Little Ida’s Flowers

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  “MY poor flowers are quite dead!” said little Ida. “They were so pretty yesterday, and now all the leaves hang withered. Why do they do that? . . . Why do the flowers look so faded to-day?” she asked again, and showed him a nosegay, which was quite withered.  “Do you know what’s the matter with them?” said the Student. “The flowers have been at a ball last night, and that’s why they hang their heads.”  “But flowers cannot dance!” cried little Ida. “O yes,” said the Student, “when it grows dark, and we are asleep, they jump about merrily. Almost every night they have a ball.” —Hans Christian Andersen. (1805–1875)

The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald

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The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down

Of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early

(Lyrics by Gordon Lightfoot)

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