I listen and I hear a song on the breeze. I look and I see men fall on their knees. Coming toward me is a grand procession; Some are priests and those of like profession. As they come by I join in and follow. And when it ends my heart fills with sorrow. Children throw flowers in front of the crowd, And rarely is seen the sign of a cloud. Birds by hundreds come and join us in singing; When they see what it is we are bringing. Many may wonder what great sight we see, But for the most it will remain a mystery. For only a Catholic could understand; How a man could hold his God in his hand ..read more

By: Hilaire Belloc Child! do not throw this book about!      Refrain from the unholy pleasure   Of cutting all the pictures out!   Preserve it as your chiefest treasure. Child, have you never heard it said      That you are heir to all the ages?Why, then, your hands were never made   To tear these beautiful thick pages! Your little hands were made to take   The better things and leave the worse ones:   They also may be used to shake   The Massive Paws of Elder Persons. And when your prayers complete the day,      Darling, your little tiny handsWere also made, I think, to pray ..read more