Drink up.

Old King Cole was a thirsty old soul, touched him with some water and he puckered up for more. No wringing or squeezing was going to drain those greedy cheeks, so I stretched him on the rack instead and bled him dry of color. Cole, he was an abiding old soul--his tune's a little paler now, but still ripples round with laughter.

The canvas can do miracles.

Trying out some new paper. Looser weave, lighter weight. Prone to warping, but the darker tint saved me a good half day of laying down multiple sienna washes. We'll see how we go. Either way, I'm fine traveling the crooked miles.

Proper.

My sixpence is on the crooked mouse.

Go away.

It's raining, it's pouring.

The old man is snoring.

Bumped his head,

And he went to bed.

And he couldn't get up in the morning.

In honor of our fitful summer. And an entreaty to old sluggard Helios to take two aspirin, shake off the hangover, and harness the team.

Food for thought.

If all the world were apple pie,

And all the seas were ink,

And all the trees were bread and cheese,

What would we have to drink?

Old Mother Goose

Stained toes and strained bows. And sticky fingers, too. And gods that would rather consume than compose.

Harrowdown.

There was an old woman of Harrow,

Who visited in a wheelbarrow;

And her servant before,

Knocked loud at each door,

To announce the old woman of Harrow.

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Yip-yip.

Another elusive Mother Goose. Farmer drives his comely kid into town. Bird spooks horse. Kid gets bucked. I'd like to say I was drawn to the cautionary tone--"pride coming before a fall" and whatnot--but I suspect it has something more to do with horses asses. I'm not one to argue with powerful trends. Let's just call it a January theme.

Exhaustivo.

Last one. Promise.

He who would pun would pick a pocket.

Not exactly drawn in the spirit of the holidays, but, 'tis the season for shearing. It's more 'greyish lamb' than 'black sheep' and, if there's any allegorical 'lord/queen/church' to 'master/dame/little boy' parrallel to be drawn, I've probably missed the mark. But it's gotten me somewhat shakily back on track and has kept me from any, ahem, ...woolgathering.

Don't spray it.

Been overdosing on Mother Goose. Here's a little known jewel:

Whistle, daughter, whistle,

And you shall have a sheep.

Mother, I cannot whistle,

Neither can I sleep.*

Whistle, daughter, whistle,

And you shall have a cow.

Mother, I cannot whistle,

Neither know I how.

Whistle, daughter, whistle,

And you shall have a man.

Mother, I cannot whistle,

But I'll do the best I can.

This, days after my grandmother waggled her finger at me over lunch and said (around a mouthful of raisin bread), "Hsst! Ladies never whistle!" Perplexing when one's only sources of Old World counsel contradict each other.

*Intentional correllation between sleep and sheep?