As soon as you are up, shake the blankets and sheet.
Better be without shoes than sit with wet feet;
Children, if healthy, are active, not still;
Damp sheets and damp clothes will both make you ill;
Eat slowly, and always chew your food well;
Freshen the air in the house where you dwell;
Garments must never be made to be tight;
Homes will be healthy if airy and light;
If you wish to be well, as you do, I've no doubt;
Just open the window before you go out;
Keep you rooms always neat, and tidy and clean;
Let dust on furniture never be seen;
Much illness is caused by want of pure air;
Now to open windows be ever your care;
Old rags and old rubbish should never be kept;
People should see that their floors are well swept;
Quick movements in children are healthy and right;
Remember the young cannot thrive without light;
See that the cistern is clean to the brim;
Take care that your new dress is all tidy and trim;
Use your nose to find out if there be a bad drain;
Very sad are the fevers that come in its train;
Walk as much as you can without feeling fatigue-
Xerxes could walk full many a league;
Your health is your wealth, which your wisdom must keep,
Zeal will help a good cause, and the good you will reap.
-Peterson's (Magazine), June 1888
Wasn't it kinda sweet how they remind us that little ones need to be active? I can just imagine a Victorian nanny constantly scolding her young charges to "be proper" and "walk in a straight line!" How easily forget that "youth comes but once in a lifetime" (Longfellow).
It's also interesting to see how they viewed fresh air as being vital to one's health. I whole-heartedly agree that having good ventilation even in winter truly cuts down on illness.
As Mrs. Sowerby in The Secret Garden says, "I'm a great believer in fresh air."
clinkity, clankityf-a-c-e
plinkity, plankity
tra-la-loo-lee
quickly she'll play
up a scale...
...down a scale
all the live-long day
(This "meterless poem" is the mental image, my bigger-than-life mural, of Bach's wonderful Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D major. I wrote this merely to record the ideas and feelings I have when I listen to it.)
How the crisp and cool air wraps around like the fragrance of crushed petals, brushing and turning the leaves in splendid moonlight.
And those silent stars - how they sing their nocturnal anthems in the ever-rising ocean-like canopy. Oh, the glory! Is there a depth any deeper than that of the celestial bodies dancing in space? Farther and farther they reach, and all the more I cannot see. Surely their existence is spent in reveling in that greater glory, that deeper depth called The King of Glory!
My bare feet slowly touch the cool stepping stones; I am surrounded by violets and columbine traced in silver. The melody of a sleepless frog echoes off the sparkling fireflies. Around the damp grainy shore of the stream, to the slumbering groves my steps turn.
Resting to unearth, reclining to hunt. Nestling in the grass, I hardly mind the damp earth or the falling fog and dew. Nearly in blissful slumber, I sleepily inquire of the heavens how they were made.
With my vision at its zenith, heaven is within my reach and the world is my island amongst the stars.
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
___
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words.
___
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, no doubt, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
___
I end not far from my going forth,
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
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