Very early in my life I was exposed to politics. I remember being taken to a Republican meeting when a speaker supporting Hoover talked about Hoover arranging to have public schools in some towns south of the Mason-Dixon Line where no schools bloomed. Many schools at that time were taught by teachers who had no more than a fourth-grade education themselves.

I had a second-grade teacher who acquired her teaching certificate through a high school course called “Normal Training.” It was not uncommon, especially in country schools.

I don’t remember how many cantos Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” boasted. I think there were at least 27. My maternal grandmother knew them all and often recited portions of them to me as bedtime stories.

Later when I was in high school, learning the beginning of that epic was required. If you were schooled during a period when kids were made to memorize many things, including poetry, you will probably remember.

“The stag at eve had drunk his fill

&uot;where danced the moon on Monan’s rill.”

I was more taken with the parts I didn’t have to memorize. To this day when annoyed by a TV

speaker, I find myself striking an attitude and snarling,

“These are Clan Alpine’s followers true,

&uot;And, Saxon, I am Roderick Dhu.”

Learning poetry never seemed a hardship to me as did memorizing music. My mother promised me I could attend Sunday school as soon as I memorized the 23rd Psalm.

I made it in good time and became a Sunday school member before I was 3.

Bible reading in my home was a daily obligation and I can’t help wishing it were as easy to live up to its teaching as it is to memorize them.

Because the adults in my life felt obliged to teach me, I acquired quite a collection of poetry. All of it, alas, was not altogether approved.

My mother, when for want of a better babysitter when she was off to a meeting, was forced to leave me with my father. I loved the poetry he taught me, but sensed a certain lack of appreciation when I recited it to my mother.

Before I was old enough to go to school I knew and was happy to recite at any time the one starting,

“Did you ever think as the hearse rolls by

&uot;that sometimes you and that sometimes I,

&uot;Will lie in the grave and mold and rot

&uot;While the worms crawl in and the worms crawl out.”

Others taught to me by my father included:

“Bulldog on the bank.

&uot;Bullfrog in the pool

&uot;Bulldog caught the bullfrog,

&uot;The green old water fool.”

Liked even better its companion “pome”:

&uot;Pharoah’s daught on the bank

&uot;Little Moses in the pool

&uot;She fished him out with a telephone pole

&uot;And sent him off to school.”

And, of course,

“A funny bird is the pelican

&uot;His beak can hold more than his belly can

&uot;But I don’t see how in the hell it can.”

On the serious side there’s a translation by John Dryden of one of the odes by Horace. I glory in the last three lines;

“The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate are mine,

&uot;Not heaven itself upon the past has power,

&uot;But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.”

Speaking of poetry, one of my favorite stories concerns a little four-liner by Robbie Burns. Not really appreciated by his own countrymen the poet was lauded by the English and the Scots realized it was time for them to show some respect. A Scottish laird invited him to dinner and left him briefly alone while greeting the other guests. Burns picked up a volume of Shakespeare’s work.

It was a beautiful book, bound in the finest leather, decorated with jewels. When opened, though, it was apparent that the book was seldom read, the gilt edged pages had been invaded by book worms.

Burns promptly sat down at the desk and penned the note which he left with the book:

“Through and through the inspired leaves

&uot;Ye maggots take your windings.

&uot;But oh respect his lairdship’s taste

&uot;And spare the golden bindings.”

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)