's not our usual content maybe some people are not pleased but you know what I'm enjoying myself and that's so that's that okay thanks for watching guys please like and subscribe and I hope to see you next time bye


All right, so I'm not a millennial. I guess I'm a materialistic, narcissistic boomer, but I didn't realize that till this morning. So I'm not a millennial, but I did leave my position at Princeton to become president of New America in no small part because we're the kind of place that does this kind of event with people like you in this kind of a space, meaning that we are young. And I'm gonna say two or three words about where New America's going, and then I'm gonna talk about research, less scientific research, I have to admit, growing out of my forthcoming book on care and competition, love and work, what real equality looks like between men and women and what that means for your generation and for policies. So I just wanna say a couple of things about the new New America, and you can see the new New America, you can see the logo, you can see the graphics, see the events, although we've been doing fabulous events for a long time. So we're really trying to reinvent what a think tank is, and it's consistent with the theme of today. Think tanks were created at the turn of the last century, bookings was founded in 1916, and the idea was to improve government, to improve policy by providing independent policy research. So in the era of machine politics, simply having somebody like Reid who was and all of the asset-building people doing independent research, trying to figure out what the best policy solution was, really was revolutionary, and there's still a role for it. We still do it, it's important, but there are three things that have changed that I think are much more material to all of your lives. First, the federal government doesn't work, right? The federal government doesn't work and it doesn't represent the American people, and that's a problem, and we're working on it. All of us are working on it, but it doesn't, it's paralyzed by partisanship, and we know it does not represent a majority of the American people, so that's the first thing. The second is technology, right? So I spend a lot of time in Silicon Valley, and as you know, the basic view there is forget government, we'll just develop the technology that will solve all our problems. Now, I do think if we don't take account of technological solutions, we're not serious about solving public problems, but unlike many Californians, I do actually think that just inventing the technology won't get you there, right? Politics are still there, policy's really important, policy can often block the use of technologies, just think about the efforts of various cities to prevent, to create free wireless access everywhere, right? Which would seem to be an obvious thing to do, policy blocks it, so policy's still very important, but you have to marry policy and technology. And the third thing is really the rise of social enterprise, and this is your generation. It's also some Gen Xers, but your generation, again, many of you are thinking, all right, we're gonna get that out there, we're gonna solve problems on our own, we're not gonna wait for changing government, changing legislation, we want to have direct impact. So a new think tank, or shall I say, an institution dedicated to solving public problems needs to still do policy research, but it has to marry policy and technology, it has to stimulate broad public conversation, and it has to be directly connected to communities. So you can think of it as marrying a traditional think tank, a technology laboratory, and a social enterprise. And that's what the new and new America's trying to do, here in Washington, in New York, and who knows, we hope in cities across the country. So with that start, let me talk to you about what I think about where we need to go with the workplace and with family, and this is based on two years of research and probably over 300 speeches, mostly to groups of women, but probably 20% men, and everything from investment bankers to community college faculty to diplomats to people in retail sales, you name it, I probably talk to them. And so I have a book coming out, and it will not have it all on the title, it will not even have women in the title, it may have women in the subtitle. But it'll have men there too, and here's why. I think there are three huge changes that many of you are already living. So the first actually goes out of what we're doing, Brandi said, you're definitely not gonna have a straight career ladder. You're not going to have one job, or two jobs, or even three jobs. You're much more likely to have five or six or seven jobs, and you already know that, right? When I was the Dean of the Woodrow Wilson School, and that was even as early as I started in 2002, most of my students were planning their careers in five to six year chunks. Now they knew they weren't gonna be necessarily likely to get the perfect job, but they were thinking about spending time in an NGO, spending time in government, maybe spending time at the private sector, taking different jobs to develop a portfolio of skills and experience that would allow them to be resilient and to take advantage of opportunities as they come. And if you think about jobs that way, and again, I'm well aware that obviously it's not a question of planning, but it is a question of preparing yourself for different opportunities. There are a couple ways to think about that. One, and everybody who's from New America is gonna lull their eyes when I say this because I keep pushing it. You should read The Alliance by Reid Hoffman. You really should. It's basically about the old model of your business was your family. It was lifelong employment. We took care of you. You gave your life's work to that company. That's gone. We all know that's gone. That's been gone for well over a decade. He says the new model is the contract model. We don't give you much and you don't give us much. Everybody's kind of looking. We can fire you at any moment and you can leave at any moment for something better. He proposes The Alliance. And there are a number of things about that for an organization. Mostly it means investing in people's careers as much as paying them, that you're really thinking about what kind of experience can you give them in return for what they can give you. But the second point is the idea of tours of duty. That you should think about your job within an organization and then across multiple organizations as different tours of duty. Now that's from the military. The idea in the military when you have a tour of duty is you're getting a set of skills. You're getting a set of experiences and you're getting a set of knowledge in that particular area. And what he says is you should be thinking in one organization, so you work for a while as a policy analyst. Maybe then, I'm thinking about New America, maybe then actually what you wanna do is you wanna learn more about fundraising or you wanna learn more about events. Maybe you then think within the same organization where can you move, how can you move, and that should be laterally, not just up. But then thinking more generally, all right, what's the next phase? If what I wanna end up doing is being somebody who is committed to surveying, alleviating poverty, building assets if we're thinking about here or in my own world, I know that I'm interested in foreign policy but there are many different ways to do that. So I wanna put that out first and I talk about thinking about your career in terms of interval training. And this is also gonna come back to the care issue. So we have a ladder, we have a winding path, Cheryl Sandberg talks about a jungle gym. All of these are ways of saying there's not just one way to the top. I don't even think we should be thinking about one bottom and one top. I think you should be thinking about intervals. Just for those of you who are athletes, you know that interval training is how you get into your very best shape.  For those of you who wanna have families or for those of you who will be caring for your parents because you can choose to have children but you can't choose to have parents, you can choose whether or not to take care of them but we're going to assume that the statistics hold and you are going to be taking responsibility for those you love and for those who've raised you at some point, there's no way you can work flat out all the time. There's no way, that's what I wrote about. I'm not saying that some people can't do it, some people with enough money and enough good fortune and perfect kids, no problem. I have not discovered that and what I discovered in my life was that it was perfectly possible to be a high-powered professional and a mother as long as I had complete control over my own time which I did as both an academic and as a dean. I then found though when my kids were teenagers, even that, you just don't know what's gonna hit you, right? And we see this actually in lower income families all the time, the caregiving responsibilities are often exactly what knock people out of a particular career path. So thinking about holding different jobs, holding jobs that are very intense but also planning to make time for care and that sort of brings me to, so we then need to rethink our workplaces and think about policies that facilitate that. The single biggest change has probably already been made which is the ability to get healthcare on your own, right? Because we've got still a long way to go but at least if you were thinking, okay, I've gotta take time out, I've gotta take a different job, I'm gonna make more time so that I have more time with those I love or maybe simply a passion that you pursue. For those of you where it's not about family, about something that you care passionately about, at least now you can get health insurance on your own. But thinking much more broadly about what are relations between employers and employees, how we plan careers and how we then make it possible for people and you all are gonna have long lives to have those intervals over a long life. The last thing I'll say is for most of you, if you figure you get kids out of the house somewhere between 50 and 60 if you have kids, you're not gonna retire at 65, right Janet Yellen 67. Hillary Clinton if she runs will be 70 when she, if she wins, when she wins, if she wins we're nonpartisan. So you're gonna wanna think about different phases, you know, pre-kids, post-kids, with kids. All right, the next big area that I see again and this is more from having taught countless millennials and worked with countless millennials.  You want me to go after her?  And when she first started working for me, we would, she's phenomenal. She does an incredible amount of work but at six o'clock she would leave and I'd still be there. And my first reaction was like, what is the matter with this woman? I'm still here and she just left. I would never have left before my boss. Hanna's a really serious rugby player and so she would leave at six o'clock to go play rugby, to go work with her team. And after a couple months, instead of wondering why she wasn't there because she always gets her work done, right? She's always, she responds, she always gets her work done. It's not about time, it's about work. After a couple months I started wondering why I was still sitting there. Like what was the matter with me? Like she was out there exercising which I should have been doing and I was sitting there doing my email. I think the sense that you want to have more in your life than work is both evident and incredibly important. Certainly my generation, the boomers, have made a fetish out of work. I wrote about in my original article about Time Macho, which is God knows we have it in this city, I actually pulled an all-nighter. Well, I pulled an all-nighter and I flew to California and that way I got three extra hours on the plane so I built 28 hours in a day. I mean, come on, you know, it's a cult, it's a fetish, it is doing in our health, it's doing in our families, it is bad for us in terms of creativity and it's bad for us in terms of productivity. Go read Overwhelmed. Bridget Schulte, it's a new America book. We've got all the science.  But we've got to change the way we think about what good work is. We've got to focus on results rather than time or performance rather than presence and that means we also have to be much more flexible about where you work and how you work as long as you get the work done. All right, the last thing I will say and here again, my own research, you're starting to see it more and more in papers, millennial men want to be equal with millennial women at home. They want to be equal parents. That does not mean helping out. And frankly, there's a huge amount of sexism among women on this point. When I talk to older groups of women, I give them the following hypothetical. I say, okay, imagine this, you walk into your job and your boss says, I'm biologically better at this but I think you can probably do it if I micromanage you enough. And when I travel, I will call in every hour to make sure you're doing what you're supposed to be doing, you're laughing. You know exactly what I'm talking about. Most of you are too young. Yes, every woman with children knows what I'm talking about. This is how we handle our husbands when we leave. We think we are biologically better at it. We're pretty sure they're not fully competent but they can do it if you micromanage them enough. This won't wash, right? Men have to be just as free to be caregivers as women are to be breadwinners. Equality doesn't work one way. It won't work to say, okay, everybody has care and competition or love and work. Those are the two drivers of human behavior and have always been. And women are gonna be caregivers and competitors. That's the change that happened in my lifetime. I can now be fully competitive. I can have a full career and I can be a mother and a daughter and a wife and a sister. But men are still gonna be defined only in terms of breadwining. They are only gonna be defined in terms of how well they do in their career. And they can, of course, help out on the home front. But they're not going to be fully equal on the home front and we're not gonna value them as much for caregiving as for breadwining. True equality means allowing men to be primary breadwinners or secondary breadwinners or no breadwinners.  But all those guys have a lead parent at home. Every single one has a lead parent at home. So it seems to reason if you're gonna have get to any holding like parody with women and men, those women who are gonna be CEOs are gonna have a lead parent at home. And about half of the current Fortune 500 CEOs who are at the top have exactly that, a lead parent at home. They don't talk about it. They somehow think that's a little shameful. I think those men are heroes. I think men like my husband who has the guts to stand up and say, yep, my wife has a bigger job than I do, and I am the lead parent and I have a really special relationship with my kids. I think those are men we should be celebrating. So the last thing we have to do, we've talked about how you change the workplace, how you think about intervals of career, how you think about how you work and where you work and focusing on results rather than on the presence and time and hours worked. And the last thing we have to do is to make it not only acceptable but valuable for men and women to spend their lives both as breadwinners, pursuing their dreams professionally and having all the satisfaction that brings us and caregivers, taking care of those we love, thinking about others rather than ourselves, putting others first and having all the incredible satisfaction that that brings. So, it's up to you guys. Millennial's rising, you're gonna take care of this. We'll figure it out for the rest of the day. It's wonderful to be able to have this conference and to be able to focus on these issues and it was my pleasure to talk to you. Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you.


This is the last in a series of free, techno-critical reviews, examining the excuse that underpins the whole project of industrialisation, progress. Looking at Ronald Wright's 2004 book, That, 18 Years Later, still provides a well-observed, if bleak, view of the future. Ronald Wright is a Canadian historian and anthropologist. His 2004 book, A Short History of Progress, started as a series of lectures for Canadian broadcasts at CBC. The book also inspired the 2011 documentary, Surviving Progress, which sank into obscurity despite being better than Al Gore's PowerPoint presentation. Wright's case is stated at the beginning. The idea of material progress is a very recent one, coinciding closely with the rise of science and industry and the corresponding decline of traditional beliefs. We no longer give much thought to moral progress, except to assume that it goes hand in hand with the material. Our practical faving progress has ramified and hardened into an ideology, a secular religion which, like the religions that progress has challenged, is blind to certain flaws in its credentials. Progress, therefore, has become myth, an arrangement of the past whether real or imagined in patterns that reinforce a culture's deepest values and aspirations. Progress has an internal logic that can lead beyond reason to catastrophe, a seductive trail of successes may end in a trap. Wright highlights the flaw at the heart of modern society. It's a pyramid scheme. As demonstrated by recent and present-day economic crises, for the human system to exist, people need food, energy and shelter. As human society is urbanised, those commodities must be supplied not only just in time to consumers, but the consumers must be able to purchase them. They have no other recourse to survival under this system except as a unit of economic production. As Wright says, All pre-industrial cities were constrained by the difficulty of getting supplies in and wastes out. The unsavory truth is that until the mid-19th century, most cities were death traps, seething with disease, vermin and parasites.  Without a constant inflow of soldiers, slaves, merchants and hopeful migrants, neither ancient Rome nor Georgian London could have kept its numbers up. Rome had several serious pandemics, possibly of Asian origin. While these caused manpower and fiscal problems, there may also have postponed the Empire's decline by relieving pressure on the land. The problems of resource supply today, from oil and gas to computer chips, were eased by the recent pandemic, only to be resurrected more perniciously in 2022's breakdown in global civility. But the reaction to the current crisis is to try and perpetuate the system, rather than fix its deep flaws. Civilisation is an experiment, a very recent way of life in the human career, and it has a habit of walking into what I am calling progress traps. This human inability to foresee or watch out for long-range consequences may be inherent to our kind. It may also be little more than a mix of inertia, greed and foolishness encouraged by the shape of the social pyramid. The concentration of power at the top of large-scale societies gives the elite a vested interest in the status quo. They continue to prosper in darkening times, long after the environment and general populace begin to suffer. Does that sound familiar? Well we might see this book as intersecting with other concerns about ecological collapse, energy supply or pandemics, what the book proposes is a greater truth. It argues that the failure of urban societies are natively human. Throughout human history all settlements have been resource islands requiring a supply of materials to keep functioning. Nomadic hunter-gatherers just moved, but once society became settled it created a whole new problem, logistics. Civilisation is therefore most unstable at its peak when it has reached maximum demand on the ecology. Unless a new source of welfare energy appears it has no room left to raise production or absorb the shock of natural fluctuations. The only way onward is to keep ringing new loans from nature and humanity. Once nature starts to foreclose with erosion, crop failure, famine, disease the social contract breaks down. Right's conclusion to logistical underpinnings of historic societies and the extent that modern society has created logistical webs to capture resources is not thrilling, which is probably why the book has received so little attention since its initial success. Civilisations often fall quite suddenly as they reach full demand on their ecologies. They become highly vulnerable to natural fluctuations. The most immediate danger posed by climate change is weather instability causing a series of crop failures in the world's bread baskets. Droughts, floods, fires and hurricanes are rising in frequency and severity. The pollution caused by these and by wars add to the gyre of destruction. Medical experts worry that nature may swat us with disease. Billions of overcrowded primates, many sick, malnourished and connected by air travel are a free lunch waiting for a nimble microbe. These events are entirely foreseeable and if only the ecological lobby could escape its complacent trance of first-world affluence perhaps we'll be talking more about the precise mechanics of these problems. The case of reform that I've tried to make is not based on altruism nor save in nature for its own sake. The most compelling reason for reform in our system is that the system is in no one's interest. It is a suicide machine. Whether it is from the point of view of who benefits from technology or its effects on those subject to it or the overarching purpose of that society, modernity has become a suicide cult and even many who are critical of it willingly work to protect and preserve the system that holds them enthralled whilst at the same time destroying their future. If there is a way out of rights progress trap then that will only materialize when we step outside of the myths which our dominant culture holds to be true.