Weather: If All Saints' Day
will bring out the winter, Saint Martin's Day (11 November) will bring out
Indian Summer (and vice versa)
All Saints’ Day has a little
summer of three days. When it is warm at this time of year, it is called “All
Saints’ Rest”.
If on All Saints’ Day the
beechnut be found dry, we shall have a hard winter; but if the nut be wet and
not light, we may expect a wet winter.
As on November 1st,
so is the winter to come.
Well, in the Smallest State, it was warm and rather tropical. High winds and heavy seas, but warm with a few showers. I doubt the winter to come will resemble it in the least.
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Read more about All Saints’ Day here.
So you think that because
Hallowe’en is over, the scary stuff is gone for the year, right? Au contraire, children! All Hallows Eve is just the beginning. Tonight (All Souls Eve) at midnight,
anyone visiting the cemetery will see the dead leading a procession of those
who are to die in the coming year.
And for those of you who
don’t fancy a midnight ramble in the nearest bone-orchard, here is a poem by
George MacDonald – verra Scottish, but you should get the flavor of it, even if
some of the words are unintelligible. The title is “Halloween”, but as you can see by the
second verse, it takes place “on the night between Saints and Souls, when the
bodiless go about…” Take a warning
from Janet and if you open the doors, put the chairs against the wall.
“Sweep up the flure, Janet;
Put on anither peat.
It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,
And nowther cauld nor weet.
It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls
Whan the bodiless gang aboot;
And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
For ony that may be oot.
Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;
Mak ready for quaiet fowk.
Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:
They comena ilka ook.
There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
And there's a rowan-berry!
Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,
Or they'll neither come nor tarry.
Syne set open the outer dure-
Wide open for wha kens wha?
As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,
Set baith dures to the wa'.
She set the cheirs back to the wa',
But ane that was o' the birk;
She sweepit the flure, but left the spale-
A lang spale o' the aik.
The nicht was lown; the stars sae still
War glintin doon the sky;
The souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,
A' dank wi' lyin by.
They faund the dure wide to the wa',
And the peats blawn rosy reid:
They war shuneless feet gaed in and oot,
Nor clampit as they gaed.
The mither she keekit but the hoose,
Saw what she ill could say;
Quakin she slidit doon by Janet,
And gaspin a whilie she lay.
There's are o' them sittin afore the fire!
Ye wudna hearken to me!
Janet, ye left a cheir by the fire,
Whaur I tauld ye nae cheir suld be!
Janet she smilit in her minnie's face:
She had brunt the roden reid,
But she left aneth the birken cheir
The spale frae a coffin-lid!
Saft she rase and gaed but the hoose,
And ilka dure did steik.
Three hours gaed by, and her minnie heard
Sound o' the deid nor quick.
Whan the gray cock crew, she heard on the flure
The fa' o' shuneless feet;
Whan the rud cock crew, she heard the dure,
And a sough o' win' and weet.
Whan the goud cock crew, Janet cam back;
Her face it was gray o' ble;
Wi' starin een, at her mither's side
She lay doon like a bairn to dee.
Her white lips hadna a word to lat fa'
Mair nor the soulless deid;
Seven lang days and nights she lay,
And never a word she said.
Syne suddent, as oot o' a sleep, she brade,
Smilin richt winsumly;
And she spak, but her word it was far and strayit,
Like a whisper come ower the sea.
And never again did they hear her lauch,
Nor ever a tear doun ran;
But a smile aye flittit aboot her face
Like the mune on a water wan.
And ilka nicht atween Sancts and Souls
She laid the dures to the wa',
Blew up the fire, and set the cheir,
And loot the spale doon fa'.
And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose
Aye steekin dure and dure.
Whan the goud cock crew, quaiet as a moose
She cam creepin ower the flure.
Mair wan grew her face, and her smile mair sweet
Quhill the seventh Halloweve:
Her mother she heard the shuneless feet,
Said-She'll be ben belyve!
She camna ben. Her minnie rase-
For fear she 'maist cudna stan;
She grippit the wa', and but she gaed,
For the goud cock lang had crawn.
There sat Janet upo' the birk cheir,
White as the day did daw;
But her smile was a sunglint left on the sea
Whan the sun himsel is awa.”
Put on anither peat.
It's a lown and a starry nicht, Janet,
And nowther cauld nor weet.
It's the nicht atween the Sancts and Souls
Whan the bodiless gang aboot;
And it's open hoose we keep the nicht
For ony that may be oot.
Set the cheirs back to the wa', Janet;
Mak ready for quaiet fowk.
Hae a'thing as clean as a windin-sheet:
They comena ilka ook.
There's a spale upo' the flure, Janet,
And there's a rowan-berry!
Sweep them intil the fire, Janet,
Or they'll neither come nor tarry.
Syne set open the outer dure-
Wide open for wha kens wha?
As ye come ben to your bed, Janet,
Set baith dures to the wa'.
She set the cheirs back to the wa',
But ane that was o' the birk;
She sweepit the flure, but left the spale-
A lang spale o' the aik.
The nicht was lown; the stars sae still
War glintin doon the sky;
The souls crap oot o' their mooly graves,
A' dank wi' lyin by.
They faund the dure wide to the wa',
And the peats blawn rosy reid:
They war shuneless feet gaed in and oot,
Nor clampit as they gaed.
The mither she keekit but the hoose,
Saw what she ill could say;
Quakin she slidit doon by Janet,
And gaspin a whilie she lay.
There's are o' them sittin afore the fire!
Ye wudna hearken to me!
Janet, ye left a cheir by the fire,
Whaur I tauld ye nae cheir suld be!
Janet she smilit in her minnie's face:
She had brunt the roden reid,
But she left aneth the birken cheir
The spale frae a coffin-lid!
Saft she rase and gaed but the hoose,
And ilka dure did steik.
Three hours gaed by, and her minnie heard
Sound o' the deid nor quick.
Whan the gray cock crew, she heard on the flure
The fa' o' shuneless feet;
Whan the rud cock crew, she heard the dure,
And a sough o' win' and weet.
Whan the goud cock crew, Janet cam back;
Her face it was gray o' ble;
Wi' starin een, at her mither's side
She lay doon like a bairn to dee.
Her white lips hadna a word to lat fa'
Mair nor the soulless deid;
Seven lang days and nights she lay,
And never a word she said.
Syne suddent, as oot o' a sleep, she brade,
Smilin richt winsumly;
And she spak, but her word it was far and strayit,
Like a whisper come ower the sea.
And never again did they hear her lauch,
Nor ever a tear doun ran;
But a smile aye flittit aboot her face
Like the mune on a water wan.
And ilka nicht atween Sancts and Souls
She laid the dures to the wa',
Blew up the fire, and set the cheir,
And loot the spale doon fa'.
And at midnicht she gaed but the hoose
Aye steekin dure and dure.
Whan the goud cock crew, quaiet as a moose
She cam creepin ower the flure.
Mair wan grew her face, and her smile mair sweet
Quhill the seventh Halloweve:
Her mother she heard the shuneless feet,
Said-She'll be ben belyve!
She camna ben. Her minnie rase-
For fear she 'maist cudna stan;
She grippit the wa', and but she gaed,
For the goud cock lang had crawn.
There sat Janet upo' the birk cheir,
White as the day did daw;
But her smile was a sunglint left on the sea
Whan the sun himsel is awa.”
Found in The Poetical Works of George MacDonald,
2 Volumes (1893)
