The heat and humidity and thunderstorms have been relentless. It will be a wonderful afternoon to take the cat to the vet, a wonderful morning to bake bread. Blah. On the other hand I picked my first two cherry tomatoes this week, raspberries and cucumbers are coming in, the beet greens and carrots tops flow luxuriously over the black soil, and my kitchen smells like cilantro.

Yesterday's post garnered nearly a hundred readers, a record for this blog. I was expecting an argumentative comment or two, but no one volunteered. I'm not sure what my next step will be with this article pitch. I'm leery of the professional education journals because I don't think or write in that language; but if one of you teachers wanted to take on the project, that would be delightful. I will think about what I should do. But in the meantime I suppose I must turn my thoughts to John Donne, who will feature in the final chapter in the first section of The Conversation.

The Triple Foole

            John Donne

I am two fooles, I know,

For loving, and for saying so

            In whining Poëtry;

But where’s that wiseman, that would not be I,

            If she would not deny?

Then as th’earths inward narrow crooked lanes

Do purge sea waters fretfull salt away,

            I thought, if I could draw my paines,

Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay.

Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,

For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

            But when I have done so,

Some man, his art and voice to show,

            Doth Set and sing my paine,

And, by delighting many frees againe

            Griefe, which verse did restraine.

To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,

But not of such as pleases when ’tis read,

            Both are increased by such songs:

For both their triumphs so are published,

And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;

Who are a little wise, the best fooles bee.