This, was found amongst the family papers from Abbey Dawn

Splayed out were teetering piles of papers and old photographs on the living room floor - I came across the following, on a aged and fragile sheet, crediting "Author unknown"

The Patter Of The Shingle

When the angery passions gathering
In my mother's face I see,
And she leads me to the bedroom,
Gently lays me on her knee,

Then I know I will catch it,
And my flesh in fancy itchings,
As I listen for the patter
Of the shingle on my britches.

Every tingle of the shingle
has an echo and a sting,
And a thousand burning fancies
Into active being spring;

And a thousand bees and hornets
Neath my coat-tail seem to sworm,
As I listen for the patter
Of the shingle, oh, so warm.

At a sudden intermission,
Which appears my only chance,
I say, "Strick gently, mother,
or you'll split my Sunday pants!"

She stops a moment, draws her breath,
The shingle holds aloft,
Then says, "I had not thought of that ---
My son, just take them off!"

Holy Moses and the angles,
Cast thy pitying glances down!
And thou, oh, family doctor,
Put a good, soft po(u)ltice on!

And may I with fools and dunces,
Everlasting mingle,
If I ever say another word,
When mother wields the shingle.

Recently I’ve embarked on the journey of going through (as I refer to it) “the family stuff” and what a journey it promises to be; you are welcomed to follow along ...

Chick on you can click on Abbey Dawn  or go to

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