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Read Ebook {PDF EPUB} Short End Of The Stick by Kathleen Morris short end of the stick. .) Why do I always get the short end of the stick? I want my fair share! She's unhappy because she has the short end of the stick again. short end of the stick, to get/have the. Link to this page: ▲ short end of the stick ▼ ▲ short end of the stick ▼ All content on this website, including dictionary, thesaurus, literature, geography, and other reference data is for informational purposes only. This information should not be considered complete, up to date, and is not intended to be used in place of a visit, consultation, or advice of a legal, medical, or any other professional. The meaning and origin of the expression: The short end of the stick. What's the meaning of the phrase 'The short end of the stick'? To get the short end of the stick is to come off worst in a bargain or contest. What's the origin of the phrase 'The short end of the stick'? The expression 'the . end of the stick' comes in many forms. The majority of these refer to getting the worse or, occasionally, the better part of a bargain. They inserted adjectives which indicate the bad outcome are ' short' , 'crappy' or 'blunt ' (or their synonyms or antonyms). There is also the phrase 'getting the wrong end of the stick', which has a different meaning, that is, 'having the facts wrong' or simply 'being mistaken'. Taking the occurrence of these in search engines as a guide, the four forms rank in popularity of current usage like this: 1. Short/shorter/long. 2. Wrong/rough/right. 3. Shit/shitty/dirty/crap/crappy. 4. Butt/blunt/pointy/pointed/thick. Both meanings of the phrase, that is, bad bargain or wrong facts, originated with a negative connotation. The 'long end of the stick' and 'right end of the stick' were coined later as simple opposites of their respective original form. The 'worst end of a bargain' form of the expression is quite an old phrase and, in keeping with its medieval origins, originally referred to a staff, rather than a stick; for example, the phrase occurs in Nicolas Udall's Apophthegmes of Erasmus , 1542: As often as thei see theim selfes to haue the wurse ende of the staffe in their cause. The jump from staff to stick was made explicit soon afterwards, when John Heywood published his notable reference work, A Dialogue conteinyng the nomber in effect of all the Prouerbes in the Englishe tongue, 1562: "The worst end of the staff", we now say "wrong end of the stick". Heywood makes it eminently clear that, in the 16th century, 'the wrong end of the stick' meant the same as 'the worst end of the stick'. The meaning of that phrase didn't change, that is, people didn't start getting the wrong end of the stick in the sense of 'being mistaken', until the mid 19th century. The earliest use that I can find of the phrase in that context is in the British political magazine The New Monthly Magazine , 1850: "I am so stupid - I am so apt to take things up in a wrong light. In fact, I am always getting hold of the wrong end of the stick." 'The short end of the stick' is by far the most commonly used form of the phrase. That is rather odd, in that the ends of sticks can be dirty or pointy, they can even be iridescent or hirsute, but it is difficult to see how they can be short. This has spawned the suggestion that 'short' is simply a euphemism for 'shit' - after all sticks can be shitty and that form of the phrase is also commonplace. The date of 'the shit end of the stick' makes this theory at least plausible, in that the phrase was known in that form by the mid 19th century, as in this example from The Swell's Night Guide , 1846: Which of us had hold of the crappy (sh-ten) end of the stick? I can find no examples of 'the short end of the stick' with the current figurative meaning that pre-date that example. To take the case for the opposition to the 'short' equals 'shit' premise, it isn't difficult to find examples in print of people grasping 'the short end of the stick' that are clearly intended to be literal, that is, a real stick was involved. What a short end of a stick is still unclear to me, but it seems that others, in the 19th century at least, knew what it meant. The jury is still out. GALERIE ERIC KLINKHOFF. We buy and sell paintings by Kathleen Morris. For inquiries, please contact us . View from an Inner Window. Art and the artist. Inseparable yet separate, first one then apart, the most symbiotic of all relationships and the most mysterious. Looking at art provokes an irresistible curiosity to peer behind the curtain and catch the artist at work, surrounded by his muses, brush in hand. But what if these accompanying inspirations turned out to be demons and the process of creation a tortured struggle? Would we care? Would it change how we looked at the work of art? It may and it may not, but the tale of Kathleen Moir Morris falls somewhere between the two mythical scenarios, and is one of courage and perseverance in the face of adversity. In this case, knowing the artist is a way of deepening one’s appreciation of her art, and yet so little has been written about her. Her true legacy lies in her quiet canvases, paintings that are hard to find these day, for they rarely leave the hands of their collectors. There value is as much emotional as economic, imbued as they are with the genius and spirit of the artist. Kathleen Moir Morris (1893-1986) is best known as a member of Montreal’s Beaver Hall Group, where she became part of a tightly knit community of women painters who chose art as their career, an audacious move in days when artistic pursuits were primarily a male occupation. She hared her dedication with, among others, Nora Collyer, Emily Coonan, Prudence Heward, Mabel Lockerby, Mabel May, Lilias Torrance Newton, Sarah Robertson, Anne Savage and Ethel Seath, studying with such great artists and teachers as William Brymner and Maurice Cullen. Largely ignored by art historians, these women produced a magnificent body of work, as diverse as they were, and distinctly Canadian. They were contemporaries of the Group of Seven. However, unlike the Group of Seven, whose accomplishments are well documented, Morris and her colleagues faced numerous challenges that their male counterparts were spared. This is a topic unto itself, and already covered in Barbara Meadowcroft’s timely book, Painting Friends, The Beaver Hall Women Painters (Véhicule Press, 1999). The story of Kathleen Morris is more than one of battling society’s mores. She was born physically infirm, suffering from a congenital disorder of the nervous system. It affected her speech and movements, but rather than succumb to her handicap, she blossomed amid the love and encouragement of her family, and painted, to use a colloquialism, “her heart out”. The story is not unusual in itself. Mexican painter Frida Kahlo dealt with her crippling accident and its after effects by transforming the experience into an eviscerating and brutally personal visual diary, while Toulouse-Lautrec dragged his shattered body into the underworld of Paris, seeking in the semi-monde both creative inspiration and spiritual oblivion. Morris’s approach to her lot was one of acceptance rather than rebellion, and her nature, despite the physical limitations, took flight in the realm of art with all the ardour and joy of an unfettered being. She was the fourth child and only daughter of Eliza Howard Bell and Montague John Morrie, and according to all who know the family, the apple of her mother’s eye. Noticing her predilection for drawing, she arranged first for piano lessons as a way of helping Kathleen co-ordinate her movements. That unfaltering support of the entire Morris family was, without a doubt, a defining factor in the artist’s career. Whether it was because of Morris’s gentleness of spirit, or her evident talent, that support continued throughout her formative years with the Art Association of Montreal and on in her life. She had an uncanny ability to touch people, leaving long-lasting impressions on all she met, whether they be buyers or friends. One of those to cross paths with her was Toller Cranston, international figure skater and artist, born and raised on Montreal’s West Island. The Cranston and Morris families summered in the same enclave of Marshall’s Bay, near Arnprior, Ontario. “Whether or not it was true,” he recalled, “I believed that Kathleen Morris, with her genetic and artistic struggles, sensed in me a kindred spirit. That gave me strength and inspiration. She paid attention to me, artist to artist, although my world was the antithesis of hers. Mine was mystical, dark, exotic, decorative, fantastic, and not of this world, while Kathleen’s depicted rural life and the honesty of nature. Each of her paintings glowed in its sincerity.” What a marvelously encapsulated paean, reflecting both the artist and the person, and the interconnectedness between the two. Although Morris painted mainly landscapes and city scenes, her works were executed with an intimacy that found its way into the brush stroke and the palette, evoking something kindred to a gentle touch.

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