Ihr liewe
Leit:
Wann mol der Winder do iss un’s iss widder kalt awwer mer sehnt nix
vum Schnee, denkt der alt Professer an die do Linye vum H.L. Fisher seim lang
Gedicht “Die Alde Zeide”:
Herryeh! was waar der Schee so dief
In seller alde Zeide,
Un owwedruff en harti Gruscht –
Yaa, hatt genunk so dass mer yuscht
Hot kenne driwwer reide;
Mit Schlidde hot mer kenne yaage,
Iwwer Feld un Fens un Schtaage.
Awwer der Professer hot ken Schlidde; er deet gaern mol widder en
Schneeman mache. Der Ralph Funk weess ebbes dodevun:
Es schteht en Mann so schtrack un weiss
In unserm Hof, darch Schnee un Eis
Am Paad denewe.
Er brauch ken haus un watt net kalt,
En alder Mann, doch watt net alt
Wie im Lewe.
En grauer Kopp, en langi Naas, sehnt schier aus
Sehnt schier aus wie Sandi Klaas,
Un graad so dick.
Sei Gleeder sin vun Schnee gemacht,
Er schteht so ruhich, macht ken Yacht,
Un schwetzt net zerrick.
Setzt uff seim Kopp en alder Hut,
Draagt en Besem wu kehrt net gut,
Im Maul en Peif.
Er brauch ken Hitz, er froogt ken Schpeiss,
Er watt net daschdich unserweis,
Er’s kalt wie Reif.
Kohle mache Gnepp un Aage,
Er guckt gut, ich kann dir saage,
Doch scheint er mir
So bleech un weiss un unne Schmuck;
Im Mondhell guckt er wie en Schpuuk –
Verschreckt em schier.
Datt schteht er dann, so schteif un weiss
In unserm Hof, darch Schnee un Eis,
Wie’n alder Block.
Noh kummt en Daag watt’s bissel waarm,
Dann fallt der Besem vun seim Aarm,
Die Gnepp vum Rock.
Schwecher watt er, wie im Lewe,
Kann sei Kopp ball nimmi hewe
Wie die Schtolse.
Un in re Woch, vleicht bissel meh,
Iss unser scheener Mann vun Schnee
All verschmolse.
Kennt’s nau sei dass weil ich vun ken Schnee gschriwwe hab, hen mer
Schnee bis ihr liewe Leser den do Kallem lest?
Macht’s gut,
Der Alt Professer
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Dear people:
When winter is finally here and it is once again cold but you see
nothing of snow, then the old Professor thinks of these here lines by H.
L. Fisher in his long poem “The Olden Times”:
Holy Moses! How deep the snow used to be
In those olden times,
And on the top hard crust –
Yeah, hard enough so that you could just
Ride over it;
With sleighs you could race
Over field and fence and stakes.
But the Professor has no sleigh; he would like to once again make a
snowman. Ralph Funk knows something about that:
There stands a man so erect and white
In our yard, through snow and ice
Beside the path.
He needs no house and doesn’t get cold,
An old man, but he doesn’t get old
As (one does) in life.
A grey head, a long nose,
He almost looks like Santa Claus,
And just as fat.
His clothes are made of snow,
He stands so quietly, makes no noise,
And doesn’t talk back.
He’s put on his head and old hat,
Carries a broom that doesn’t sweep well,
In his mouth a pipe.
He needs no heat, he ask for no food,
He doesn’t get thirsty like we do,
He’s as cold as frost.
Coals make button and eyes,
He looks good, I can tell you,
But he seems to me
So pale and white and without jewels;
In the light of the moon he looks like a spook –
He almost scares you.
There he stands then, so stiff and white
In our yard, through snow and ice,
Like an old log.
But a day will come when it’s a little warm
Then the broom will fall from his arm,
The buttons from his coat.
He gets weaker, as in life,
Can almost no longer hold up his head
Like the proud people.
And in a week, perhaps a bit more,
Our beautiful man of snow will be
All melted.
Could it now be that because I wrote about having no snow, we will
have snow by the time you dear readers this column?
Take care,
The Old Professor
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