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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 1

Charles Latimer visited the corner shop run by the Forbes sisters Charlotte and Grace almost every day. He could have collected his groceries in one visit, but the short intercourse of words they exchanged broke the emptiness in his life. As he entered the shop, the tiny bell above the door chimed.

Grace Forbes stood behind the counter. “Good morning Mr Latimer, ” she said. “What would you like today? ”

Good morning, Grace. I’ve written out a small list. My needs are not many as you know.” He replied and smiled.

“I’m surprised you never married. You would have made some lucky woman a wonderful husband.”

Charles Latimer felt his cheeks warm. “Would it be all right to leave the list and pick up my groceries later? ”

“Of course. Why, have you got a date with someone? ”

“In a manner of speaking. I feed the pigeons in the park every morning about this time. I must be going now.”

“We’ll have your groceries ready by the time you get back.”

“Thank you, ” he said, turned, and left.

Grace watched him leave. A sad unpretentious man whose clothes always seemed a size too large.

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poem by David Harris
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 2

(It is advisable you read part 1 first)

Charles Latimer broke up the slices of bread he brought and scattered them across the path. “You’ll never guess what Grace Forbes said to me this morning. She said that I would have made some lucky woman a wonderful husband. Of course, she doesn’t really know me. I mean, if she did she wouldn’t have said that, now would she? ”

The pigeons didn’t reply. They just moved about from one piece of bread to another and chasing off any sparrow who tried to snatch up a crumb.

“Of course she is a lovely woman her. I am surprised that she never married. There was talk that she was engaged once. It’s said that the chap ran off with her best friend, but at least she has her sister to keep her company.” His voice lowered to almost a whisper when he noticed someone coming.

Removing another couple of slices of bread from the bag, he broke them up. He scattered the pieces in a semi-circled at his feet. Several more birds landed. Squabbles broke out.

“Its all right fellows I have more bread, “he said and broke up another slice. “ Now where was I? Oh, yes. I was telling you about Grace and her sister. They are so lucky to have each other. Myself I was an only child. It can be lonely at times when your parents are gone. Of course you wouldn’t understand that.”

The pigeons moved about picking at the bread always watchful for a larger another might have. Several sparrows swooped in picked up a pieces and then flew off. Charles watched them scattering more bread until the bag was empty. Slowly the last pieces disappeared and the birds left.

Glancing at his watch Charles noticed it was nearly twelve. He must pick up his shopping and go home. He folded the bag he carried the bread in and slipped it into his pocket. He moved out of the park and towards the corner shop. The tiny doorbell chimed s he entered.

Grace smiled and lifted a brown paper bag onto the counter. “Your groceries Mr Latimer. How were the pigeons today? ”

“Their usual self. They can be bullies at times especially where the sparrows are concerned.” he replied. “How much do owe you? ”

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poem by David Harris
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An Invitation To Tea (A Dark Comedy) Part 3

(It is advisable you read parts 1 and 2 first)

Grace watched him for a few minutes, and then moved to the back of the shop. “He is going to come around at six tonight. I do hop Mr Potter like him.”

“I’m sure he will. Grace.”

“I can’t help feeling bit concerned after Mr Armad.”

“It was the curry Mr Armad insisted on making. Revolting stuff. I felt queasy as Mr Potter afterwards. Anyway Mr Potter always prefers Englishmen, even when Aunty had him staying with her.”

Charles checked his watch, and then knocked the door. The lights appeared in the shop and the silhouette of one of the sisters grew large in the glass panel of the door. Charlotte smiled.

“Do come in Mr Latimer.”

Charles entered and followed Charlotte through to the back of the shop. As they entered the room, Grace turned from the oven with a tray of freshly baked scones. She smiled.

“Please have a seat, Mr Latimer. Tea is ready.”

“Call me Charles, Mr Latimer seems so formal.” he replied as he sat where Charlotte directed. “I hope you don’t mind me asking but where is Mr Potter going to sit? ”

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poem by David Harris
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The drop of rain maketh a hole in the stone, not by violence, but by oft falling.

quote by Hugh Latimer
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The utter helplessness of a conquered people is perhaps the most tragic feature of a civil war or any other sort of war.

quote by Rebecca Latimer Felton
Added by Lucian Velea
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Rescue The Slave

This song was composed while George Latimer, the fugitive slave, was
confined in Leverett Street Jail, Boston, expecting to be carried back
to Virginia by James B. Gray, his claimant.

Sadly the fugitive weeps in his cell,
Listen awhile to the story we tell;
Listen ye gentle ones, listen ye brave,
Lady fair! Lady fair! weep for the slave.

Praying for liberty, dearer than life,
Torn from his little one, torn from his wife,
Flying from slavery, hear him and save,
Christian men! Christian men! help the poor slave.

Think of his agony, feel for his pain,
Should his hard master e'er hold him again;
Spirit of liberty, rise from your grave,
Make him free, make him free, rescue the slave.

Freely the slave master goes where he will;

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Ambiguity Arose - after Rose Aylmer Walter Savage LANDOR

Oh, what avails a pretty face
with beauty creams besprinkled,
for Father Time wins every race,
soon age Life’s page has wrinkled.

Where is the flush, the lush embrace,
starred eyes that carefree twinkled?
Night draws its shutters, leaves no trace
of light, save mem’ries sinkled.

Oh, What avails a pretty face,
and voice divinely tinkled,
if all behind be ugly, base,
with mind both blind and wrinkled?

Some say unique is every case,
eyes amber, periwinkled,
yet all too soon return to base,
AND DNA's ash sprinkled.

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Massachusetts To Virginia

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern way,
Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay:
No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal,
Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's steel,

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go;
Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow;
And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far,
A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are spread for war.

We hear thy threats, Virginia! thy stormy words and high
Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along our sky;
Yet not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest labor here,
No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in fear.

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's bank;
Cold on the shores of Labrador the fog lies white and dank;
Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout are the hearts which man
The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of Cape Ann.

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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The Ruined Abbey, or, The Affects of Superstition

At length fair Peace, with olive crown'd, regains
Her lawful throne, and to the sacred haunts
Of wood or fount the frighted Muse returns.
Happy the bard who, from his native hills,
Soft musing on a summer's eve, surveys
His azure stream, with pensile woods enclosed;
Or o'er the glassy surface with his friend,
Or faithful fair, through bordering willows green,
Wafts his small frigate. Fearless he of shouts,
Or taunts, the rhetoric of the watery crew
That ape confusion from the realms they rule;
Fearless of these; who shares the gentler voice
Of peace and music; birds of sweetest song
Attune from native boughs their various lay,
And cheer the forest; birds of brighter plume
With busy pinion skim the glittering wave,
And tempt the sun; ambitious to display
Their several merit, while the vocal flute
Or number'd verse, by female voice endear'd,
Crowns his delight, and mollifies the scene.

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poem by William Shenstone
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A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?

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poem by James Russell Lowell
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