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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3477-h.zip b/3477-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1de6c41 --- /dev/null +++ b/3477-h.zip diff --git a/3477-h/3477-h.htm b/3477-h/3477-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dbf5a5b --- /dev/null +++ b/3477-h/3477-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2857 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Verse-book of a Homely Woman, by Fay Inchfawn + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman, by +Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman + +Author: Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn + +Release Date: February 28, 2009 [EBook #3477] +Last Updated: January 26, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERSE-BOOK OF A HOMELY WOMAN *** + + +Produced by: David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE VERSE-BOOK OF<br /> A HOMELY WOMAN + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Fay Inchfawn + </h2> + <h3> + [Elizabeth Rebecca Ward] + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>PART I. INDOORS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> The Long View </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Within my House </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The Housewife </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> To Mother </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> In Such an Hour </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Daily Interview </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Little House </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> The House-Mother </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A Woman in Hospital </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> In Convalescence </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Homesick </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> On Washing Day </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> When Baby Strayed </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> If Only —— </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Listening </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Reason </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Two Women </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> The Prize Fight </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Home Lights </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> To an Old Teapot </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> For Mothering! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Little Fan </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> The Naughty Day </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> To a Little White Bird </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Because </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> When He Comes </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II. OUT OF DOORS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Early Spring </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> The Witness </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> In Somerset </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> At the Cross Roads </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Summer met Me </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> The Carrier </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> The Thrush </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> In Dorset Dear </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Flight of the Fairies </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> The Street Player </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> On All Souls' Eve </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Log Fire </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> God save the King </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> Dedicated<br /><br /> TO<br /><br /> MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + PART I. INDOORS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Long View + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some day of days! Some dawning + yet to be + I shall be clothed with immortality! + + And, in that day, I shall not greatly care + That Jane spilt candle grease upon the + stair. + + It will not grieve me then, as once it did, + That careless hands have chipped my + teapot lid. + + I groan, being burdened. But, in that + glad day, + I shall forget vexations of the way. + + That needs were often great, when means + were small, + Will not perplex me any more at all + A few short years at most (it may be less), + I shall have done with earthly storm and + stress. + + So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet. + O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep + me sweet! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Within my House + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + First, there's the entrance, narrow, + and so small, + The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall; + That staircase, too, has such an awkward + bend, + The carpet rucks, and rises up on end! + Then, all the rooms are cramped and close + together; + And there's a musty smell in rainy weather. + Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard + To have the only tap across a yard. + These creaking doors, these draughts, this + battered paint, + Would try, I think, the temper of a saint, + + How often had I railed against these + things, + With envies, and with bitter murmurings + For spacious rooms, and sunny garden + plots! + Until one day, + Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think, + I paused a moment in my work to pray; + And then and there + All life seemed suddenly made new and + fair; + For, like the Psalmist's dove among the + pots + (Those endless pots, that filled the tiny + sink!), + My spirit found her wings. + + "Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not + at all + That my poor home is ill-arranged and + small: + I, not the house, am straitened; Lord, + 'tis I! + Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by + I may look up with such a radiant face + Thou shalt have glory even in this place. + And when I trip, or stumble unawares + In carrying water up these awkward stairs, + Then keep me sweet, and teach me day + by day + To tread with patience Thy appointed + way. + As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be + my part + To walk within it with a perfect heart." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Housewife + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See, I am cumbered, Lord, + With serving, and with small vexa- + tious things. + Upstairs, and down, my feet + Must hasten, sure and fleet. + So weary that I cannot heed Thy word; + So tired, I cannot now mount up with + wings. + I wrestle—how I wrestle!—through the + hours. + Nay, not with principalities, nor powers— + Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's— + But with antagonistic pots and pans: + With footmarks in the hall, + With smears upon the wall, + With doubtful ears, and small unwashen + hands, + And with a babe's innumerable demands. + + I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops + glisten, + + (O, child of mine, be still. And listen— + listen!) + + At last, I laid aside + Important work, no other hands could do + So well (I thought), no skill contrive so + true. + And with my heart's door open—open + wide— + With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat. + I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat, + Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo, + My thousand tasks were done the better so. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + To Mother + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I would that you should know, + Dear mother, that I love you—love + you so! + That I remember other days and years; + Remember childish joys and childish fears. + And this, because my baby's little hand + Opened my own heart's door and made + me understand. + + I wonder how you could + Be always kind and good! + So quick to hear; to tend + My smallest ills; to lend + Such sympathising ears + Swifter than ancient seer's. + I never yet knew hands so soft and kind, + Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind + So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear + mother, now + I think that I can guess a little how + You must have looked for some response, + some sign, + That all my tiresome wayward heart was + thine. + + And sure it was! You were my first dear + love! + You who first pointed me to God above; + You who seemed hearkening to my lightest + word, + And in the dark night seasons always + heard + When I came trembling, knocking at your + door. + Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore + Your patient heart. Or if in later days + I sought out foolish unfamiliar ways; + If ever, mother dear, I loosed my hold + Of your loved hand; or, headstrong, + thought you cold, + Forgive me, mother! Oh, forgive me, + dear! + I am come back at last—you see me + here, + Your loving child. . . . And, mother, + on my knee + I pray that thus my child may think of + me! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Such an Hour + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sometimes, when everything goes + wrong: + When days are short, and nights are long; + When wash-day brings so dull a sky + That not a single thing will dry. + And when the kitchen chimney smokes, + And when there's naught so "queer" as + folks! + When friends deplore my faded youth, + And when the baby cuts a tooth. + While John, the baby last but one, + Clings round my skirts till day is done; + When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum, + And butcher's man forgets to come. + + Sometimes, I say, on days like these, + I get a sudden gleam of bliss. + "Not on some sunny day of ease, + He'll come . . but on a day like this!" + And, in the twinkling of an eye, + These tiresome things will all go by! + + And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane + Is sure, just then, to smile again; + Or, out the truant sun will peep, + And both the babies fall asleep. + The fire burns up with roar sublime, + And butcher's man is just in time. + And oh! My feeble faith grows strong + Sometimes, when everything goes wrong! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Daily Interview + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Such a sensation Sunday's preacher + made. + "Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock- + in-trade? + Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray; + No interview with Christ from day to day, + A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled + through; + A random text—for any one will do." + Then gently, lovingly, with look intense, + He leaned towards us— + "Is this common sense? + No person in his rightful mind will try + To run his business so, lest by-and-by + The thing collapses, smirching his good + name, + And he, insolvent, face the world with + shame." + + I heard it all; and something inly said + That all was true. The daily toil and press + Had crowded out my hopes of holiness. + Still, my old self rose, reasoning: + How can you, + With strenuous work to do— + Real slogging work—say, how can you + keep pace + With leisured folks? Why, you could + grow in grace + If you had time . . . the daily Interview + Was never meant for those who wash and + bake. + + But yet a small Voice whispered: + "For My sake + Keep tryst with Me! + There are so many minutes in a day, + So spare Me ten. + It shall be proven, then, + Ten minutes set apart can well repay + You shall accomplish more + If you will shut your door + For ten short minutes just to watch and + pray." + + "Lord, if I do + Set ten apart for You" + (I dared, yes dared, to reason thus with + Him) + "The baker's sure to come; + Or Jane will call + To say some visitor is in the hall; + Or I shall smell the porridge burning, yes, + And run to stop it in my hastiness. + There's not ten minutes, Lord, in all the + day + I can be sure of peace in which to watch + and pray." + + But all that night, + With calm insistent might, + That gentle Voice spake softly, lovingly— + "Keep tryst with Me! + You have devised a dozen different ways + Of getting easy meals on washing days; + You spend much anxious thought on + hopeless socks; + On moving ironmould from tiny frocks; + 'Twas you who found + A way to make the sugar lumps go round; + You, who invented ways and means of + making + Nice spicy buns for tea, hot from the baking, + When margarine was short . . . and can- + not you + Who made the time to join the butter queue + Make time again for Me? + Yes, will you not, with all your daily + striving, + Use woman's wit in scheming and con- + triving + To keep that tryst with Me?" + + Like ice long bound + On powdered frosty ground, + My erring will all suddenly gave way. + The kind soft wind of His sweet pleading + blew, + And swiftly, silently, before I knew, + The warm love loosed and ran. + Life-giving floods began, + And so most lovingly I answered Him: + "Lord, yes, I will, and can. + I will keep tryst with Thee, Lord, come + what may!" + + ENVOY. + + It is a wondrous and surprising thing + How that ten minutes takes the piercing + sting + From vexing circumstance and poison- + ous dart + Hurled by the enemy straight at my + heart. + So, to the woman tempest-tossed and + tried + By household cares, and hosts of things + beside, + With all my strength God bids me say + to you: + "Dear soul, do try the daily Interview!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little House + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One yestereve, in the waning light, + When the wind was still and the + gloaming bright, + There came a breath from a far countrie, + And the ghost of a Little House called + to me. + + "Have you forgotten me?" "No!" I cried. + "Your hall was as narrow as this is wide, + Your roof was leaky, the rain came + through + Till a ceiling fell, on my new frock too! + + "In your parlour flooring a loose board hid, + And wore the carpet, you know it did! + Your kitchen was small, and the shelves + were few, + While the fireplace smoked—and you + know it's true!" + + The little ghost sighed: "Do you quite + forget + My window boxes of mignonette? + And the sunny room where you used to + sew + When a great hope came to you, long ago? + + "Ah, me! How you used to watch the + door + Where a latch-key turned on the stroke + of four. + And you made the tea, and you poured + it out + From an old brown pot with a broken + spout + + "Now, times have changed. And your + footman waits + With the silver urn, and the fluted plates. + But the little blind Love with the wings, + has flown, + Who used to sit by your warm hearth- + stone." + + The little ghost paused. Then "Away!" + I said. + "Back to your place with the quiet dead. + Back to your place, lest my servants see, + That the ghost of a Little House calls + to me." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The House-Mother + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Across the town the evening bell is + ringing; + Clear comes the call, through kitchen + windows winging! + + Lord, knowing Thou art kind, + I heed Thy call to prayer. + I have a soul to save; + A heart which needs, I think, a double + share + Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave. + Hope, faith and diligence, and patient + care, + With meekness, grace, and lowliness of + mind. + Lord, wilt Thou grant all these + To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease? + + They do not know, + The passers-by, who go + Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set; + Who throng about Thy seat, + And sing Thy praises sweet, + Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet; + They do not know . . . + And, if they knew, then would they greatly + care + That Thy tired handmaid washed the + children's hair; + Or, with red roughened hands, scoured + dishes well, + While through the window called the + evening bell? + And that her seeking soul looks upward + yet, + THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt + not forget +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Woman in Hospital + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know it all . . . I know. + For I am God. I am Jehovah, He + Who made you what you are; and I can + see + The tears that wet your pillow night by + night, + When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant + light; + When the talk ceases, and the ward grows + still, + And you have doffed your will: + I know the anguish and the helplessness. + I know the fears that toss you to and fro. + And how you wrestle, weariful, + With hosts of little strings that pull + About your heart, and tear it so. + I know. + + Lord, do You know + I had no time to put clean curtains up; + No time to finish darning all the socks; + Nor sew clean frilling in the children's + frocks? + And do You know about my Baby's cold? + And how things are with my sweet three- + year-old? + Will Jane remember right + Their cough mixture at night? + And will she ever think + To brush the kitchen flues, or scrub the + sink? + + And then, there's John! Poor tired + lonely John! + No one will run to put his slippers on. + And not a soul but me + Knows just exactly how he likes his tea. + It rends my heart to think I cannot go + And minister to him. . . . + + I know. I know. + + Then, there are other things, + Dear Lord . . . more little strings + That pull my heart. Now Baby feels her + feet + She loves to run outside into the street + And Jane's hands are so full, she'll never + see. . . . + And I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't + be aired— + At least, not properly. + And, oh, I can't, I really can't be spared— + My little house calls so! + + I know. + And I am waiting here to help and bless. + Lay down your head. Lay down your hope- + lessness + And let Me speak. + You are so weary, child, you are so weak. + But let us reason out + The darkness and the doubt; + This torturing fear that tosses you about. + + I hold the universe. I count the stars. + And out of shortened lives I build the + ages. . . . + + But, Lord, while such high things Thy + thought engages, + I fear—forgive me—lest + Amid those limitless eternal spaces + Thou shouldest, in the high and heavenly + places, + Pass over my affairs as things of nought. + There are so many houses just like mine. + And I so earth-bound, and Thyself Divine. + It seems impossible that Thou shouldst + care + Just what my babies wear; + And what John gets to eat; . . . and + can it be + A circumstance of great concern to Thee + Whether I live or die? + + Have you forgotten then, My child, that I, + The Infinite, the Limitless, laid down + The method of existence that I knew, + And took on Me a nature just like you? + I laboured day by day + In the same dogged way + That you have tackled household tasks. + And then, + Remember, child, remember once again + Your own beloveds . . . did you really + think— + (Those days you toiled to get their meat + and drink, + And made their clothes, and tried to under- + stand + Their little ailments)—did you think your + hand, + Your feeble hand, was keeping them from ill? + I gave them life, and life is more than meat; + Those little limbs, so comely and so sweet. + You can make raiment for them, and are glad, + But can you add + One cubit to their stature? Yet they grow! + Oh, child, hands off! Hands off! And + leave them so. + I guarded hitherto, I guard them still. + + I have let go at last. I have let go. + And, oh, the rest it is, dear God, to know + My dear ones are so safe, for Thou wilt + keep. + Hands off, at last! Now, I can go to + sleep. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Convalescence + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not long ago, I prayed for dying + grace, + For then I thought to see Thee face to + face. + + And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's + cry) + That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not + die. + + Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet + pray I must. + Lord help me—help me not to see the + dust! + + And not to nag, nor fret because the blind + Hangs crooked, and the curtain sags be- + hind. + + But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a + sight! + 'T'will take at least a month to get them + right. + + And that last cocoa had a smoky taste, + And all the milk has boiled away to waste! + + And—no, I resolutely will not think + About the saucepans, nor about the sink. + + These light afflictions are but temporal + things— + To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me + wings? + + Then I shall smile when Jane, with towzled + hair + (And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Homesick + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit + ago it seems, + An' back among the Cotswolds I were + wanderin' in me dreams. + I saw the old grey homestead, with the + rickyard set around, + An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a + pleasant, homelike sound. + Then on I went a-singin', through the + pastures where the sheep + Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for + to sleep. + + An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half + stifled by the grass, + Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw + the corncrake pass. + For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER! + An' the blue forget-me-nots + Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky + chimbley pots. + I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the + dazzlin' sights I've seen; + I was back among the Cotswolds, where + me heart has always been. + + Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, + a stiffish climb, + Right to the bridge, where all our sheep + comes up at shearin' time. + There was the wild briar roses hangin' + down so pink an' sweet, + A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover + at my feet + An' here me heart stopped beatin', for + down by Gatcombe's Wood + My lad was workin' with his team, as only + my lad could! + + "COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook + an' breezes seemed to say. + "'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT + MARY DREW'S AWAY." + + An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages + has been paid, + An' they're lookin' through the papers for + another kitchen maid). + Back to the old grey homestead, an' the + uplands cool an' green, + To my lad among the Cotswolds, where + me heart has always been! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On Washing Day + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit + My mother's got the copper lit; + An' piles of clothes are on the floor, + An' steam comes out the wash-house door; + An' Mrs. Griggs has come, an' she + Is just as cross as she can be. + She's had her lunch, and ate a lot; + I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot. + An' when I helped her make the starch, + She said: 'Now, Miss, you just quick + march! + What? Touch them soap-suds if you + durst; + I'll see you in the blue-bag first!' + An' mother dried my frock, an' said: + 'Come back in time to go to bed.' + I'm off to gran'ma's, for, you see, + At home, they can't put up with me. + + "But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice. + If gran'ma's making currant-cake, + She'll let me put the ginger spice, + An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake; + An' then she says she thinks it fun + To taste the edges when it's done. + + "That's gran'ma's house. Why, hip, + hooray! + My gran'ma's got a washing day; + For gran'pa's shirts are on the line, + An' stockings, too—six, seven, eight, nine! + She'll let me help her. Yes, she'll tie + Her apron round to keep me dry; + An' on her little stool I'll stand + Up to the wash-tub. 'Twill be grand! + There's no cross Mrs. Griggs to say, + 'Young Miss is always in the way.' + An' me and gran'ma will have tea + At dinner-time—just her an' me— + An' eggs, I 'spect, an' treacle rice. + My goodness! Won't it all be nice? + + "Gran'ma, I'm come to spend the day, + 'Cause mother finds me in the way. + Gran'ma, I'll peg the hankies out; + Gran'ma, I'll stir the starch about; + Gran'ma, I'm come, because, you see, + At home, they can't put up with me." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Baby Strayed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Baby strayed, it seemed to + me, + Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly. + + At once, with frenzied haste, my feet + Ran up and down the busy street. + + If ever in my life I prayed, + It was the evening Baby strayed. + + And yet my great concern was this + (Not dread of losing Baby's kiss, + + And Baby's soft small hand in mine, + And Baby's comradeship divine), + + 'Twas BABY'S terror, BABY'S fears! + Whose hand but mine could dry her + tears? + + I without Baby? In my need + I were a piteous soul indeed. + + But piteous far, beyond all other, + A little child without a mother. + + And God, in mercy, graciously + Gave my lost darling back to me. + + O high and lofty One! + THOU couldst have lived to all eternity + Apart from ME! + In majesty, upon that emerald throne. + Thou, with Thy morning stars, + Thy dawns, with golden bars, + And all the music of the heavenly train. + Possessing all things, what hadst Thou to + gain + By seeking me? + What was I? . . . and, what am I? . . . + less than nought. + And yet Thy mercy sought. + Yea, Thou hast set my feet + Upon the way of holiness, and sweet + It is, to seek Thee daily, unafraid . . . + + But (this I learnt the night that Baby + strayed) + Here was Thy chief, Thy great concern + for me: + My desolate estate, apart from Thee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + If Only —— + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If only dinner cooked itself, + And groceries grew upon the shelf; + If children did as they were told, + And never had a cough or cold; + And washed their hands, and wiped their + boots, + And never tore their Sunday suits, + But always tidied up the floor, + Nor once forgot to shut the door. + + If John remembered not to throw + His papers on the ground. And oh! + If he would put his pipes away, + And shake the ashes on the tray + Instead of on the floor close by; + And always spread his towel to dry, + And hung his hat upon the peg, + And never had bones in his leg. + + Then, there's another thing. If Jane + Would put the matches back again + Just where she found them, it would be + A save of time to her and me. + And if she never did forget + To put the dustbin out; nor yet + Contrive to gossip with the baker, + Nor need ten thunderbolts to wake her. + + Ahem! If wishes all came true, + I don't know what I'd find to do, + Because if no one made a mess + There'd be no need of cleanliness. + And things might work so blissfully, + In time—who knows?—they'd not need + me! + + And this being so, I fancy whether + I'll go on keeping things together. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Listening + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain + That hurtles on the window pane. + Let's draw the curtains close and sit + Beside the fire awhile and knit. + Two purl—two plain. A well-shaped + sock, + And warm. (I thought I heard a knock, + But 'twas the slam of Jones's door.) + Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before + The fleecy wools—a different thing, + And best for wear. (Was that his ring?) + No. 'Tis the muffin man I see; + We'll have threepennyworth for tea. + Two plain—two purl; that heel is neat. + (I hear his step far down the street.) + Two purl—two plain. The sock can + wait; + I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Dear Folks in + Devon + + Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ- + mas, and to-night + I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly + berries bright. + The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd + dearly love to see, + And those dear folks down in Devon, + how they'll talk and think of me. + + Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas + morn, and if there's one + As comes across from Canada straight + from their absent son, + My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my + Dad'll likely say: + "Don't seem like Christmas time no more, + with our dear lad away." + + I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef, + and Brother Jimmy's wife + Will say her never tasted such, no, not in + all her life. + And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt + in your mouth, 'tis true, + But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as + mothers always do! + + Ah me! If I could just have wings, and + in the dimsey light + Go stealing up the cobbled path this + lonesome Christmas night, + Lift up the latch with gentle hand—My! + What a shout there'd be! + From those dear folks down in Devon! + What a welcomin' for me! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Reason + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that + turneth aside to tarry for a night?"—Jer. xiv. 8. + + Nay, do not get the venison pasty + out; + I shall not greatly put myself about + Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall + spare + Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole- + some fare. + We have to-morrow's dinner still to find; + It's well for you I have a frugal mind. + + Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever + next? + Why with such questionings should I be + vext? + The man is naught to us; why should + we care? + The little attic room will do; 'tis bare, + But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light; + He has but come to tarry for a night. + + I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I, + Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy + Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to + bed, + And he can sup alone, well warmed and + fed; + 'Tis much to take him in a night like this. + Why should I fret me with concerns of + his? + + Grey morning came, and at the break of + day + The Man rose up and went upon his way +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Two Women + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they + be of the same mind in the Lord"—Phil. iv. 2, + + EUODIAS. + + But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am + sure + He never would expect me to endure. + There is a something in her very face + Antagonistic to the work of grace. + And even when I would speak graciously + Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me. + + SYNTYCHE. + + No, not for worlds! Euodias has no + mind; + So slow she is, so spiritually blind. + Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she + says + She grieves to see my aggravating ways + Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly + How odious Euodias can be! + + EUODIAS. + + Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another + thing! + + SYNTYCHE. + + Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in- + deed. + + EUODIAS. + + For His sake I'll endure her whispering + + SYNTYCHE. + + For His sake I'll consent to let her lead. + + EUODIAS. + + Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by + day. + + SYNTYCHE. + + Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the + way. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Prize Fight + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, + but I hit hard and straight at my own body."—1 Cor. + ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation). + + 'T'was breakfast time, and outside in + the street + The factory men went by with hurrying + feet. + And on the bridge, in dim December light, + The newsboys shouted of the great prize + fight. + Then, as I dished the bacon, and served + out + The porridge, all our youngsters gave + a shout. + The letter-box had clicked, and through + the din + The Picture News was suddenly pushed in. + + John showed the lads the pictures, and + explained + Just how the fight took place, and what + was gained + By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me + As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea: + "Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled. + She hits the air sometimes, though," and + John smiled. + "Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with + widened eyes + Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a + prize?" + + We laughed. And yet it set me thinking, + how + I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow + Munched at our early cabbages, and ate + The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon- + ette! + And many a time I kicked against the + pricks + Because the little dog at number six + Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross + I got + When Jane seemed discontented with her + lot. + Until poor John in desperation said + He wearied of the theme—and went to + bed! + + And how I vexed myself that day, when he + Brought people unexpectedly for tea, + Because the table-cloth was old and + stained, + And not a single piece of cake remained. + And how my poor head ached! Because, + well there! + It uses lots of strength to beat the air! + + "I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray + For grace to hit the self-life every day. + And when the old annoyance comes once + more + And the old temper rises sharp and sore, + I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender- + Wise, + And read approval in Thy loving eyes. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Home Lights + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "In my father's house!" The words + Bring sweet cadence to my ears. + Wandering thoughts, like homing birds, + Fly all swiftly down the years, + To that wide casement, where I always see + Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome + me. + + Sweet it was, how sweet to go + To the worn, familiar door. + No need to stand a while, and wait, + Outside the well-remembered gate; + No need to knock; + The easy lock + Turned almost of itself, and so + My spirit was "at home" once more. + And then, within, how good to find + The same cool atmosphere of peace, + Where I, a tired child, might cease + To grieve, or dread, + Or toil for bread. + I could forget + The dreary fret. + The strivings after hopes too high, + I let them every one go by. + The ills of life, the blows unkind, + These fearsome things were left behind. + + ENVOY. + + O trembling soul of mine, + See how God's mercies shine! + When thou shalt rise, + And, stripped of earth, shall stand + Within an Unknown Land; + Alone, where no familiar thing + May bring familiar comforting; + Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's + House! And, see + His love-lamps leaning out to welcome + thee! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + To an Old Teapot + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now from the dust of half-forgotten + things, + You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring- + cleaning, + And bring to memory dim imaginings + Of mystic meaning. + + No old-time potter handled you, I ween, + Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten; + No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be + seen, + Nor Royal Doulton. + + You never stood to grace the princely + board + Of monarchs in some Oriental palace. + Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is + scored + As if in malice. + + I hesitate to say it, but your spout + Is with unhandsome rivets held together— + Mute witnesses of treatment meted out + In regions nether. + + O patient sufferer of many bumps! + I ask it gently—shall the dustbin hold + you? + And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage + stumps, + At last enfold you? + + It ought. And yet with gentle hands I + place + You with my priceless Delft and Dresden + china, + For sake of one who loved your homely + face + In days diviner. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +To a Rebellious + Daughter + + You call authority "a grievous thing." + With careless hands you snap the + leading string, + And, for a frolic (so it seems to you), + Put off the old love, and put on the new. + + For "What does Mother know of love?" + you say. + "Did her soul ever thrill? + Did little tendernesses ever creep + Into her dreams, and over-ride her will? + Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap + As my heart leaps to-day? + I, who am young; who long to try my + wings! + + How should she understand, + She, with her calm cool hand? + She never felt such yearnings? And, + beside, + It's clear I can't be tied + For ever to my mother's apron strings." + + There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear. + And there are mysteries, not yet made + clear + To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book + Is open, yes; but you may only look + At its first section. Youth + Is part, not all, the truth. + It is impossible that you should see + The end from the beginning perfectly. + + You answer: "Even so. + But how can Mother know, + Who meditates upon the price of bacon? + On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken, + And on the laundry's last atrocities? + She knows her cookery book, + And how a joint of English meat should + look. + But all such things as these + Make up her life. She dwells in tents, + but I + In a vast temple open to the sky." + + Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped + to learn + The language written in your infant face. + For years she walked your pace, + And none but she interpreted your chatter. + Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter? + Or, weary, joined in all your games with + zest, + And managed with a minimum of rest? + Now, is it not your turn + To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be- + tween you? + To-day, before Death's angel over-lean + you, + Before your chance is gone? + This is worth thinking on. + + "Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay, + dearie, nay. + Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may + Come some grey dawning in the by + and by, + When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, + you'll cry + Aloud to God, for that despised thing, + The old dear comfort—Mother's apron + string. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + For Mothering! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear + her satin gown, + For little Miss and Master'll be coming + down from town. + Oh ay, the childern's coming! The + CHILDERN did I say? + Of course, they're man and woman grown, + this many and many a day. + But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and + squire looks fit to sing, + As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming + Mothering. + + Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's + doings fine and grand, + Because young Jake is coming home from + sea, you understand. + Put into port but yesternight, and when + he steps ashore, + 'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer- + set once more. + And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir- + ring raisins in, + To welcome of her only chick, who's + coming Mothering. + + And what of we? And ain't we got no + childern for to come? + Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery, + and they'll be coming home. + And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is + six foot three! + But childern still to my good man, and + childern still to me! + And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all + the thrushes sing, + As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is + coming Mothering. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Little Fan + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When little Fanny came to town, I + felt as I could sing! + She were the sprackest little maid, the + sharpest, pertest thing. + Her mother were as proud as punch, and + as for I—well, there! + I never see sich gert blue eyes, I never + see sich hair! + "If all the weans in Somerset," says I, + "was standin' here, + Not one could hold a candle light, 'long- + side our little dear." + + Now FANNY'S little Fan have come! She's + clingin' round my knees, + She's asking me for sups of tea, and bites + of bread and cheese. + She's climbing into grandma's bed, she's + stroking grandma's face. + She's tore my paper into bits and strawed + it round the place. + "If all the weans in all the world," says + I, "was standin' here, + Not one could hold a farthin' dip to + Fanny's little dear!" + For Fanny's little Fanny—oh, she's took + the heart of me! + 'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN of + humble folk like we! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Naughty Day + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've had a naughty day to-day. + I scrunched a biscuit in my hair, + And dipped my feeder in the milk, + And spread my rusk upon a chair. + + When mother put me in my bath, + I tossed the water all about, + And popped the soap upon my head, + And threw the sponge and flannel out. + + I wouldn't let her put my hand + Inside the arm-hole of my vest; + I held the sleeve until she said + I really never SHOULD be dressed. + + And while she made the beds, I found + Her tidy, and took out the hairs; + And then I got the water-can + And tipped it headlong down the stairs. + + I crawled along the kitchen floor, + And got some coal out of the box, + And drew black pictures on the walls, + And wiped my fingers on my socks. + + Oh, this HAS been a naughty day! + That's why they've put me off to bed. + "He CAN'T get into mischief there, + Perhaps we'll have some peace," they + said. + + They put the net across my cot, + Or else downstairs again I'd creep. + But, see, I'll suck the counterpane + To PULP before I go to sleep! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + To a Little White Bird + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Into the world you came, and I was + dumb, + Because "God did it," so the wise ones + said; + I wonder sometimes "Did you really + come?" + And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?" + + Thus you went out—alone and uncaressed; + O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant + grace, + I never held you in my arms, nor pressed + Warm kisses on your face! + + But, in the Garden of the Undefiled, + My soul will claim you . . . you, and + not another; + I shall hold out my arms, and say "MY + CHILD!" + And you will call me "MOTHER!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Because + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (PSALM CXVI.) + + Because He heard my voice, and + answered me, + Because He listened, ah, so patiently, + In those dark days, when sorrowful, alone, + I knelt with tears, and prayed Him for a + stone; + Because He said me "Nay," and then in- + stead, + Oh, wonderful sweet truth! He gave me + bread, + Set my heart singing all in sweet accord; + Because of this, I love—I love the Lord! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When He Comes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "When He comes! + My sweetest 'When'!" + C. ROSSETTI. + + Thus may it be (I thought) at some + day's close, + Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose + Breathes forth its incense. May He find + me there, + In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer, + In some sweet garden place, + To catch the first dear wonder of His Face! + + Or, in my room above, + In silent meditation of His love, + My soul illumined with a rapture rare. + It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes + Might glimpse Him coming in the East- + ern skies, + And be caught up to meet Him in the + air. + + But now! Ah, now, the days + Rush by their hurrying ways! + No longer know I vague imaginings, + For every hour has wings. + Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I + say, + All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day, + Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as I + am— + Tending my household; stirring goose- + berry jam; + Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose, + With puzzled forehead patching some one's + clothes; + Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, and + run, + From early dawn till setting of the sun." + + And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go, + Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II. OUT OF DOORS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Early Spring + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Quick through the gates of Fairyland + The South Wind forced his way. + 'Twas his to make the Earth forget + Her grief of yesterday. + "'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!" + And on his lightsome feet + In haste he slung the snowdrop bells, + Pushed past the Fairy sentinels, + And out with laughter sweet. + + Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on + The shining way he went. + He whispered to the trees strange tales + Of wondrous sweet intent, + When, suddenly, his witching voice + With timbre rich and rare, + Rang through the woodlands till it cleft + Earth's silent solitudes, and left + A Dream of Roses there! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Witness + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Master of the Garden said; + "Who, now the Earth seems cold + and dead, + Will by his fearless witnessing + Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?" + + "Not yet. I am but half awake," + All drowsily the Primrose spake. + And fast the sleeping Daffodils + Had folded up their golden frills. + + "Indeed," the frail Anemone + Said softly, "'tis too cold for me." + Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set, + Replied: "No ice has melted yet." + + When suddenly, with smile so bright, + Up sprang a Winter Aconite, + And to the Master joyfully + She cried: "I will the witness be." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Somerset + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Somerset they guide the plough + From early dawn till twilight now. + The good red earth smells sweeter yet, + Behind the plough, in Somerset. + The celandines round last year's mow + Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow + The South Wind woos the Violet, + In Somerset. + + Then, every brimming dyke and trough + Is laughing wide with ripples now, + And oh, 'tis easy to forget + That wintry winds can sigh and sough, + When thrushes chant on every bough + In Somerset! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Song of a Woodland + Stream + + Silent was I, and so still, + As day followed day. + Imprisoned until + King Frost worked his will. + Held fast like a vice, + In his cold hand of ice, + For fear kept me silent, and lo + He had wrapped me around and about + with a mantle of snow. + + But sudden there spake + One greater than he. + Then my heart was awake, + And my spirit ran free. + + At His bidding my bands fell apart, He + had burst them asunder. + I can feel the swift wind rushing by me, + once more the old wonder + Of quickening sap stirs my pulses—I + shout in my gladness, + Forgetting the sadness, + For the Voice of the Lord fills the air! + + And forth through the hollow I go, where + in glad April weather, + The trees of the forest break out into + singing together. + And here the frail windflowers will cluster, + with young ferns uncurling, + Where broader and deeper my waters go + eddying, whirling, + To meet the sweet Spring on her journey + —His servant to be, + Whose word set me free! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Luggage in Advance + + "The Fairies must have come," I + said, + "For through the moist leaves, brown and + dead, + The Primroses are pushing up, + And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup. + They must have come, because I see + A single Wood Anemone, + The flower that everybody knows + The Fairies use to scent their clothes. + And hark! The South Wind blowing, fills + The trumpets of the Daffodils. + They MUST have come!" + + Then loud to me + Sang from a budding cherry tree, + A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say! + The Fairy Folk are on their way. + Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet, + Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet! + Sweet! + They could not carry them, you see, + Those caskets crammed with witchery, + So ready for the first Spring dance, + They sent their Luggage in Advance!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + At the Cross Roads + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There I halted. Further down the + hollow + Stood the township, where my errand lay. + Firm my purpose, till a voice cried + (Follow! + Come this way—I tell you—come this + way!) + + Silence, Thrush! You know I think of + buying + A Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn and + old. + So to the shops I go. What's that you're + crying? + (Here! Come here! And gather primrose + gold.) + Well, yes. Some day I will; but time is + going. + I haste to purchase silks and satins fair. + I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock is + showing + Up yonder, in the little coppice there.) + + And wood anemones spread out their + laces; + Each celandine has donned a silken gown; + The violets are lifting shy sweet faces. + (And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, and + brown.) + + But what about my hat? (The bees are + humming.) + And my new frock? (The hawthorn's + budding free! + Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have your + way. I'm coming! + And who's to blame for that? (Why, me! + Me! Me!) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Summer met Me + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Summer met me in the glade, + With a host of fair princesses, + Golden iris, foxgloves staid, + Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses. + Roses followed in her train, + Creamy elder-flowers beset me, + Singing, down the scented lane, + Summer met me! + + Summer met me! Harebells rang, + Honeysuckle clustered near, + As the royal pageant sang + Songs enchanting to the ear. + Rainy days may come apace, + Nevermore to grieve or fret me, + Since, in all her radiant grace, + Summer met me! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Carrier + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Owd John's got past his work," said + they, + Last week as ever was—"don't pay + To send by him. He's stoopid, too, + And brings things what won't never do. + We'll send by post, he is that slow. + And that owd hoss of his can't go." + + But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to see + The gentlefolks run after we. + Squire's lady stopped I in the lane, + "Oh," says she, "goin' to town again? + You'll not mind calling into Bings + To fetch my cakes and buns and things? + I've got a party comin' on, + And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John." + + Then, up the street, who should I see, + But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me. + And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs + Was wantin' vittles for their pigs, + And would I bring some? (Well, what + nex'?) + And Granny Dunn has broke her specs, + And wants 'em mended up in town, + So would John call and bring 'em down + To-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on, + 'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John." + + Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blows + Nobody any good; it shows + As owd John haves his uses yet, + Though now and then he do forget. + Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on, + They're glad of pore owd stoopid John. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Lad's Love by the + Gate + + Down in the dear West Country, + there's a garden where I know + The Spring is rioting this hour, though + I am far away— + Where all the glad flower-faces are old + loves of long ago, + And each in its accustomed place is + blossoming to-day. + + The lilac drops her amethysts upon the + mossy wall, + While in her boughs a cheerful thrush + is calling to his mate. + Dear breath of mignonette and stocks! + I love you, know you all. + And, oh, the fragrant spices from the + lad's love by the gate! + + Kind wind from the West Country, wet + wind, but scented so, + That straight from my dear garden + you seem but lately come, + Just tell me of the yellow broom, the + guelder rose's snow, + And of the tangled clematis where + myriad insects hum. + + Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any + rosemary? + And in their own green solitudes, say, + do the lilies wait? + I knew it! Gentle wind, but once— + speak low and tenderly— + How fares it—tell me truly—with the + lad's love by the gate? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Thrush + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Across the land came a magic word + When the earth was bare and + lonely, + And I sit and sing of the joyous spring, + For 'twas I who heard, I only! + Then dreams came by, of the gladsome + days, + Of many a wayside posy; + For a crocus peeps where the wild rose + sleeps, + And the willow wands are rosy! + + Oh! the time to be! When the paths + are green, + When the primrose-gold is lying + 'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins + sway, + And the dear south wind comes sigh- + ing. + + My mate and I, we shall build a nest, + So snug and warm and cosy, + When the kingcups gleam on the meadow + stream, + Where the willow wands are rosy! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + In Dorset Dear + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Dorset Dear they're making hay + In just the old West Country way. + With fork and rake and old-time gear + They make the hay in Dorset Dear. + From early morn till twilight grey + They toss and turn and shake the hay. + And all the countryside is gay + With roses on the fallen may, + For 'tis the hay-time of the year + In Dorset Dear. + + The loaded waggons wend their way + Across the pasture-lands, and stay + Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer; + And ricks that shall be fashioned here + Will be the sweetest stuff, they say, + In Dorset Dear! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Flight of the Fairies + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a rustle in the woodlands, + and a sighing in the breeze, + For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes + and the trees; + They are packing up their treasures, every + one with nimble hand, + Ready for the coming journey back to + sunny Fairyland. + + They have gathered up the jewels from + their beds of mossy green, + With all the dewy diamonds that summer + morns have seen; + The silver from the lichen and the + powdered gold dust, too, + Where the buttercups have flourished and + the dandelions grew. + + They packed away the birdies' songs, + then, lest we should be sad, + They left the Robin's carol out, to make + the winter glad; + They packed the fragrance of the flowers, + then, lest we should forget, + Out of the pearly scented box they + dropped a Violet. + + Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent + woods they came, + Where the golden bracken lingered and + the maples were aflame. + On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er + their wings the moonbeams shone, + Music filtered through the forest—and the + Little Folk were gone! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Street Player + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The shopping had been tedious, and + the rain + Came pelting down as she turned home + again. + + The motor-bus swirled past with rush and + whirr, + Nought but its fumes of petrol left for + her. + + The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese + Malodorously mixed themselves with + these. + + And all seemed wrong. The world was + drab and grey + As the slow minutes wept themselves + away. + + And then, athwart the noises of the street, + A violin flung out an Irish air. + + "I'll take you home again, Kathleen." + Ah, sweet, + How tender-sweet those lilting phrases + were! + + They soothed away the weariness, and + brought + Such peace to one worn woman, over- + wrought, + + That she forgot the things which vexed + her so: + The too outrageous price of calico, + + The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence + Because she paused to count the dwindling + pence. + + The player stopped. But the rapt vision + stayed. + That woman faced life's worries unafraid. + + The sugar shortage now had ceased to be + An insurmountable calamity. + + Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor + butter, + But things more costly still, too rare to + utter. + + And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall, + The sun set gloriously, after all. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On All Souls' Eve + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, the garden ways are lonely! + Winds that bluster, winds that + shout, + Battle with the strong laburnum, + Toss the sad brown leaves about. + In the gay herbaceous border, + Now a scene of wild disorder, + The last dear hollyhock has flamed his + crimson glory out. + + Yet, upon this night of longing, + Souls are all abroad, they say. + Will they come, the dazzling blossoms, + That were here but yesterday? + Will the ghosts of radiant roses + And my sheltered lily-closes + Hold once more their shattered fragrance + now November's on her way? + + Wallflowers, surely you'll remember, + Pinks, recall it, will you not? + How I loved and watched and tended, + Made this ground a hallowed spot: + Pansies, with the soft meek faces, + Harebells, with a thousand graces: + Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell + me, have you quite forgot? + + HUSH! THEY COME! For down the path- + way + Steals a fragrance honey-sweet. + Larkspurs, lilies, stocks, and roses, + Hasten now my heart to greet. + Stay, oh, stay! My hands would hold + you . . . + But the arms that would enfold you + Crush the bush of lad's love growing in + the dusk beside my feet. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Log Fire + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In her last hour of life the tree + Gave up her glorious memories, + Wild scent of wood anemone, + The sapphire blue of April skies. + + With faint but ever-strength'ning flame, + The dew-drenched hyacinthine spires + Were lost, as red-gold bracken came, + With maple bathed in living fires. + + Grey smoke of ancient clematis + Towards the silver birch inclined, + And deep in thorny fastnesses + The coral bryony entwined. + + Then softly through the dusky room + They strayed, fair ghosts of other days, + With breath like early cherry bloom, + With tender eyes and gentle ways. + + They glimmered on the sombre walls, + They danced upon the oaken floor, + Till through the loudly silent halls + Joy reigned majestical once more. + + Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear, + One rapturous Spirit radiant stood. + 'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear. + We two were back in Gatcombe Wood! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + God save the King + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It + seems + The Church is full of bygone dreams.) + + LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own, + 'Tis hard to stand here all alone.) + + GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, you + Were always brave to dare and do.) + + SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then, + My darling will come home again!) + + HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill be + Like Heaven to him—and what to me?) + + LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear! + And we'd been wedded one short year!) + + GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I pray + Keep MY King safe this very day.) + + Forgive us, thou—great England's kingly + King + That thus do women National Anthems + sing. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman, by +Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERSE-BOOK OF A HOMELY WOMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 3477-h.htm or 3477-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/7/3477/ + +Produced by: David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman + +Author: Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn + +Posting Date: February 28, 2009 [EBook #3477] +Release Date: October, 2002 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERSE-BOOK OF A HOMELY WOMAN *** + + + + + + +THE VERSE-BOOK OF A HOMELY WOMAN + + +By Fay Inchfawn + +[Elizabeth Rebecca Ward] + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PART I + + INDOORS + + + THE LONG VIEW + + WITHIN MY HOUSE + + THE HOUSEWIFE + + TO MOTHER + + IN SUCH AN HOUR + + THE DAILY INTERVIEW + + THE LITTLE HOUSE + + THE HOUSE-MOTHER + + A WOMAN IN HOSPITAL + + IN CONVALESCENCE + + HOMESICK + + ON WASHING DAY + + WHEN BABY STRAYED + + IF ONLY ---- + + LISTENING + + THE DEAR FOLKS IN DEVON + + THE REASON + + TWO WOMEN + + THE PRIZE FIGHT + + THE HOME LIGHTS + + TO AN OLD TEAPOT + + TO A REBELLIOUS DAUGHTER + + FOR MOTHERING! + + LITTLE FAN + + THE NAUGHTY DAY + + TO A LITTLE WHITE BIRD + + BECAUSE + + WHEN HE COMES + + + + PART II + + + OUT OF DOORS + + EARLY SPRING + + THE WITNESS + + IN SOMERSET + + SONG OF A WOODLAND STREAM + + LUGGAGE IN ADVANCE + + AT THE CROSS ROADS + + SUMMER MET ME + + THE CARRIER + + THE LAD'S LOVE BY THE GATE + + THE THRUSH + + IN DORSET DEAR + + THE FLIGHT OF THE FAIRIES + + THE STREET PLAYER + + ON ALL SOULS' EVE + + THE LOG FIRE + + GOD SAVE THE KING + + + + Dedicated + + TO + + MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER + + + + +PART I. INDOORS + + + + +The Long View + + Some day of days! Some dawning + yet to be + I shall be clothed with immortality! + + And, in that day, I shall not greatly care + That Jane spilt candle grease upon the + stair. + + It will not grieve me then, as once it did, + That careless hands have chipped my + teapot lid. + + I groan, being burdened. But, in that + glad day, + I shall forget vexations of the way. + + That needs were often great, when means + were small, + Will not perplex me any more at all + A few short years at most (it may be less), + I shall have done with earthly storm and + stress. + + So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet. + O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep + me sweet! + + + + + +Within my House + + First, there's the entrance, narrow, + and so small, + The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall; + That staircase, too, has such an awkward + bend, + The carpet rucks, and rises up on end! + Then, all the rooms are cramped and close + together; + And there's a musty smell in rainy weather. + Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard + To have the only tap across a yard. + These creaking doors, these draughts, this + battered paint, + Would try, I think, the temper of a saint, + + How often had I railed against these + things, + With envies, and with bitter murmurings + For spacious rooms, and sunny garden + plots! + Until one day, + Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think, + I paused a moment in my work to pray; + And then and there + All life seemed suddenly made new and + fair; + For, like the Psalmist's dove among the + pots + (Those endless pots, that filled the tiny + sink!), + My spirit found her wings. + + "Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not + at all + That my poor home is ill-arranged and + small: + I, not the house, am straitened; Lord, + 'tis I! + Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by + I may look up with such a radiant face + Thou shalt have glory even in this place. + And when I trip, or stumble unawares + In carrying water up these awkward stairs, + Then keep me sweet, and teach me day + by day + To tread with patience Thy appointed + way. + As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be + my part + To walk within it with a perfect heart." + + + + + +The Housewife + + See, I am cumbered, Lord, + With serving, and with small vexa- + tious things. + Upstairs, and down, my feet + Must hasten, sure and fleet. + So weary that I cannot heed Thy word; + So tired, I cannot now mount up with + wings. + I wrestle--how I wrestle!--through the + hours. + Nay, not with principalities, nor powers-- + Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's-- + But with antagonistic pots and pans: + With footmarks in the hall, + With smears upon the wall, + With doubtful ears, and small unwashen + hands, + And with a babe's innumerable demands. + + I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops + glisten, + + (O, child of mine, be still. And listen-- + listen!) + + At last, I laid aside + Important work, no other hands could do + So well (I thought), no skill contrive so + true. + And with my heart's door open--open + wide-- + With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat. + I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat, + Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo, + My thousand tasks were done the better so. + + + + + +To Mother + + I would that you should know, + Dear mother, that I love you--love + you so! + That I remember other days and years; + Remember childish joys and childish fears. + And this, because my baby's little hand + Opened my own heart's door and made + me understand. + + I wonder how you could + Be always kind and good! + So quick to hear; to tend + My smallest ills; to lend + Such sympathising ears + Swifter than ancient seer's. + I never yet knew hands so soft and kind, + Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind + So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear + mother, now + I think that I can guess a little how + You must have looked for some response, + some sign, + That all my tiresome wayward heart was + thine. + + And sure it was! You were my first dear + love! + You who first pointed me to God above; + You who seemed hearkening to my lightest + word, + And in the dark night seasons always + heard + When I came trembling, knocking at your + door. + Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore + Your patient heart. Or if in later days + I sought out foolish unfamiliar ways; + If ever, mother dear, I loosed my hold + Of your loved hand; or, headstrong, + thought you cold, + Forgive me, mother! Oh, forgive me, + dear! + I am come back at last--you see me + here, + Your loving child. . . . And, mother, + on my knee + I pray that thus my child may think of + me! + + + + + +In Such an Hour + + Sometimes, when everything goes + wrong: + When days are short, and nights are long; + When wash-day brings so dull a sky + That not a single thing will dry. + And when the kitchen chimney smokes, + And when there's naught so "queer" as + folks! + When friends deplore my faded youth, + And when the baby cuts a tooth. + While John, the baby last but one, + Clings round my skirts till day is done; + When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum, + And butcher's man forgets to come. + + Sometimes, I say, on days like these, + I get a sudden gleam of bliss. + "Not on some sunny day of ease, + He'll come . . but on a day like this!" + And, in the twinkling of an eye, + These tiresome things will all go by! + + And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane + Is sure, just then, to smile again; + Or, out the truant sun will peep, + And both the babies fall asleep. + The fire burns up with roar sublime, + And butcher's man is just in time. + And oh! My feeble faith grows strong + Sometimes, when everything goes wrong! + + + + + +The Daily Interview + + Such a sensation Sunday's preacher + made. + "Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock- + in-trade? + Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray; + No interview with Christ from day to day, + A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled + through; + A random text--for any one will do." + Then gently, lovingly, with look intense, + He leaned towards us-- + "Is this common sense? + No person in his rightful mind will try + To run his business so, lest by-and-by + The thing collapses, smirching his good + name, + And he, insolvent, face the world with + shame." + + I heard it all; and something inly said + That all was true. The daily toil and press + Had crowded out my hopes of holiness. + Still, my old self rose, reasoning: + How can you, + With strenuous work to do-- + Real slogging work--say, how can you + keep pace + With leisured folks? Why, you could + grow in grace + If you had time . . . the daily Interview + Was never meant for those who wash and + bake. + + But yet a small Voice whispered: + "For My sake + Keep tryst with Me! + There are so many minutes in a day, + So spare Me ten. + It shall be proven, then, + Ten minutes set apart can well repay + You shall accomplish more + If you will shut your door + For ten short minutes just to watch and + pray." + + "Lord, if I do + Set ten apart for You" + (I dared, yes dared, to reason thus with + Him) + "The baker's sure to come; + Or Jane will call + To say some visitor is in the hall; + Or I shall smell the porridge burning, yes, + And run to stop it in my hastiness. + There's not ten minutes, Lord, in all the + day + I can be sure of peace in which to watch + and pray." + + But all that night, + With calm insistent might, + That gentle Voice spake softly, lovingly-- + "Keep tryst with Me! + You have devised a dozen different ways + Of getting easy meals on washing days; + You spend much anxious thought on + hopeless socks; + On moving ironmould from tiny frocks; + 'Twas you who found + A way to make the sugar lumps go round; + You, who invented ways and means of + making + Nice spicy buns for tea, hot from the baking, + When margarine was short . . . and can- + not you + Who made the time to join the butter queue + Make time again for Me? + Yes, will you not, with all your daily + striving, + Use woman's wit in scheming and con- + triving + To keep that tryst with Me?" + + Like ice long bound + On powdered frosty ground, + My erring will all suddenly gave way. + The kind soft wind of His sweet pleading + blew, + And swiftly, silently, before I knew, + The warm love loosed and ran. + Life-giving floods began, + And so most lovingly I answered Him: + "Lord, yes, I will, and can. + I will keep tryst with Thee, Lord, come + what may!" + + ENVOY. + + It is a wondrous and surprising thing + How that ten minutes takes the piercing + sting + From vexing circumstance and poison- + ous dart + Hurled by the enemy straight at my + heart. + So, to the woman tempest-tossed and + tried + By household cares, and hosts of things + beside, + With all my strength God bids me say + to you: + "Dear soul, do try the daily Interview!" + + + + + +The Little House + + One yestereve, in the waning light, + When the wind was still and the + gloaming bright, + There came a breath from a far countrie, + And the ghost of a Little House called + to me. + + "Have you forgotten me?" "No!" I cried. + "Your hall was as narrow as this is wide, + Your roof was leaky, the rain came + through + Till a ceiling fell, on my new frock too! + + "In your parlour flooring a loose board hid, + And wore the carpet, you know it did! + Your kitchen was small, and the shelves + were few, + While the fireplace smoked--and you + know it's true!" + + The little ghost sighed: "Do you quite + forget + My window boxes of mignonette? + And the sunny room where you used to + sew + When a great hope came to you, long ago? + + "Ah, me! How you used to watch the + door + Where a latch-key turned on the stroke + of four. + And you made the tea, and you poured + it out + From an old brown pot with a broken + spout + + "Now, times have changed. And your + footman waits + With the silver urn, and the fluted plates. + But the little blind Love with the wings, + has flown, + Who used to sit by your warm hearth- + stone." + + The little ghost paused. Then "Away!" + I said. + "Back to your place with the quiet dead. + Back to your place, lest my servants see, + That the ghost of a Little House calls + to me." + + + + + +The House-Mother + + Across the town the evening bell is + ringing; + Clear comes the call, through kitchen + windows winging! + + Lord, knowing Thou art kind, + I heed Thy call to prayer. + I have a soul to save; + A heart which needs, I think, a double + share + Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave. + Hope, faith and diligence, and patient + care, + With meekness, grace, and lowliness of + mind. + Lord, wilt Thou grant all these + To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease? + + They do not know, + The passers-by, who go + Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set; + Who throng about Thy seat, + And sing Thy praises sweet, + Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet; + They do not know . . . + And, if they knew, then would they greatly + care + That Thy tired handmaid washed the + children's hair; + Or, with red roughened hands, scoured + dishes well, + While through the window called the + evening bell? + And that her seeking soul looks upward + yet, + THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt + not forget + + + + + +A Woman in Hospital + + I know it all . . . I know. + For I am God. I am Jehovah, He + Who made you what you are; and I can + see + The tears that wet your pillow night by + night, + When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant + light; + When the talk ceases, and the ward grows + still, + And you have doffed your will: + I know the anguish and the helplessness. + I know the fears that toss you to and fro. + And how you wrestle, weariful, + With hosts of little strings that pull + About your heart, and tear it so. + I know. + + Lord, do You know + I had no time to put clean curtains up; + No time to finish darning all the socks; + Nor sew clean frilling in the children's + frocks? + And do You know about my Baby's cold? + And how things are with my sweet three- + year-old? + Will Jane remember right + Their cough mixture at night? + And will she ever think + To brush the kitchen flues, or scrub the + sink? + + And then, there's John! Poor tired + lonely John! + No one will run to put his slippers on. + And not a soul but me + Knows just exactly how he likes his tea. + It rends my heart to think I cannot go + And minister to him. . . . + + I know. I know. + + Then, there are other things, + Dear Lord . . . more little strings + That pull my heart. Now Baby feels her + feet + She loves to run outside into the street + And Jane's hands are so full, she'll never + see. . . . + And I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't + be aired-- + At least, not properly. + And, oh, I can't, I really can't be spared-- + My little house calls so! + + I know. + And I am waiting here to help and bless. + Lay down your head. Lay down your hope- + lessness + And let Me speak. + You are so weary, child, you are so weak. + But let us reason out + The darkness and the doubt; + This torturing fear that tosses you about. + + I hold the universe. I count the stars. + And out of shortened lives I build the + ages. . . . + + But, Lord, while such high things Thy + thought engages, + I fear--forgive me--lest + Amid those limitless eternal spaces + Thou shouldest, in the high and heavenly + places, + Pass over my affairs as things of nought. + There are so many houses just like mine. + And I so earth-bound, and Thyself Divine. + It seems impossible that Thou shouldst + care + Just what my babies wear; + And what John gets to eat; . . . and + can it be + A circumstance of great concern to Thee + Whether I live or die? + + Have you forgotten then, My child, that I, + The Infinite, the Limitless, laid down + The method of existence that I knew, + And took on Me a nature just like you? + I laboured day by day + In the same dogged way + That you have tackled household tasks. + And then, + Remember, child, remember once again + Your own beloveds . . . did you really + think-- + (Those days you toiled to get their meat + and drink, + And made their clothes, and tried to under- + stand + Their little ailments)--did you think your + hand, + Your feeble hand, was keeping them from ill? + I gave them life, and life is more than meat; + Those little limbs, so comely and so sweet. + You can make raiment for them, and are glad, + But can you add + One cubit to their stature? Yet they grow! + Oh, child, hands off! Hands off! And + leave them so. + I guarded hitherto, I guard them still. + + I have let go at last. I have let go. + And, oh, the rest it is, dear God, to know + My dear ones are so safe, for Thou wilt + keep. + Hands off, at last! Now, I can go to + sleep. + + + + + +In Convalescence + + Not long ago, I prayed for dying + grace, + For then I thought to see Thee face to + face. + + And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's + cry) + That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not + die. + + Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet + pray I must. + Lord help me--help me not to see the + dust! + + And not to nag, nor fret because the blind + Hangs crooked, and the curtain sags be- + hind. + + But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a + sight! + 'T'will take at least a month to get them + right. + + And that last cocoa had a smoky taste, + And all the milk has boiled away to waste! + + And--no, I resolutely will not think + About the saucepans, nor about the sink. + + These light afflictions are but temporal + things-- + To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me + wings? + + Then I shall smile when Jane, with towzled + hair + (And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair. + + + + + +Homesick + + I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit + ago it seems, + An' back among the Cotswolds I were + wanderin' in me dreams. + I saw the old grey homestead, with the + rickyard set around, + An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a + pleasant, homelike sound. + Then on I went a-singin', through the + pastures where the sheep + Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for + to sleep. + + An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half + stifled by the grass, + Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw + the corncrake pass. + For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER! + An' the blue forget-me-nots + Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky + chimbley pots. + I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the + dazzlin' sights I've seen; + I was back among the Cotswolds, where + me heart has always been. + + Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, + a stiffish climb, + Right to the bridge, where all our sheep + comes up at shearin' time. + There was the wild briar roses hangin' + down so pink an' sweet, + A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover + at my feet + An' here me heart stopped beatin', for + down by Gatcombe's Wood + My lad was workin' with his team, as only + my lad could! + + "COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook + an' breezes seemed to say. + "'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT + MARY DREW'S AWAY." + + An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages + has been paid, + An' they're lookin' through the papers for + another kitchen maid). + Back to the old grey homestead, an' the + uplands cool an' green, + To my lad among the Cotswolds, where + me heart has always been! + + + + + +On Washing Day + + "I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit + My mother's got the copper lit; + An' piles of clothes are on the floor, + An' steam comes out the wash-house door; + An' Mrs. Griggs has come, an' she + Is just as cross as she can be. + She's had her lunch, and ate a lot; + I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot. + An' when I helped her make the starch, + She said: 'Now, Miss, you just quick + march! + What? Touch them soap-suds if you + durst; + I'll see you in the blue-bag first!' + An' mother dried my frock, an' said: + 'Come back in time to go to bed.' + I'm off to gran'ma's, for, you see, + At home, they can't put up with me. + + "But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice. + If gran'ma's making currant-cake, + She'll let me put the ginger spice, + An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake; + An' then she says she thinks it fun + To taste the edges when it's done. + + "That's gran'ma's house. Why, hip, + hooray! + My gran'ma's got a washing day; + For gran'pa's shirts are on the line, + An' stockings, too--six, seven, eight, nine! + She'll let me help her. Yes, she'll tie + Her apron round to keep me dry; + An' on her little stool I'll stand + Up to the wash-tub. 'Twill be grand! + There's no cross Mrs. Griggs to say, + 'Young Miss is always in the way.' + An' me and gran'ma will have tea + At dinner-time--just her an' me-- + An' eggs, I 'spect, an' treacle rice. + My goodness! Won't it all be nice? + + "Gran'ma, I'm come to spend the day, + 'Cause mother finds me in the way. + Gran'ma, I'll peg the hankies out; + Gran'ma, I'll stir the starch about; + Gran'ma, I'm come, because, you see, + At home, they can't put up with me." + + + + + +When Baby Strayed + + When Baby strayed, it seemed to + me, + Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly. + + At once, with frenzied haste, my feet + Ran up and down the busy street. + + If ever in my life I prayed, + It was the evening Baby strayed. + + And yet my great concern was this + (Not dread of losing Baby's kiss, + + And Baby's soft small hand in mine, + And Baby's comradeship divine), + + 'Twas BABY'S terror, BABY'S fears! + Whose hand but mine could dry her + tears? + + I without Baby? In my need + I were a piteous soul indeed. + + But piteous far, beyond all other, + A little child without a mother. + + And God, in mercy, graciously + Gave my lost darling back to me. + + O high and lofty One! + THOU couldst have lived to all eternity + Apart from ME! + In majesty, upon that emerald throne. + Thou, with Thy morning stars, + Thy dawns, with golden bars, + And all the music of the heavenly train. + Possessing all things, what hadst Thou to + gain + By seeking me? + What was I? . . . and, what am I? . . . + less than nought. + And yet Thy mercy sought. + Yea, Thou hast set my feet + Upon the way of holiness, and sweet + It is, to seek Thee daily, unafraid . . . + + But (this I learnt the night that Baby + strayed) + Here was Thy chief, Thy great concern + for me: + My desolate estate, apart from Thee! + + + + + +If Only ---- + + If only dinner cooked itself, + And groceries grew upon the shelf; + If children did as they were told, + And never had a cough or cold; + And washed their hands, and wiped their + boots, + And never tore their Sunday suits, + But always tidied up the floor, + Nor once forgot to shut the door. + + If John remembered not to throw + His papers on the ground. And oh! + If he would put his pipes away, + And shake the ashes on the tray + Instead of on the floor close by; + And always spread his towel to dry, + And hung his hat upon the peg, + And never had bones in his leg. + + Then, there's another thing. If Jane + Would put the matches back again + Just where she found them, it would be + A save of time to her and me. + And if she never did forget + To put the dustbin out; nor yet + Contrive to gossip with the baker, + Nor need ten thunderbolts to wake her. + + Ahem! If wishes all came true, + I don't know what I'd find to do, + Because if no one made a mess + There'd be no need of cleanliness. + And things might work so blissfully, + In time--who knows?--they'd not need + me! + + And this being so, I fancy whether + I'll go on keeping things together. + + + + + +Listening + + His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain + That hurtles on the window pane. + Let's draw the curtains close and sit + Beside the fire awhile and knit. + Two purl--two plain. A well-shaped + sock, + And warm. (I thought I heard a knock, + But 'twas the slam of Jones's door.) + Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before + The fleecy wools--a different thing, + And best for wear. (Was that his ring?) + No. 'Tis the muffin man I see; + We'll have threepennyworth for tea. + Two plain--two purl; that heel is neat. + (I hear his step far down the street.) + Two purl--two plain. The sock can + wait; + I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!) + + + + + +The Dear Folks in + Devon + + Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ- + mas, and to-night + I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly + berries bright. + The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd + dearly love to see, + And those dear folks down in Devon, + how they'll talk and think of me. + + Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas + morn, and if there's one + As comes across from Canada straight + from their absent son, + My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my + Dad'll likely say: + "Don't seem like Christmas time no more, + with our dear lad away." + + I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef, + and Brother Jimmy's wife + Will say her never tasted such, no, not in + all her life. + And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt + in your mouth, 'tis true, + But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as + mothers always do! + + Ah me! If I could just have wings, and + in the dimsey light + Go stealing up the cobbled path this + lonesome Christmas night, + Lift up the latch with gentle hand--My! + What a shout there'd be! + From those dear folks down in Devon! + What a welcomin' for me! + + + + + +The Reason + + "Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that + turneth aside to tarry for a night?"--Jer. xiv. 8. + + Nay, do not get the venison pasty + out; + I shall not greatly put myself about + Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall + spare + Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole- + some fare. + We have to-morrow's dinner still to find; + It's well for you I have a frugal mind. + + Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever + next? + Why with such questionings should I be + vext? + The man is naught to us; why should + we care? + The little attic room will do; 'tis bare, + But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light; + He has but come to tarry for a night. + + I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I, + Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy + Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to + bed, + And he can sup alone, well warmed and + fed; + 'Tis much to take him in a night like this. + Why should I fret me with concerns of + his? + + Grey morning came, and at the break of + day + The Man rose up and went upon his way + + + + + +Two Women + + "I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they + be of the same mind in the Lord"--Phil. iv. 2, + + EUODIAS. + + But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am + sure + He never would expect me to endure. + There is a something in her very face + Antagonistic to the work of grace. + And even when I would speak graciously + Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me. + + SYNTYCHE. + + No, not for worlds! Euodias has no + mind; + So slow she is, so spiritually blind. + Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she + says + She grieves to see my aggravating ways + Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly + How odious Euodias can be! + + EUODIAS. + + Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another + thing! + + SYNTYCHE. + + Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in- + deed. + + EUODIAS. + + For His sake I'll endure her whispering + + SYNTYCHE. + + For His sake I'll consent to let her lead. + + EUODIAS. + + Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by + day. + + SYNTYCHE. + + Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the + way. + + + + + +The Prize Fight + + "I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, + but I hit hard and straight at my own body."--1 Cor. + ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation). + + 'T'was breakfast time, and outside in + the street + The factory men went by with hurrying + feet. + And on the bridge, in dim December light, + The newsboys shouted of the great prize + fight. + Then, as I dished the bacon, and served + out + The porridge, all our youngsters gave + a shout. + The letter-box had clicked, and through + the din + The Picture News was suddenly pushed in. + + John showed the lads the pictures, and + explained + Just how the fight took place, and what + was gained + By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me + As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea: + "Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled. + She hits the air sometimes, though," and + John smiled. + "Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with + widened eyes + Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a + prize?" + + We laughed. And yet it set me thinking, + how + I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow + Munched at our early cabbages, and ate + The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon- + ette! + And many a time I kicked against the + pricks + Because the little dog at number six + Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross + I got + When Jane seemed discontented with her + lot. + Until poor John in desperation said + He wearied of the theme--and went to + bed! + + And how I vexed myself that day, when he + Brought people unexpectedly for tea, + Because the table-cloth was old and + stained, + And not a single piece of cake remained. + And how my poor head ached! Because, + well there! + It uses lots of strength to beat the air! + + "I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray + For grace to hit the self-life every day. + And when the old annoyance comes once + more + And the old temper rises sharp and sore, + I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender- + Wise, + And read approval in Thy loving eyes. + + + + + +The Home Lights + + "In my father's house!" The words + Bring sweet cadence to my ears. + Wandering thoughts, like homing birds, + Fly all swiftly down the years, + To that wide casement, where I always see + Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome + me. + + Sweet it was, how sweet to go + To the worn, familiar door. + No need to stand a while, and wait, + Outside the well-remembered gate; + No need to knock; + The easy lock + Turned almost of itself, and so + My spirit was "at home" once more. + And then, within, how good to find + The same cool atmosphere of peace, + Where I, a tired child, might cease + To grieve, or dread, + Or toil for bread. + I could forget + The dreary fret. + The strivings after hopes too high, + I let them every one go by. + The ills of life, the blows unkind, + These fearsome things were left behind. + + ENVOY. + + O trembling soul of mine, + See how God's mercies shine! + When thou shalt rise, + And, stripped of earth, shall stand + Within an Unknown Land; + Alone, where no familiar thing + May bring familiar comforting; + Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's + House! And, see + His love-lamps leaning out to welcome + thee! + + + + + +To an Old Teapot + + Now from the dust of half-forgotten + things, + You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring- + cleaning, + And bring to memory dim imaginings + Of mystic meaning. + + No old-time potter handled you, I ween, + Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten; + No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be + seen, + Nor Royal Doulton. + + You never stood to grace the princely + board + Of monarchs in some Oriental palace. + Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is + scored + As if in malice. + + I hesitate to say it, but your spout + Is with unhandsome rivets held together-- + Mute witnesses of treatment meted out + In regions nether. + + O patient sufferer of many bumps! + I ask it gently--shall the dustbin hold + you? + And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage + stumps, + At last enfold you? + + It ought. And yet with gentle hands I + place + You with my priceless Delft and Dresden + china, + For sake of one who loved your homely + face + In days diviner. + + + + + +To a Rebellious + Daughter + + You call authority "a grievous thing." + With careless hands you snap the + leading string, + And, for a frolic (so it seems to you), + Put off the old love, and put on the new. + + For "What does Mother know of love?" + you say. + "Did her soul ever thrill? + Did little tendernesses ever creep + Into her dreams, and over-ride her will? + Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap + As my heart leaps to-day? + I, who am young; who long to try my + wings! + + How should she understand, + She, with her calm cool hand? + She never felt such yearnings? And, + beside, + It's clear I can't be tied + For ever to my mother's apron strings." + + There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear. + And there are mysteries, not yet made + clear + To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book + Is open, yes; but you may only look + At its first section. Youth + Is part, not all, the truth. + It is impossible that you should see + The end from the beginning perfectly. + + You answer: "Even so. + But how can Mother know, + Who meditates upon the price of bacon? + On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken, + And on the laundry's last atrocities? + She knows her cookery book, + And how a joint of English meat should + look. + But all such things as these + Make up her life. She dwells in tents, + but I + In a vast temple open to the sky." + + Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped + to learn + The language written in your infant face. + For years she walked your pace, + And none but she interpreted your chatter. + Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter? + Or, weary, joined in all your games with + zest, + And managed with a minimum of rest? + Now, is it not your turn + To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be- + tween you? + To-day, before Death's angel over-lean + you, + Before your chance is gone? + This is worth thinking on. + + "Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay, + dearie, nay. + Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may + Come some grey dawning in the by + and by, + When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, + you'll cry + Aloud to God, for that despised thing, + The old dear comfort--Mother's apron + string. + + + + + +For Mothering! + + Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear + her satin gown, + For little Miss and Master'll be coming + down from town. + Oh ay, the childern's coming! The + CHILDERN did I say? + Of course, they're man and woman grown, + this many and many a day. + But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and + squire looks fit to sing, + As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming + Mothering. + + Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's + doings fine and grand, + Because young Jake is coming home from + sea, you understand. + Put into port but yesternight, and when + he steps ashore, + 'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer- + set once more. + And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir- + ring raisins in, + To welcome of her only chick, who's + coming Mothering. + + And what of we? And ain't we got no + childern for to come? + Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery, + and they'll be coming home. + And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is + six foot three! + But childern still to my good man, and + childern still to me! + And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all + the thrushes sing, + As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is + coming Mothering. + + + + + +Little Fan + + When little Fanny came to town, I + felt as I could sing! + She were the sprackest little maid, the + sharpest, pertest thing. + Her mother were as proud as punch, and + as for I--well, there! + I never see sich gert blue eyes, I never + see sich hair! + "If all the weans in Somerset," says I, + "was standin' here, + Not one could hold a candle light, 'long- + side our little dear." + + Now FANNY'S little Fan have come! She's + clingin' round my knees, + She's asking me for sups of tea, and bites + of bread and cheese. + She's climbing into grandma's bed, she's + stroking grandma's face. + She's tore my paper into bits and strawed + it round the place. + "If all the weans in all the world," says + I, "was standin' here, + Not one could hold a farthin' dip to + Fanny's little dear!" + For Fanny's little Fanny--oh, she's took + the heart of me! + 'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN of + humble folk like we! + + + + + +The Naughty Day + + I've had a naughty day to-day. + I scrunched a biscuit in my hair, + And dipped my feeder in the milk, + And spread my rusk upon a chair. + + When mother put me in my bath, + I tossed the water all about, + And popped the soap upon my head, + And threw the sponge and flannel out. + + I wouldn't let her put my hand + Inside the arm-hole of my vest; + I held the sleeve until she said + I really never SHOULD be dressed. + + And while she made the beds, I found + Her tidy, and took out the hairs; + And then I got the water-can + And tipped it headlong down the stairs. + + I crawled along the kitchen floor, + And got some coal out of the box, + And drew black pictures on the walls, + And wiped my fingers on my socks. + + Oh, this HAS been a naughty day! + That's why they've put me off to bed. + "He CAN'T get into mischief there, + Perhaps we'll have some peace," they + said. + + They put the net across my cot, + Or else downstairs again I'd creep. + But, see, I'll suck the counterpane + To PULP before I go to sleep! + + + + + +To a Little White Bird + + Into the world you came, and I was + dumb, + Because "God did it," so the wise ones + said; + I wonder sometimes "Did you really + come?" + And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?" + + Thus you went out--alone and uncaressed; + O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant + grace, + I never held you in my arms, nor pressed + Warm kisses on your face! + + But, in the Garden of the Undefiled, + My soul will claim you . . . you, and + not another; + I shall hold out my arms, and say "MY + CHILD!" + And you will call me "MOTHER!" + + + + + +Because + + (PSALM CXVI.) + + Because He heard my voice, and + answered me, + Because He listened, ah, so patiently, + In those dark days, when sorrowful, alone, + I knelt with tears, and prayed Him for a + stone; + Because He said me "Nay," and then in- + stead, + Oh, wonderful sweet truth! He gave me + bread, + Set my heart singing all in sweet accord; + Because of this, I love--I love the Lord! + + + + + +When He Comes + + "When He comes! + My sweetest 'When'!" + C. ROSSETTI. + + Thus may it be (I thought) at some + day's close, + Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose + Breathes forth its incense. May He find + me there, + In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer, + In some sweet garden place, + To catch the first dear wonder of His Face! + + Or, in my room above, + In silent meditation of His love, + My soul illumined with a rapture rare. + It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes + Might glimpse Him coming in the East- + ern skies, + And be caught up to meet Him in the + air. + + But now! Ah, now, the days + Rush by their hurrying ways! + No longer know I vague imaginings, + For every hour has wings. + Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I + say, + All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day, + Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as I + am-- + Tending my household; stirring goose- + berry jam; + Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose, + With puzzled forehead patching some one's + clothes; + Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, and + run, + From early dawn till setting of the sun." + + And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go, + Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so. + + + + + +PART II. OUT OF DOORS + + + + +Early Spring + + Quick through the gates of Fairyland + The South Wind forced his way. + 'Twas his to make the Earth forget + Her grief of yesterday. + "'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!" + And on his lightsome feet + In haste he slung the snowdrop bells, + Pushed past the Fairy sentinels, + And out with laughter sweet. + + Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on + The shining way he went. + He whispered to the trees strange tales + Of wondrous sweet intent, + When, suddenly, his witching voice + With timbre rich and rare, + Rang through the woodlands till it cleft + Earth's silent solitudes, and left + A Dream of Roses there! + + + + + +The Witness + + The Master of the Garden said; + "Who, now the Earth seems cold + and dead, + Will by his fearless witnessing + Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?" + + "Not yet. I am but half awake," + All drowsily the Primrose spake. + And fast the sleeping Daffodils + Had folded up their golden frills. + + "Indeed," the frail Anemone + Said softly, "'tis too cold for me." + Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set, + Replied: "No ice has melted yet." + + When suddenly, with smile so bright, + Up sprang a Winter Aconite, + And to the Master joyfully + She cried: "I will the witness be." + + + + + +In Somerset + + In Somerset they guide the plough + From early dawn till twilight now. + The good red earth smells sweeter yet, + Behind the plough, in Somerset. + The celandines round last year's mow + Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow + The South Wind woos the Violet, + In Somerset. + + Then, every brimming dyke and trough + Is laughing wide with ripples now, + And oh, 'tis easy to forget + That wintry winds can sigh and sough, + When thrushes chant on every bough + In Somerset! + + + + + +Song of a Woodland + Stream + + Silent was I, and so still, + As day followed day. + Imprisoned until + King Frost worked his will. + Held fast like a vice, + In his cold hand of ice, + For fear kept me silent, and lo + He had wrapped me around and about + with a mantle of snow. + + But sudden there spake + One greater than he. + Then my heart was awake, + And my spirit ran free. + + At His bidding my bands fell apart, He + had burst them asunder. + I can feel the swift wind rushing by me, + once more the old wonder + Of quickening sap stirs my pulses--I + shout in my gladness, + Forgetting the sadness, + For the Voice of the Lord fills the air! + + And forth through the hollow I go, where + in glad April weather, + The trees of the forest break out into + singing together. + And here the frail windflowers will cluster, + with young ferns uncurling, + Where broader and deeper my waters go + eddying, whirling, + To meet the sweet Spring on her journey + --His servant to be, + Whose word set me free! + + + Luggage in Advance + + "The Fairies must have come," I + said, + "For through the moist leaves, brown and + dead, + The Primroses are pushing up, + And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup. + They must have come, because I see + A single Wood Anemone, + The flower that everybody knows + The Fairies use to scent their clothes. + And hark! The South Wind blowing, fills + The trumpets of the Daffodils. + They MUST have come!" + + Then loud to me + Sang from a budding cherry tree, + A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say! + The Fairy Folk are on their way. + Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet, + Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet! + Sweet! + They could not carry them, you see, + Those caskets crammed with witchery, + So ready for the first Spring dance, + They sent their Luggage in Advance!" + + + + + +At the Cross Roads + + There I halted. Further down the + hollow + Stood the township, where my errand lay. + Firm my purpose, till a voice cried + (Follow! + Come this way--I tell you--come this + way!) + + Silence, Thrush! You know I think of + buying + A Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn and + old. + So to the shops I go. What's that you're + crying? + (Here! Come here! And gather primrose + gold.) + Well, yes. Some day I will; but time is + going. + I haste to purchase silks and satins fair. + I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock is + showing + Up yonder, in the little coppice there.) + + And wood anemones spread out their + laces; + Each celandine has donned a silken gown; + The violets are lifting shy sweet faces. + (And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, and + brown.) + + But what about my hat? (The bees are + humming.) + And my new frock? (The hawthorn's + budding free! + Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have your + way. I'm coming! + And who's to blame for that? (Why, me! + Me! Me!) + + + + + +Summer met Me + + Summer met me in the glade, + With a host of fair princesses, + Golden iris, foxgloves staid, + Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses. + Roses followed in her train, + Creamy elder-flowers beset me, + Singing, down the scented lane, + Summer met me! + + Summer met me! Harebells rang, + Honeysuckle clustered near, + As the royal pageant sang + Songs enchanting to the ear. + Rainy days may come apace, + Nevermore to grieve or fret me, + Since, in all her radiant grace, + Summer met me! + + + + + +The Carrier + + "Owd John's got past his work," said + they, + Last week as ever was--"don't pay + To send by him. He's stoopid, too, + And brings things what won't never do. + We'll send by post, he is that slow. + And that owd hoss of his can't go." + + But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to see + The gentlefolks run after we. + Squire's lady stopped I in the lane, + "Oh," says she, "goin' to town again? + You'll not mind calling into Bings + To fetch my cakes and buns and things? + I've got a party comin' on, + And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John." + + Then, up the street, who should I see, + But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me. + And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs + Was wantin' vittles for their pigs, + And would I bring some? (Well, what + nex'?) + And Granny Dunn has broke her specs, + And wants 'em mended up in town, + So would John call and bring 'em down + To-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on, + 'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John." + + Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blows + Nobody any good; it shows + As owd John haves his uses yet, + Though now and then he do forget. + Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on, + They're glad of pore owd stoopid John. + + + + + +The Lad's Love by the + Gate + + Down in the dear West Country, + there's a garden where I know + The Spring is rioting this hour, though + I am far away-- + Where all the glad flower-faces are old + loves of long ago, + And each in its accustomed place is + blossoming to-day. + + The lilac drops her amethysts upon the + mossy wall, + While in her boughs a cheerful thrush + is calling to his mate. + Dear breath of mignonette and stocks! + I love you, know you all. + And, oh, the fragrant spices from the + lad's love by the gate! + + Kind wind from the West Country, wet + wind, but scented so, + That straight from my dear garden + you seem but lately come, + Just tell me of the yellow broom, the + guelder rose's snow, + And of the tangled clematis where + myriad insects hum. + + Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any + rosemary? + And in their own green solitudes, say, + do the lilies wait? + I knew it! Gentle wind, but once-- + speak low and tenderly-- + How fares it--tell me truly--with the + lad's love by the gate? + + + + + +The Thrush + + Across the land came a magic word + When the earth was bare and + lonely, + And I sit and sing of the joyous spring, + For 'twas I who heard, I only! + Then dreams came by, of the gladsome + days, + Of many a wayside posy; + For a crocus peeps where the wild rose + sleeps, + And the willow wands are rosy! + + Oh! the time to be! When the paths + are green, + When the primrose-gold is lying + 'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins + sway, + And the dear south wind comes sigh- + ing. + + My mate and I, we shall build a nest, + So snug and warm and cosy, + When the kingcups gleam on the meadow + stream, + Where the willow wands are rosy! + + + + + +In Dorset Dear + + In Dorset Dear they're making hay + In just the old West Country way. + With fork and rake and old-time gear + They make the hay in Dorset Dear. + From early morn till twilight grey + They toss and turn and shake the hay. + And all the countryside is gay + With roses on the fallen may, + For 'tis the hay-time of the year + In Dorset Dear. + + The loaded waggons wend their way + Across the pasture-lands, and stay + Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer; + And ricks that shall be fashioned here + Will be the sweetest stuff, they say, + In Dorset Dear! + + + + + +The Flight of the Fairies + + There's a rustle in the woodlands, + and a sighing in the breeze, + For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes + and the trees; + They are packing up their treasures, every + one with nimble hand, + Ready for the coming journey back to + sunny Fairyland. + + They have gathered up the jewels from + their beds of mossy green, + With all the dewy diamonds that summer + morns have seen; + The silver from the lichen and the + powdered gold dust, too, + Where the buttercups have flourished and + the dandelions grew. + + They packed away the birdies' songs, + then, lest we should be sad, + They left the Robin's carol out, to make + the winter glad; + They packed the fragrance of the flowers, + then, lest we should forget, + Out of the pearly scented box they + dropped a Violet. + + Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent + woods they came, + Where the golden bracken lingered and + the maples were aflame. + On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er + their wings the moonbeams shone, + Music filtered through the forest--and the + Little Folk were gone! + + + + + +The Street Player + + The shopping had been tedious, and + the rain + Came pelting down as she turned home + again. + + The motor-bus swirled past with rush and + whirr, + Nought but its fumes of petrol left for + her. + + The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese + Malodorously mixed themselves with + these. + + And all seemed wrong. The world was + drab and grey + As the slow minutes wept themselves + away. + + And then, athwart the noises of the street, + A violin flung out an Irish air. + + "I'll take you home again, Kathleen." + Ah, sweet, + How tender-sweet those lilting phrases + were! + + They soothed away the weariness, and + brought + Such peace to one worn woman, over- + wrought, + + That she forgot the things which vexed + her so: + The too outrageous price of calico, + + The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence + Because she paused to count the dwindling + pence. + + The player stopped. But the rapt vision + stayed. + That woman faced life's worries unafraid. + + The sugar shortage now had ceased to be + An insurmountable calamity. + + Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor + butter, + But things more costly still, too rare to + utter. + + And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall, + The sun set gloriously, after all. + + + + + +On All Souls' Eve + + Oh, the garden ways are lonely! + Winds that bluster, winds that + shout, + Battle with the strong laburnum, + Toss the sad brown leaves about. + In the gay herbaceous border, + Now a scene of wild disorder, + The last dear hollyhock has flamed his + crimson glory out. + + Yet, upon this night of longing, + Souls are all abroad, they say. + Will they come, the dazzling blossoms, + That were here but yesterday? + Will the ghosts of radiant roses + And my sheltered lily-closes + Hold once more their shattered fragrance + now November's on her way? + + Wallflowers, surely you'll remember, + Pinks, recall it, will you not? + How I loved and watched and tended, + Made this ground a hallowed spot: + Pansies, with the soft meek faces, + Harebells, with a thousand graces: + Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell + me, have you quite forgot? + + HUSH! THEY COME! For down the path- + way + Steals a fragrance honey-sweet. + Larkspurs, lilies, stocks, and roses, + Hasten now my heart to greet. + Stay, oh, stay! My hands would hold + you . . . + But the arms that would enfold you + Crush the bush of lad's love growing in + the dusk beside my feet. + + + + + +The Log Fire + + In her last hour of life the tree + Gave up her glorious memories, + Wild scent of wood anemone, + The sapphire blue of April skies. + + With faint but ever-strength'ning flame, + The dew-drenched hyacinthine spires + Were lost, as red-gold bracken came, + With maple bathed in living fires. + + Grey smoke of ancient clematis + Towards the silver birch inclined, + And deep in thorny fastnesses + The coral bryony entwined. + + Then softly through the dusky room + They strayed, fair ghosts of other days, + With breath like early cherry bloom, + With tender eyes and gentle ways. + + They glimmered on the sombre walls, + They danced upon the oaken floor, + Till through the loudly silent halls + Joy reigned majestical once more. + + Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear, + One rapturous Spirit radiant stood. + 'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear. + We two were back in Gatcombe Wood! + + + + + +God save the King + + GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It + seems + The Church is full of bygone dreams.) + + LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own, + 'Tis hard to stand here all alone.) + + GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, you + Were always brave to dare and do.) + + SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then, + My darling will come home again!) + + HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill be + Like Heaven to him--and what to me?) + + LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear! + And we'd been wedded one short year!) + + GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I pray + Keep MY King safe this very day.) + + Forgive us, thou--great England's kingly + King + That thus do women National Anthems + sing. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman, by +Elizabeth Rebecca Ward, AKA Fay Inchfawn + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VERSE-BOOK OF A HOMELY WOMAN *** + +***** This file should be named 3477.txt or 3477.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/7/3477/ + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.08.01*END** +[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart +and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] +[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales +of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or +software or any other related product without express permission.] + + + + + +THE VERSE-BOOK + +OF A + +HOMELY WOMAN + + +BY + +FAY INCHFAWN +[Elizabeth Rebecca Ward] + + + + +CONTENTS + + +PART I + +INDOORS + + +THE LONG VIEW + +WITHIN MY HOUSE + +THE HOUSEWIFE + +TO MOTHER + +IN SUCH AN HOUR + +THE DAILY INTERVIEW + +THE LITTLE HOUSE + +THE HOUSE-MOTHER + +A WOMAN IN HOSPITAL + +IN CONVALESCENCE + +HOMESICK + +ON WASHING DAY + +WHEN BABY STRAYED + +IF ONLY ---- + +LISTENING + +THE DEAR FOLKS IN DEVON + +THE REASON + +TWO WOMEN + +THE PRIZE FIGHT + +THE HOME LIGHTS + +TO AN OLD TEAPOT + +TO A REBELLIOUS DAUGHTER + +FOR MOTHERING! + +LITTLE FAN + +THE NAUGHTY DAY + +TO A LITTLE WHITE BIRD + +BECAUSE + +WHEN HE COMES + + + +PART II + + +OUT OF DOORS + +EARLY SPRING + +THE WITNESS + +IN SOMERSET + +SONG OF A WOODLAND STREAM + +LUGGAGE IN ADVANCE + +AT THE CROSS ROADS + +SUMMER MET ME + +THE CARRIER + +THE LAD'S LOVE BY THE GATE + +THE THRUSH + +IN DORSET DEAR + +THE FLIGHT OF THE FAIRIES + +THE STREET PLAYER + +ON ALL SOULS' EVE + +THE LOG FIRE + +GOD SAVE THE KING + + + +Dedicated + +TO + +MY FIRST LOVE, MY MOTHER + + + + +Part I + +INDOORS + + + + +The Long View + +Some day of days! Some dawning + yet to be +I shall be clothed with immortality! + +And, in that day, I shall not greatly care +That Jane spilt candle grease upon the + stair. + +It will not grieve me then, as once it did, +That careless hands have chipped my + teapot lid. + +I groan, being burdened. But, in that + glad day, +I shall forget vexations of the way. + +That needs were often great, when means + were small, +Will not perplex me any more at all +A few short years at most (it may be less), +I shall have done with earthly storm and + stress. + +So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet. +O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep + me sweet! + + + + + +Within my House + +First, there's the entrance, narrow, + and so small, +The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall; +That staircase, too, has such an awkward + bend, +The carpet rucks, and rises up on end! +Then, all the rooms are cramped and close + together; +And there's a musty smell in rainy weather. +Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard +To have the only tap across a yard. +These creaking doors, these draughts, this + battered paint, +Would try, I think, the temper of a saint, + +How often had I railed against these + things, +With envies, and with bitter murmurings +For spacious rooms, and sunny garden + plots! +Until one day, +Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think, +I paused a moment in my work to pray; +And then and there +All life seemed suddenly made new and + fair; +For, like the Psalmist's dove among the + pots +(Those endless pots, that filled the tiny + sink!), +My spirit found her wings. + +"Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not + at all +That my poor home is ill-arranged and + small: +I, not the house, am straitened; Lord, + 'tis I! +Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by +I may look up with such a radiant face +Thou shalt have glory even in this place. +And when I trip, or stumble unawares +In carrying water up these awkward stairs, +Then keep me sweet, and teach me day + by day +To tread with patience Thy appointed + way. +As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be + my part +To walk within it with a perfect heart." + + + + + +The Housewife + +See, I am cumbered, Lord, + With serving, and with small vexa- + tious things. +Upstairs, and down, my feet +Must hasten, sure and fleet. +So weary that I cannot heed Thy word; +So tired, I cannot now mount up with + wings. +I wrestle -- how I wrestle! -- through the + hours. +Nay, not with principalities, nor powers -- +Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's -- +But with antagonistic pots and pans: +With footmarks in the hall, +With smears upon the wall, +With doubtful ears, and small unwashen + hands, +And with a babe's innumerable demands. + +I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops + glisten, + +(O, child of mine, be still. And listen -- + listen!) + +At last, I laid aside +Important work, no other hands could do +So well (I thought), no skill contrive so + true. +And with my heart's door open -- open + wide -- +With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat. +I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat, +Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo, +My thousand tasks were done the better so. + + + + + +To Mother + +I would that you should know, +Dear mother, that I love you -- love + you so! +That I remember other days and years; +Remember childish joys and childish fears. +And this, because my baby's little hand +Opened my own heart's door and made + me understand. + +I wonder how you could +Be always kind and good! +So quick to hear; to tend +My smallest ills; to lend +Such sympathising ears +Swifter than ancient seer's. +I never yet knew hands so soft and kind, +Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind +So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear + mother, now +I think that I can guess a little how +You must have looked for some response, + some sign, +That all my tiresome wayward heart was + thine. + +And sure it was! You were my first dear + love! +You who first pointed me to God above; +You who seemed hearkening to my lightest + word, +And in the dark night seasons always + heard +When I came trembling, knocking at your + door. +Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore +Your patient heart. Or if in later days +I sought out foolish unfamiliar ways; +If ever, mother dear, I loosed my hold +Of your loved hand; or, headstrong, + thought you cold, +Forgive me, mother! Oh, forgive me, + dear! +I am come back at last -- you see me + here, +Your loving child. . . . And, mother, + on my knee +I pray that thus my child may think of + me! + + + + + +In Such an Hour + +Sometimes, when everything goes + wrong: +When days are short, and nights are long; +When wash-day brings so dull a sky +That not a single thing will dry. +And when the kitchen chimney smokes, +And when there's naught so "queer" as + folks! +When friends deplore my faded youth, +And when the baby cuts a tooth. +While John, the baby last but one, +Clings round my skirts till day is done; +When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum, +And butcher's man forgets to come. + +Sometimes, I say, on days like these, +I get a sudden gleam of bliss. +"Not on some sunny day of ease, +He'll come . . but on a day like this!" +And, in the twinkling of an eye, +These tiresome things will all go by! + +And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane +Is sure, just then, to smile again; +Or, out the truant sun will peep, +And both the babies fall asleep. +The fire burns up with roar sublime, +And butcher's man is just in time. +And oh! My feeble faith grows strong +Sometimes, when everything goes wrong! + + + + + +The Daily Interview + +Such a sensation Sunday's preacher + made. +"Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock- + in-trade? +Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray; +No interview with Christ from day to day, +A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled + through; +A random text -- for any one will do." +Then gently, lovingly, with look intense, +He leaned towards us -- +"Is this common sense? +No person in his rightful mind will try +To run his business so, lest by-and-by +The thing collapses, smirching his good + name, +And he, insolvent, face the world with +shame." + +I heard it all; and something inly said +That all was true. The daily toil and press +Had crowded out my hopes of holiness. +Still, my old self rose, reasoning: +How can you, +With strenuous work to do -- +Real slogging work -- say, how can you + keep pace +With leisured folks? Why, you could + grow in grace +If you had time . . . the daily Interview +Was never meant for those who wash and + bake. + +But yet a small Voice whispered: +"For My sake +Keep tryst with Me! +There are so many minutes in a day, +So spare Me ten. +It shall be proven, then, +Ten minutes set apart can well repay +You shall accomplish more +If you will shut your door +For ten short minutes just to watch and + pray." + +"Lord, if I do +Set ten apart for You" +(I dared, yes dared, to reason thus with + Him) +"The baker's sure to come; +Or Jane will call +To say some visitor is in the hall; +Or I shall smell the porridge burning, yes, +And run to stop it in my hastiness. +There's not ten minutes, Lord, in all the + day +I can be sure of peace in which to watch + and pray." + +But all that night, +With calm insistent might, +That gentle Voice spake softly, lovingly -- +"Keep tryst with Me! +You have devised a dozen different ways +Of getting easy meals on washing days; +You spend much anxious thought on + hopeless socks; +On moving ironmould from tiny frocks; +'Twas you who found +A way to make the sugar lumps go round; +You, who invented ways and means of + making +Nice spicy buns for tea, hot from the baking, +When margarine was short . . . and can- + not you +Who made the time to join the butter queue +Make time again for Me? +Yes, will you not, with all your daily + striving, +Use woman's wit in scheming and con- + triving +To keep that tryst with Me?" + +Like ice long bound +On powdered frosty ground, +My erring will all suddenly gave way. +The kind soft wind of His sweet pleading + blew, +And swiftly, silently, before I knew, +The warm love loosed and ran. +Life-giving floods began, +And so most lovingly I answered Him: +"Lord, yes, I will, and can. +I will keep tryst with Thee, Lord, come + what may!" + +ENVOY. + + It is a wondrous and surprising thing + How that ten minutes takes the piercing + sting + From vexing circumstance and poison- + ous dart + Hurled by the enemy straight at my + heart. + So, to the woman tempest-tossed and + tried + By household cares, and hosts of things + beside, + With all my strength God bids me say + to you: + "Dear soul, do try the daily Interview!" + + + + + +The Little House + +One yestereve, in the waning light, +When the wind was still and the + gloaming bright, +There came a breath from a far countrie, +And the ghost of a Little House called + to me. + +"Have you forgotten me?" "No!" I cried. +"Your hall was as narrow as this is wide, +Your roof was leaky, the rain came + through +Till a ceiling fell, on my new frock too! + +"In your parlour flooring a loose board hid, +And wore the carpet, you know it did! +Your kitchen was small, and the shelves + were few, +While the fireplace smoked -- and you + know it's true!" + +The little ghost sighed: "Do you quite + forget +My window boxes of mignonette? +And the sunny room where you used to + sew +When a great hope came to you, long ago? + +"Ah, me! How you used to watch the + door +Where a latch-key turned on the stroke + of four. +And you made the tea, and you poured + it out +From an old brown pot with a broken + spout + +"Now, times have changed. And your + footman waits +With the silver urn, and the fluted plates. +But the little blind Love with the wings, + has flown, +Who used to sit by your warm hearth- + stone." + +The little ghost paused. Then "Away!" + I said. +"Back to your place with the quiet dead. +Back to your place, lest my servants see, +That the ghost of a Little House calls + to me." + + + + + +The House-Mother + +Across the town the evening bell is + ringing; +Clear comes the call, through kitchen + windows winging! + +Lord, knowing Thou art kind, +I heed Thy call to prayer. +I have a soul to save; +A heart which needs, I think, a double + share +Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave. +Hope, faith and diligence, and patient + care, +With meekness, grace, and lowliness of + mind. +Lord, wilt Thou grant all these +To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease? + +They do not know, +The passers-by, who go +Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set; +Who throng about Thy seat, +And sing Thy praises sweet, +Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet; +They do not know . . . +And, if they knew, then would they greatly + care +That Thy tired handmaid washed the + children's hair; +Or, with red roughened hands, scoured + dishes well, +While through the window called the + evening bell? +And that her seeking soul looks upward + yet, +THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt + not forget + + + + + +A Woman in Hospital + +I know it all . . . I know. +For I am God. I am Jehovah, He +Who made you what you are; and I can + see +The tears that wet your pillow night by + night, +When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant + light; +When the talk ceases, and the ward grows + still, +And you have doffed your will: +I know the anguish and the helplessness. +I know the fears that toss you to and fro. +And how you wrestle, weariful, +With hosts of little strings that pull +About your heart, and tear it so. +I know. + +Lord, do You know +I had no time to put clean curtains up; +No time to finish darning all the socks; +Nor sew clean frilling in the children's + frocks? +And do You know about my Baby's cold? +And how things are with my sweet three- + year-old? +Will Jane remember right +Their cough mixture at night? +And will she ever think +To brush the kitchen flues, or scrub the + sink? + +And then, there's John! Poor tired + lonely John! +No one will run to put his slippers on. +And not a soul but me +Knows just exactly how he likes his tea. +It rends my heart to think I cannot go +And minister to him. . . . + +I know. I know. + +Then, there are other things, +Dear Lord . . . more little strings +That pull my heart. Now Baby feels her + feet +She loves to run outside into the street +And Jane's hands are so full, she'll never + see. . . . +And I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't + be aired -- +At least, not properly. +And, oh, I can't, I really can't be spared -- +My little house calls so! + +I know. +And I am waiting here to help and bless. +Lay down your head. Lay down your hope- + lessness +And let Me speak. +You are so weary, child, you are so weak. +But let us reason out +The darkness and the doubt; +This torturing fear that tosses you about. + +I hold the universe. I count the stars. +And out of shortened lives I build the +ages. . . . + +But, Lord, while such high things Thy + thought engages, +I fear -- forgive me -- lest +Amid those limitless eternal spaces +Thou shouldest, in the high and heavenly + places, +Pass over my affairs as things of nought. +There are so many houses just like mine. +And I so earth-bound, and Thyself Divine. +It seems impossible that Thou shouldst + care +Just what my babies wear; +And what John gets to eat; . . . and + can it be +A circumstance of great concern to Thee +Whether I live or die? + +Have you forgotten then, My child, that I, +The Infinite, the Limitless, laid down +The method of existence that I knew, +And took on Me a nature just like you? +I laboured day by day +In the same dogged way +That you have tackled household tasks. + And then, +Remember, child, remember once again +Your own beloveds . . . did you really + think -- +(Those days you toiled to get their meat + and drink, +And made their clothes, and tried to under- + stand +Their little ailments) -- did you think your + hand, +Your feeble hand, was keeping them from ill? +I gave them life, and life is more than meat; +Those little limbs, so comely and so sweet. +You can make raiment for them, and are glad, +But can you add +One cubit to their stature? Yet they grow! +Oh, child, hands off! Hands off! And + leave them so. +I guarded hitherto, I guard them still. + +I have let go at last. I have let go. +And, oh, the rest it is, dear God, to know +My dear ones are so safe, for Thou wilt + keep. +Hands off, at last! Now, I can go to + sleep. + + + + + +In Convalescence + +Not long ago, I prayed for dying + grace, +For then I thought to see Thee face to + face. + +And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's + cry) +That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not + die. + +Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet + pray I must. +Lord help me -- help me not to see the + dust! + +And not to nag, nor fret because the blind +Hangs crooked, and the curtain sags be- + hind. + +But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a + sight! +'T'will take at least a month to get them + right. + +And that last cocoa had a smoky taste, +And all the milk has boiled away to waste! + +And -- no, I resolutely will not think +About the saucepans, nor about the sink. + +These light afflictions are but temporal + things -- +To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me + wings? + +Then I shall smile when Jane, with towzled + hair +(And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair. + + + + + +Homesick + +I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit + ago it seems, +An' back among the Cotswolds I were + wanderin' in me dreams. +I saw the old grey homestead, with the + rickyard set around, +An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a + pleasant, homelike sound. +Then on I went a-singin', through the + pastures where the sheep +Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for + to sleep. + +An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half + stifled by the grass, +Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw + the corncrake pass. +For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER! + An' the blue forget-me-nots +Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky + chimbley pots. +I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the + dazzlin' sights I've seen; +I was back among the Cotswolds, where + me heart has always been. + +Then through the sixteen-acre on I went, + a stiffish climb, +Right to the bridge, where all our sheep + comes up at shearin' time. +There was the wild briar roses hangin' + down so pink an' sweet, +A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover + at my feet +An' here me heart stopped beatin', for + down by Gatcombe's Wood +My lad was workin' with his team, as only + my lad could! + +"COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook + an' breezes seemed to say. +"'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT + MARY DREW'S AWAY." + +An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages + has been paid, +An' they're lookin' through the papers for + another kitchen maid). +Back to the old grey homestead, an' the + uplands cool an' green, +To my lad among the Cotswolds, where + me heart has always been! + + + + + +On Washing Day + +"I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit +My mother's got the copper lit; +An' piles of clothes are on the floor, +An' steam comes out the wash-house door; +An' Mrs. Griggs has come, an' she +Is just as cross as she can be. +She's had her lunch, and ate a lot; +I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot. +An' when I helped her make the starch, +She said: 'Now, Miss, you just quick + march! +What? Touch them soap-suds if you + durst; +I'll see you in the blue-bag first!' +An' mother dried my frock, an' said: +'Come back in time to go to bed.' +I'm off to gran'ma's, for, you see, +At home, they can't put up with me. + +"But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice. +If gran'ma's making currant-cake, +She'll let me put the ginger spice, +An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake; +An' then she says she thinks it fun +To taste the edges when it's done. + +"That's gran'ma's house. Why, hip, + hooray! +My gran'ma's got a washing day; +For gran'pa's shirts are on the line, +An' stockings, too -- six, seven, eight, nine! +She'll let me help her. Yes, she'll tie +Her apron round to keep me dry; +An' on her little stool I'll stand +Up to the wash-tub. 'Twill be grand! +There's no cross Mrs. Griggs to say, +'Young Miss is always in the way.' +An' me and gran'ma will have tea +At dinner-time -- just her an' me -- +An' eggs, I 'spect, an' treacle rice. +My goodness! Won't it all be nice? + +"Gran'ma, I'm come to spend the day, +'Cause mother finds me in the way. +Gran'ma, I'll peg the hankies out; +Gran'ma, I'll stir the starch about; +Gran'ma, I'm come, because, you see, +At home, they can't put up with me." + + + + + +When Baby Strayed + +When Baby strayed, it seemed to + me, +Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly. + +At once, with frenzied haste, my feet +Ran up and down the busy street. + +If ever in my life I prayed, +It was the evening Baby strayed. + +And yet my great concern was this +(Not dread of losing Baby's kiss, + +And Baby's soft small hand in mine, +And Baby's comradeship divine), + +'Twas BABY'S terror, BABY'S fears! +Whose hand but mine could dry her + tears? + +I without Baby? In my need +I were a piteous soul indeed. + +But piteous far, beyond all other, +A little child without a mother. + +And God, in mercy, graciously +Gave my lost darling back to me. + +O high and lofty One! +THOU couldst have lived to all eternity +Apart from ME! +In majesty, upon that emerald throne. +Thou, with Thy morning stars, +Thy dawns, with golden bars, +And all the music of the heavenly train. +Possessing all things, what hadst Thou to + gain +By seeking me? +What was I? . . . and, what am I? . . . + less than nought. +And yet Thy mercy sought. +Yea, Thou hast set my feet +Upon the way of holiness, and sweet +It is, to seek Thee daily, unafraid . . . + +But (this I learnt the night that Baby + strayed) +Here was Thy chief, Thy great concern + for me: +My desolate estate, apart from Thee! + + + + + +If Only ---- + +If only dinner cooked itself, +And groceries grew upon the shelf; +If children did as they were told, +And never had a cough or cold; +And washed their hands, and wiped their + boots, +And never tore their Sunday suits, +But always tidied up the floor, +Nor once forgot to shut the door. + +If John remembered not to throw +His papers on the ground. And oh! +If he would put his pipes away, +And shake the ashes on the tray +Instead of on the floor close by; +And always spread his towel to dry, +And hung his hat upon the peg, +And never had bones in his leg. + +Then, there's another thing. If Jane +Would put the matches back again +Just where she found them, it would be +A save of time to her and me. +And if she never did forget +To put the dustbin out; nor yet +Contrive to gossip with the baker, +Nor need ten thunderbolts to wake her. + +Ahem! If wishes all came true, +I don't know what I'd find to do, +Because if no one made a mess +There'd be no need of cleanliness. +And things might work so blissfully, +In time -- who knows? -- they'd not need + me! + +And this being so, I fancy whether +I'll go on keeping things together. + + + + + +Listening + +His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain +That hurtles on the window pane. +Let's draw the curtains close and sit +Beside the fire awhile and knit. +Two purl -- two plain. A well-shaped + sock, +And warm. (I thought I heard a knock, +But 'twas the slam of Jones's door.) +Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before +The fleecy wools -- a different thing, +And best for wear. (Was that his ring?) +No. 'Tis the muffin man I see; +We'll have threepennyworth for tea. +Two plain -- two purl; that heel is neat. +(I hear his step far down the street.) +Two purl -- two plain. The sock can + wait; +I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!) + + + + + +The Dear Folks in +Devon + +Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ- + mas, and to-night +I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly + berries bright. +The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd + dearly love to see, +And those dear folks down in Devon, + how they'll talk and think of me. + +Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas + morn, and if there's one +As comes across from Canada straight + from their absent son, +My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my + Dad'll likely say: +"Don't seem like Christmas time no more, + with our dear lad away." + +I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef, + and Brother Jimmy's wife +Will say her never tasted such, no, not in + all her life. +And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt + in your mouth, 'tis true, +But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as + mothers always do! + +Ah me! If I could just have wings, and + in the dimsey light +Go stealing up the cobbled path this + lonesome Christmas night, +Lift up the latch with gentle hand -- My! + What a shout there'd be! +From those dear folks down in Devon! + What a welcomin' for me! + + + + + +The Reason + + "Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that +turneth aside to tarry for a night?" -- Jer. xiv. 8. + +Nay, do not get the venison pasty + out; +I shall not greatly put myself about +Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall + spare +Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole- + some fare. +We have to-morrow's dinner still to find; +It's well for you I have a frugal mind. + +Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever + next? +Why with such questionings should I be + vext? +The man is naught to us; why should + we care? +The little attic room will do; 'tis bare, +But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light; +He has but come to tarry for a night. + +I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I, +Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy +Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to + bed, +And he can sup alone, well warmed and + fed; +'Tis much to take him in a night like this. +Why should I fret me with concerns of + his? + +Grey morning came, and at the break of + day +The Man rose up and went upon his way + + + + + +Two Women + + "I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they +be of the same mind in the Lord" -- Phil. iv. 2, + +EUODIAS. + +But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am + sure +He never would expect me to endure. +There is a something in her very face +Antagonistic to the work of grace. +And even when I would speak graciously +Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me. + +SYNTYCHE. + +No, not for worlds! Euodias has no + mind; +So slow she is, so spiritually blind. +Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she + says +She grieves to see my aggravating ways +Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly +How odious Euodias can be! + +EUODIAS. + +Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another + thing! + +SYNTYCHE. + +Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in- + deed. + +EUODIAS. + +For His sake I'll endure her whispering + +SYNTYCHE. + +For His sake I'll consent to let her lead. + +EUODIAS. + +Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by + day. + +SYNTYCHE. + +Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the + way. + + + + + +The Prize Fight + + "I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, +but I hit hard and straight at my own body." -- 1 Cor. +ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation). + +'T'was breakfast time, and outside in + the street +The factory men went by with hurrying + feet. +And on the bridge, in dim December light, +The newsboys shouted of the great prize + fight. +Then, as I dished the bacon, and served + out +The porridge, all our youngsters gave + a shout. +The letter-box had clicked, and through + the din +The Picture News was suddenly pushed in. + +John showed the lads the pictures, and + explained +Just how the fight took place, and what + was gained +By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me +As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea: +"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled. +She hits the air sometimes, though," and + John smiled. +"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with + widened eyes +Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a + prize?" + +We laughed. And yet it set me thinking, + how +I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow +Munched at our early cabbages, and ate +The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon- + ette! +And many a time I kicked against the + pricks +Because the little dog at number six +Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross + I got +When Jane seemed discontented with her + lot. +Until poor John in desperation said +He wearied of the theme -- and went to + bed! + +And how I vexed myself that day, when he +Brought people unexpectedly for tea, +Because the table-cloth was old and + stained, +And not a single piece of cake remained. +And how my poor head ached! Because, + well there! +It uses lots of strength to beat the air! + +"I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray +For grace to hit the self-life every day. +And when the old annoyance comes once + more +And the old temper rises sharp and sore, +I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender- + Wise, +And read approval in Thy loving eyes. + + + + + +The Home Lights + +"In my father's house!" The words +Bring sweet cadence to my ears. +Wandering thoughts, like homing birds, +Fly all swiftly down the years, +To that wide casement, where I always see +Bright love-lamps leaning out to welcome + me. + +Sweet it was, how sweet to go +To the worn, familiar door. +No need to stand a while, and wait, +Outside the well-remembered gate; +No need to knock; +The easy lock +Turned almost of itself, and so +My spirit was "at home" once more. +And then, within, how good to find +The same cool atmosphere of peace, +Where I, a tired child, might cease +To grieve, or dread, +Or toil for bread. +I could forget +The dreary fret. +The strivings after hopes too high, +I let them every one go by. +The ills of life, the blows unkind, +These fearsome things were left behind. + +ENVOY. + + O trembling soul of mine, + See how God's mercies shine! + When thou shalt rise, + And, stripped of earth, shall stand + Within an Unknown Land; + Alone, where no familiar thing + May bring familiar comforting; + Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's + House! And, see + His love-lamps leaning out to welcome + thee! + + + + + +To an Old Teapot + +Now from the dust of half-forgotten + things, +You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring- + cleaning, +And bring to memory dim imaginings +Of mystic meaning. + +No old-time potter handled you, I ween, +Nor yet were you of gold or silver molten; +No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be + seen, +Nor Royal Doulton. + +You never stood to grace the princely + board +Of monarchs in some Oriental palace. +Your lid is chipped, your chubby side is + scored +As if in malice. + +I hesitate to say it, but your spout +Is with unhandsome rivets held together -- +Mute witnesses of treatment meted out +In regions nether. + +O patient sufferer of many bumps! +I ask it gently -- shall the dustbin hold + you? +And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage + stumps, +At last enfold you? + +It ought. And yet with gentle hands I + place +You with my priceless Delft and Dresden + china, +For sake of one who loved your homely + face +In days diviner. + + + + + +To a Rebellious +Daughter + +You call authority "a grievous thing." +With careless hands you snap the + leading string, +And, for a frolic (so it seems to you), +Put off the old love, and put on the new. + +For "What does Mother know of love?" + you say. +"Did her soul ever thrill? +Did little tendernesses ever creep +Into her dreams, and over-ride her will? +Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap +As my heart leaps to-day? +I, who am young; who long to try my + wings! + +How should she understand, +She, with her calm cool hand? +She never felt such yearnings? And, + beside, +It's clear I can't be tied +For ever to my mother's apron strings." + +There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear. +And there are mysteries, not yet made + clear +To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book +Is open, yes; but you may only look +At its first section. Youth +Is part, not all, the truth. +It is impossible that you should see +The end from the beginning perfectly. + +You answer: "Even so. +But how can Mother know, +Who meditates upon the price of bacon? +On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken, +And on the laundry's last atrocities? +She knows her cookery book, +And how a joint of English meat should + look. +But all such things as these +Make up her life. She dwells in tents, + but I +In a vast temple open to the sky." + +Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped + to learn +The language written in your infant face. +For years she walked your pace, +And none but she interpreted your chatter. +Who else felt interest in such pitter-patter? +Or, weary, joined in all your games with + zest, +And managed with a minimum of rest? +Now, is it not your turn +To bridge the gulf, to span the gap be- + tween you? +To-day, before Death's angel over-lean + you, +Before your chance is gone? +This is worth thinking on. + +"Are mothers blameless, then?" Nay, + dearie, nay. +Nor even tactful, always. Yet there may +Come some grey dawning in the by + and by, +When, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, + you'll cry +Aloud to God, for that despised thing, +The old dear comfort -- Mother's apron + string. + + + + + +For Mothering! + +Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear + her satin gown, +For little Miss and Master'll be coming + down from town. +Oh ay, the childern's coming! The + CHILDERN did I say? +Of course, they're man and woman grown, + this many and many a day. +But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and + squire looks fit to sing, +As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming + Mothering. + +Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's + doings fine and grand, +Because young Jake is coming home from + sea, you understand. +Put into port but yesternight, and when + he steps ashore, +'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer- + set once more. +And so her's baking spicy cakes, and stir- + ring raisins in, +To welcome of her only chick, who's + coming Mothering. + +And what of we? And ain't we got no + childern for to come? +Well, yes! There's Sam and Henery, + and they'll be coming home. +And Ned is very nigh six foot, and Joe is + six foot three! +But childern still to my good man, and + childern still to me! +And all the vi'lets seem to know, and all + the thrushes sing, +As how our Kate, and Bess and Flo is + coming Mothering. + + + + + +Little Fan + +When little Fanny came to town, I + felt as I could sing! +She were the sprackest little maid, the + sharpest, pertest thing. +Her mother were as proud as punch, and + as for I -- well, there! +I never see sich gert blue eyes, I never + see sich hair! +"If all the weans in Somerset," says I, + "was standin' here, +Not one could hold a candle light, 'long- + side our little dear." + +Now FANNY'S little Fan have come! She's + clingin' round my knees, +She's asking me for sups of tea, and bites + of bread and cheese. +She's climbing into grandma's bed, she's + stroking grandma's face. +She's tore my paper into bits and strawed + it round the place. +"If all the weans in all the world," says + I, "was standin' here, +Not one could hold a farthin' dip to + Fanny's little dear!" +For Fanny's little Fanny -- oh, she's took + the heart of me! +'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN of + humble folk like we! + + + + + +The Naughty Day + +I've had a naughty day to-day. + I scrunched a biscuit in my hair, +And dipped my feeder in the milk, + And spread my rusk upon a chair. + +When mother put me in my bath, + I tossed the water all about, +And popped the soap upon my head, + And threw the sponge and flannel out. + +I wouldn't let her put my hand + Inside the arm-hole of my vest; +I held the sleeve until she said + I really never SHOULD be dressed. + +And while she made the beds, I found + Her tidy, and took out the hairs; +And then I got the water-can + And tipped it headlong down the stairs. + +I crawled along the kitchen floor, + And got some coal out of the box, +And drew black pictures on the walls, + And wiped my fingers on my socks. + +Oh, this HAS been a naughty day! + That's why they've put me off to bed. +"He CAN'T get into mischief there, + Perhaps we'll have some peace," they + said. + +They put the net across my cot, + Or else downstairs again I'd creep. +But, see, I'll suck the counterpane + To PULP before I go to sleep! + + + + + +To a Little White Bird + +Into the world you came, and I was + dumb, + Because "God did it," so the wise ones + said; +I wonder sometimes "Did you really + come?" + And "Are you truly . . . DEAD?" + +Thus you went out -- alone and uncaressed; + O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant + grace, +I never held you in my arms, nor pressed + Warm kisses on your face! + +But, in the Garden of the Undefiled, + My soul will claim you . . . you, and + not another; +I shall hold out my arms, and say "MY + CHILD!" +And you will call me "MOTHER!" + + + + + +Because + +(PSALM CXVI.) + +Because He heard my voice, and + answered me, +Because He listened, ah, so patiently, +In those dark days, when sorrowful, alone, +I knelt with tears, and prayed Him for a + stone; +Because He said me "Nay," and then in- + stead, +Oh, wonderful sweet truth! He gave me + bread, +Set my heart singing all in sweet accord; +Because of this, I love -- I love the Lord! + + + + + +When He Comes + +"When He comes! + My sweetest 'When'!" + C. ROSSETTI. + +Thus may it be (I thought) at some + day's close, +Some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose +Breathes forth its incense. May He find + me there, +In holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer, +In some sweet garden place, +To catch the first dear wonder of His Face! + +Or, in my room above, +In silent meditation of His love, + My soul illumined with a rapture rare. +It would be sweet, if even then, these eyes +Might glimpse Him coming in the East- + ern skies, + And be caught up to meet Him in the + air. + +But now! Ah, now, the days +Rush by their hurrying ways! +No longer know I vague imaginings, +For every hour has wings. +Yet my heart watches . . . as I work I + say, +All simply, to Him: "Come! And if to-day, +Then wilt Thou find me thus: just as I + am -- +Tending my household; stirring goose- + berry jam; +Or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hose, +With puzzled forehead patching some one's + clothes; +Guiding small footsteps, swift to hear, and + run, +From early dawn till setting of the sun." + +And whensoe'er He comes, I'll rise and go, +Yes, all the gladlier that He found me so. + + + + + +Part II +OUT OF DOORS + + + + +Early Spring + +Quick through the gates of Fairyland + The South Wind forced his way. +'Twas his to make the Earth forget + Her grief of yesterday. +"'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!" + And on his lightsome feet +In haste he slung the snowdrop bells, +Pushed past the Fairy sentinels, + And out with laughter sweet. + +Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on + The shining way he went. +He whispered to the trees strange tales + Of wondrous sweet intent, +When, suddenly, his witching voice + With timbre rich and rare, +Rang through the woodlands till it cleft +Earth's silent solitudes, and left + A Dream of Roses there! + + + + + +The Witness + +The Master of the Garden said; +"Who, now the Earth seems cold + and dead, +Will by his fearless witnessing +Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring?" + +"Not yet. I am but half awake," +All drowsily the Primrose spake. +And fast the sleeping Daffodils +Had folded up their golden frills. + +"Indeed," the frail Anemone +Said softly, "'tis too cold for me." +Wood Hyacinths, all deeply set, +Replied: "No ice has melted yet." + +When suddenly, with smile so bright, +Up sprang a Winter Aconite, +And to the Master joyfully +She cried: "I will the witness be." + + + + + +In Somerset + +In Somerset they guide the plough +From early dawn till twilight now. +The good red earth smells sweeter yet, +Behind the plough, in Somerset. +The celandines round last year's mow +Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow +The South Wind woos the Violet, +In Somerset. + +Then, every brimming dyke and trough +Is laughing wide with ripples now, +And oh, 'tis easy to forget +That wintry winds can sigh and sough, +When thrushes chant on every bough +In Somerset! + + + + + +Song of a Woodland +Stream + +Silent was I, and so still, +As day followed day. +Imprisoned until +King Frost worked his will. +Held fast like a vice, +In his cold hand of ice, +For fear kept me silent, and lo +He had wrapped me around and about + with a mantle of snow. + +But sudden there spake +One greater than he. +Then my heart was awake, +And my spirit ran free. + +At His bidding my bands fell apart, He + had burst them asunder. +I can feel the swift wind rushing by me, + once more the old wonder +Of quickening sap stirs my pulses -- I + shout in my gladness, +Forgetting the sadness, +For the Voice of the Lord fills the air! + +And forth through the hollow I go, where + in glad April weather, +The trees of the forest break out into + singing together. +And here the frail windflowers will cluster, + with young ferns uncurling, +Where broader and deeper my waters go + eddying, whirling, +To meet the sweet Spring on her journey + -- His servant to be, +Whose word set me free! + + +Luggage in Advance + +"The Fairies must have come," I + said, +"For through the moist leaves, brown and + dead, +The Primroses are pushing up, +And here's a scarlet Fairy-cup. +They must have come, because I see +A single Wood Anemone, +The flower that everybody knows +The Fairies use to scent their clothes. +And hark! The South Wind blowing, fills +The trumpets of the Daffodils. +They MUST have come!" + + Then loud to me +Sang from a budding cherry tree, +A cheerful Thrush . . . "I say! I say! +The Fairy Folk are on their way. +Look out! Look out! Beneath your feet, +Are all their treasures: Sweet! Sweet! + Sweet! +They could not carry them, you see, +Those caskets crammed with witchery, +So ready for the first Spring dance, +They sent their Luggage in Advance!" + + + + + +At the Cross Roads + +There I halted. Further down the + hollow +Stood the township, where my errand lay. +Firm my purpose, till a voice cried + (Follow! +Come this way -- I tell you -- come this + way!) + +Silence, Thrush! You know I think of + buying +A Spring-tide hat; my frock is worn and + old. +So to the shops I go. What's that you're + crying? +(Here! Come here! And gather primrose + gold.) +Well, yes. Some day I will; but time is + going. +I haste to purchase silks and satins fair. +I'm all in rags. (The Lady's Smock is + showing +Up yonder, in the little coppice there.) + +And wood anemones spread out their + laces; +Each celandine has donned a silken gown; +The violets are lifting shy sweet faces. +(And there's a chiff-chaff, soft, and slim, and + brown.) + +But what about my hat? (The bees are + humming.) +And my new frock? (The hawthorn's + budding free! +Sweet! Oh, so sweet!) Well, have your + way. I'm coming! +And who's to blame for that? (Why, me! + Me! Me!) + + + + + +Summer met Me + +Summer met me in the glade, + With a host of fair princesses, +Golden iris, foxgloves staid, + Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses. +Roses followed in her train, + Creamy elder-flowers beset me, +Singing, down the scented lane, + Summer met me! + +Summer met me! Harebells rang, + Honeysuckle clustered near, +As the royal pageant sang + Songs enchanting to the ear. +Rainy days may come apace, + Nevermore to grieve or fret me, +Since, in all her radiant grace, + Summer met me! + + + + + +The Carrier + +"Owd John's got past his work," said + they, +Last week as ever was -- "don't pay +To send by him. He's stoopid, too, +And brings things what won't never do. +We'll send by post, he is that slow. +And that owd hoss of his can't go." + +But 'smornin', well, 'twas fun to see +The gentlefolks run after we. +Squire's lady stopped I in the lane, +"Oh," says she, "goin' to town again? +You'll not mind calling into Bings +To fetch my cakes and buns and things? +I've got a party comin' on, +And nought to eat . . . so, DO 'ee, John." + +Then, up the street, who should I see, +But old Mam Bessant hail'n' me. +And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs +Was wantin' vittles for their pigs, +And would I bring some? (Well, what + nex'?) +And Granny Dunn has broke her specs, +And wants 'em mended up in town, +So would John call and bring 'em down +To-night . . . ? and so the tale goes on, +'Tis, "Sure you will, now DO 'ee, John." + +Well, 'tis a hevil wind that blows +Nobody any good; it shows +As owd John haves his uses yet, +Though now and then he do forget. +Gee up, owd gal. When strikes is on, +They're glad of pore owd stoopid John. + + + + + +The Lad's Love by the +Gate + +Down in the dear West Country, + there's a garden where I know + The Spring is rioting this hour, though + I am far away -- +Where all the glad flower-faces are old + loves of long ago, + And each in its accustomed place is + blossoming to-day. + +The lilac drops her amethysts upon the + mossy wall, + While in her boughs a cheerful thrush + is calling to his mate. +Dear breath of mignonette and stocks! + I love you, know you all. + And, oh, the fragrant spices from the + lad's love by the gate! + +Kind wind from the West Country, wet + wind, but scented so, + That straight from my dear garden + you seem but lately come, +Just tell me of the yellow broom, the + guelder rose's snow, + And of the tangled clematis where + myriad insects hum. + +Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any + rosemary? + And in their own green solitudes, say, + do the lilies wait? +I knew it! Gentle wind, but once -- + speak low and tenderly -- + How fares it -- tell me truly -- with the + lad's love by the gate? + + + + + +The Thrush + +Across the land came a magic word + When the earth was bare and + lonely, +And I sit and sing of the joyous spring, + For 'twas I who heard, I only! +Then dreams came by, of the gladsome + days, + Of many a wayside posy; +For a crocus peeps where the wild rose + sleeps, + And the willow wands are rosy! + +Oh! the time to be! When the paths + are green, + When the primrose-gold is lying +'Neath the hazel spray, where the catkins + sway, + And the dear south wind comes sigh- + ing. + +My mate and I, we shall build a nest, + So snug and warm and cosy, +When the kingcups gleam on the meadow + stream, + Where the willow wands are rosy! + + + + + +In Dorset Dear + +In Dorset Dear they're making hay +In just the old West Country way. +With fork and rake and old-time gear +They make the hay in Dorset Dear. +From early morn till twilight grey +They toss and turn and shake the hay. +And all the countryside is gay +With roses on the fallen may, +For 'tis the hay-time of the year +In Dorset Dear. + +The loaded waggons wend their way +Across the pasture-lands, and stay +Beside the hedge where foxgloves peer; +And ricks that shall be fashioned here +Will be the sweetest stuff, they say, +In Dorset Dear! + + + + + +The Flight of the Fairies + +There's a rustle in the woodlands, + and a sighing in the breeze, +For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes + and the trees; +They are packing up their treasures, every + one with nimble hand, +Ready for the coming journey back to + sunny Fairyland. + +They have gathered up the jewels from + their beds of mossy green, +With all the dewy diamonds that summer + morns have seen; +The silver from the lichen and the + powdered gold dust, too, +Where the buttercups have flourished and + the dandelions grew. + +They packed away the birdies' songs, + then, lest we should be sad, +They left the Robin's carol out, to make + the winter glad; +They packed the fragrance of the flowers, + then, lest we should forget, +Out of the pearly scented box they + dropped a Violet. + +Then o'er a leafy carpet, by the silent + woods they came, +Where the golden bracken lingered and + the maples were aflame. +On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er + their wings the moonbeams shone, +Music filtered through the forest -- and the + Little Folk were gone! + + + + + +The Street Player + +The shopping had been tedious, and + the rain +Came pelting down as she turned home + again. + +The motor-bus swirled past with rush and + whirr, +Nought but its fumes of petrol left for + her. + +The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese +Malodorously mixed themselves with + these. + +And all seemed wrong. The world was + drab and grey +As the slow minutes wept themselves + away. + +And then, athwart the noises of the street, +A violin flung out an Irish air. + +"I'll take you home again, Kathleen." + Ah, sweet, +How tender-sweet those lilting phrases + were! + +They soothed away the weariness, and + brought +Such peace to one worn woman, over- + wrought, + +That she forgot the things which vexed + her so: +The too outrageous price of calico, + +The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence +Because she paused to count the dwindling + pence. + +The player stopped. But the rapt vision + stayed. +That woman faced life's worries unafraid. + +The sugar shortage now had ceased to be +An insurmountable calamity. + +Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor + butter, +But things more costly still, too rare to + utter. + +And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall, +The sun set gloriously, after all. + + + + + +On All Souls' Eve + +Oh, the garden ways are lonely! +Winds that bluster, winds that + shout, +Battle with the strong laburnum, +Toss the sad brown leaves about. +In the gay herbaceous border, +Now a scene of wild disorder, +The last dear hollyhock has flamed his + crimson glory out. + +Yet, upon this night of longing, +Souls are all abroad, they say. +Will they come, the dazzling blossoms, +That were here but yesterday? +Will the ghosts of radiant roses +And my sheltered lily-closes +Hold once more their shattered fragrance + now November's on her way? + +Wallflowers, surely you'll remember, +Pinks, recall it, will you not? +How I loved and watched and tended, +Made this ground a hallowed spot: +Pansies, with the soft meek faces, +Harebells, with a thousand graces: +Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell + me, have you quite forgot? + +HUSH! THEY COME! For down the path- + way +Steals a fragrance honey-sweet. +Larkspurs, lilies, stocks, and roses, +Hasten now my heart to greet. +Stay, oh, stay! My hands would hold +you . . . +But the arms that would enfold you +Crush the bush of lad's love growing in + the dusk beside my feet. + + + + + +The Log Fire + +In her last hour of life the tree +Gave up her glorious memories, +Wild scent of wood anemone, +The sapphire blue of April skies. + +With faint but ever-strength'ning flame, +The dew-drenched hyacinthine spires +Were lost, as red-gold bracken came, +With maple bathed in living fires. + +Grey smoke of ancient clematis +Towards the silver birch inclined, +And deep in thorny fastnesses +The coral bryony entwined. + +Then softly through the dusky room +They strayed, fair ghosts of other days, +With breath like early cherry bloom, +With tender eyes and gentle ways. + +They glimmered on the sombre walls, +They danced upon the oaken floor, +Till through the loudly silent halls +Joy reigned majestical once more. + +Up blazed the fire, and, dazzling clear, +One rapturous Spirit radiant stood. +'Twas you at last! Yes, YOU, my dear. +We two were back in Gatcombe Wood! + + + + + +God save the King + +GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It + seems +The Church is full of bygone dreams.) + +LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own, +'Tis hard to stand here all alone.) + +GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, you +Were always brave to dare and do.) + +SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then, +My darling will come home again!) + +HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill be +Like Heaven to him -- and what to me?) + +LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear! +And we'd been wedded one short year!) + +GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I pray +Keep MY King safe this very day.) + +Forgive us, thou -- great England's kingly + King +That thus do women National Anthems + sing. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman, by Fay Inchfawn + diff --git a/old/vbohw10.zip b/old/vbohw10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f382471 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/vbohw10.zip |