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| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-19 21:21:03 -0800 |
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| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-19 21:21:03 -0800 |
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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/75154-0.txt b/75154-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1e6486b --- /dev/null +++ b/75154-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1257 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75154 *** + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Cover art] + + + + + SILKEN THREADS + + + BY + + WILHELMINA STITCH + + AUTHOR OF + "THE FRAGRANT MINUTE FOR EVERY DAY" + "SILVER LININGS," "THE GOLDEN WEB" + "WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS", ETC. + + + + EIGHTH EDITION + + + + METHUEN & CO., LTD. + 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. + LONDON + + + + + _First Published ... October 20th 1927 + Second Edition ... November 1927 + Third Edition ... December 1927 + Fourth Edition ... January 1928 + Fifth Edition ... April 1928 + Sixth Edition ... December 1928 + Seventh Edition ... March 1929 + Eighth Edition ... 1929_ + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + + CONTENTS + + + THE OLD SAMPLER + EVERYDAY RELIGION + THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL + THE WEEK ROUND + HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND + THE STRING BAG + LIFE GROWS FAIRER + TO THE FIRST-BORN + A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER + THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME + THE TEACHER + PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN + "BLESSED ARE THEY" + A MOTHER SPEAKS + THE BOY SAMUEL + THE PERFECT FRIEND + MAKING THE BEST OF IT + A TOAST + THE GARDENER'S PRAYER + LEGS AND ARMS + THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST + THE FIRST BIRTHDAY + FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON + SPRING CLEANING + A SPRINGTIME LULLABY + UNTO THE DAY-- + AT THE DAY'S END + THE FAMILY DOCTOR + MEMORY'S GARDEN + MY TRUANT SHADOW + TO CAT PETER + IN THE BEGINNING + HAMMER AWAY + WHITHER BOUND? + LOOKING BACKWARD + THE KITCHEN + THE HARBOUR HEART + TO A PATCHWORK QUILT + MY OLD DOLL + LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS + FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION + THE WORTHY CREW + THE POSTMAN + "ANGELS IN THE SNOW" + TO MONDAY MORNING + SECURITIES + WHEN DECEMBER COMES + THE LITTLE SHOPS + SUMMER IN YOUR HEART + APRIL, THE JESTER + THE SONG OF THE SOUL + A BED-TIME SONG + AN ANNIVERSARY + TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW + TWO COINS + THE STREET SINGER + MERELY PARENTS + SONG OF THE GIVER + THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR + A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP + + + + +_THE OLD SAMPLER_ + +Dear little girl of Long Ago, so sweetly docile, quiet and prim, +making, laboriously and slow, your silken prayer to Him--did your +child-heart beat eager wings beneath the bones of your stiff dress, +like some caged bird that sweetly sings, longing for freedom's +happiness? It must have been a day in June when with a gleaming, +scarlet thread, you worked the livelong afternoon, "Give us this day +our daily bread." For look! Just where a line begins your needle +strayed a square too high; quite crooked are the words "our sins." +Oh! were you gazing at the sky? Or did the daisies on your lawn +begin to wink and blink at you? Perhaps you spied a leprechaun just +where your mother's roses grew? I think God smiled at that mistake, +dear little girl so fair and prim, and blessed those hands that +failed to make--a perfect gift for Him. + + + + +_EVERYDAY RELIGION_ + +How far you seek, poor soul, to find your God, through such a maze of +noisy, foolish words, and yet they speak of Him--each silent sod, +each crooning breeze, and all the singing birds. He dwells not in a +tenet or a creed, no roof can compass Him, nor walls enclose, but you +will find Him in the humblest weed and in the beauty of a budding +rose. Think you He cares for some high-sounding phrase, the gift +from lips that serve a subtle mind? Some homely household sounds +best sing His praise, and deeds that spring from hearts sincere and +kind. Why travel such a devious path and long, when sun and moon and +stars proclaim Him near? Hark to His voice, a throbbing, pleading +song, bidding us slay Intolerance and Fear. Return, oh soul, from +journeying afar; there is a quiet road, straight to your breast. +Travel this path, at rise of evening star, you'll find that He has +come to be your guest. + + + + +_THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL_ + +Your tail's absurdly long for a doggie of your size. Your ears, well +they look wrong, but the love-light in your eyes, ah! makes one quite +forget you've won no prize as yet. You're a mongrel, little chap, +just a mongrel, nothing more. Take your paws off from my lap. Oh! +you silly little bore, must you make this awful fuss just to show +your love for us? Your hair is such a length! You're clumsy with +your feet; you've tenacity and strength, you're a ruffian on the +street, and you wriggle like an eel just to show the love you feel. +Mongrel, with no hope of fame, who's your father? You don't know? +Ought to slink away in shame, but the children love you so, and +despite your tail and head--you're at heart, a thoroughbred! + + + + +_THE WEEK ROUND_ + +Idleness we now must shun, another week of work begun, another hill +that must be won, for 'tis Monday morning. Clear in brain and strong +in limb, now we're in good fighting trim, Sunday's joys are growing +dim, for 'tis Tuesday morning. Energies have reached the crest, +we've ambition, hope and zest, work, of all life's gifts the best, on +this Wednesday morning. Duties pile up thick and fast, the middle of +the week is past, now our goal's in sight at last, for 'tis Thursday +morning. Smiling, singing, lift the load, do not let the burden +goad, look ahead--there ends the road, for 'tis Friday morning. Soon +we'll fold our tasks away. A few more hours and then to play, +to-morrow is a precious day--blithe Saturday, good morning! + + + + +_HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND_ + +"If only," she said (and wistful her eyes), "my husband would take a +pride in his ties; but somehow he makes them look like a string. +I've pleaded, I've bullied, I can't do a thing. He'll never look +smart or stylish, I fear--and yet, all the same, he's really a dear!" +"Now why should he wear, year in and year out, his hat of grey felt +the wrong way about? And why, when he fastens his cardigan vest, he +should miss the first buttonhole, I've never guessed. And then he's +surprised there's one button to spare! I plead or I lecture, but he +doesn't care. He'll never look smart or stylish, I fear--and yet, +all the same, he's really a dear!" "If all his pockets were merely +for looks, and not for his scissors and pencils and books; for +matches, for pouch, for pipe and for knife--he'd not look a lumpy +disgrace to his wife. If he'd brush his clothes sometimes, use +hangers at night, he'd look like our neighbour, so smart--a delight! +He'll never improve, not the slightest, I fear; but yet, I assure +you, he's really a dear." + + + + +_THE STRING BAG_ + +A task to irritate a saint--unravelling string of every length! +Before all's done, perhaps I'll faint; it's such a tax upon one's +strength. This piece seems boastful of its knot, as if it knows it +hurt my nails. Dear me! This bag does hold a lot; my courage flags +and fails. But, after all--it's rather fun. Suppose this string is +but a street. Ah! now my journey's well begun; each knot a mountain +at my feet. Till these be scaled, I can't progress. I clench my +teeth and work away, beyond this knot lies happiness, and I must pass +while yet 'tis day. Another piece leads to a hill where fairy folk +in tree trunks dwell. I'll blaze this trail with right good will, +and live among them for a spell. So swift my fingers work, and fast +(imagination's on the wing!) and all my troubles fade at last--for +life is like a knotted string! + + + + +_LIFE GROWS FAIRER_ + +As life goes by it fairer grows. Oh, yes, it fairer grows to me. +And may it be so at the close when Death advances lovingly. It is +not greater pomp nor state, nor high ambitions well attained, nor any +stroke of lucky fate, nor wealth that Midas-like I've gained. +Material gains I have not known (my bank account's about the same!) +and yet the world has fairer grown; with certainty I make this claim. +In love and tenderness and grace, the world grows fairer day by day. +What joy to see a friendly face as we go bravely on our way. Not +cleverness, nor knowledge, wit, do much enhance this life of ours (of +course I know they help a bit), but God be thanked for sun and +flow'rs; for peace beneath the star-strewn skies; for friends who sit +around one's fire; for books, amusing, helpful, wise; for Love that +crowns the heart's desire. + + + + +_TO THE FIRST-BORN_ + +Lovely was life, and seemingly complete! Such happiness was ours and +deep content. The days flew by like buoyant birds and fleet: Joy was +the urge to every fresh intent. No hours to waste, we had so much to +do; Life was our teacher and we loved her well; loved every sound and +every shade and hue; always she wove some new and potent spell. And +then the blinding miracle--you came. A crumpled rose leaf, funny +little thing, no teeth, no hair, no words, not e'en a name, and yet +our hearts with ecstasy did sing. A tiny bundle. Eight pounds in a +shawl! And yet you caused so swift and great a change, became the +pulse of life, our joy, our all. We lived without you once, how very +strange! Then was all beauty symbolised by you. Then did we find +all joys on earth, above, wrapped in a shawl; and then at last we +knew the meaning of that phrase, "Lo! God is Love." + + + + +_A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER_ + +My prayer is such a little thing, it might get lost and go astray. +Are you, dear God, now listening to what I say? I wish to thank You +for the sun that kissed, this morn, my sleeping eyes; for all the +happy things I've done since I did rise. For gift of sound and gift +of sight; for feet that skip so merrily; for food and warmth, and +each delight You gave to me. I thank You for my mother dear; I thank +You for my father kind; and for the star that watches near--behind +the blind. So many Grown-ups show me love, though I'm a child and +still quite small. Look down upon them from above and, please God, +bless them all. And now, dear God, I'll say "Good-night," and may +Your angels guard my bed until You send Your morning light to wake +this Sleepy Head. + + + + +_THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME_ + +I bid you welcome, Friend! This thought is joy to me: that you +should seek my sympathy, at the day's end. My walls--they will +enfold you with tenderness and grace. Maternal arms are they to hold +you in warm and safe embrace. Here you may cast aside the cares you +had; discard them like old garments, drab and worn. In robes of +peace, until to-morrow morn, now be you clad! See what sweet dreams +I have called forth for you. They are the lovely shadows in the +room; and on the walls, like fairy flowers they'll bloom, the whole +night through. And some will hover gently o'er your head; and some +press softly 'gainst your sleeping heart; and you will travel to a +magic mart--a Dreamship is your bed. I bid you welcome, Guest! Hold +out your hands to me, a loving friend. For now, Tired Soul, the day +is at an end--and I will give you rest. + + + + +_THE TEACHER_ + +There's Amy, Daphne, Pam, and Rose; Elizabeth and Lucille fair; and +Jellis with tip-tilted nose; Amanda with rich auburn hair. And other +blossoms, row on row, standing so primly in their places. It sets +the teacher's heart aglow to see their morning-glory faces. Now like +a mother she must be--a loving mother wise and kind--clothing each +tender memory in prettiest garments she can find. As mothers joy in +dainty frills, so will she trim each baby heart with melodies and +lilting trills, borrowed for them, from Beauty's mart. For +ribbons--phrases gleaming bright, most beautiful to hear and say; +each one a streamer of delight with which a little soul can play! +For food--she proffers Truth's white bread. For drink--the Spirit's +sparkling stream. With fairy-lore is Fancy fed, that they, her +bairns, may sweetly dream. + + + + +_PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN_ + +Lupins from Patricia Ann! She, though barely seven, has a garden of +her own, a little bit of heaven. Blossoms that she grew for me--so +her little letter ran--what gift could more lovely be. Lupins from +Patricia Ann! Purple, pink and ivory white, here is one with tint of +rose; did they, Pat, o'er-top your height, though you stood on +tippy-toes? Thoughts are wandering for a span round about a vase of +blue. Lupins from Patricia Ann--can I help but think of you. +Patricia Ann! Throughout your days you a gardener must be. +Gardeners have gentle ways, all their thoughts make melody. As your +destined path you take, and places you must scan; there, sow seeds +for love's own sake, blossoms from Patricia Ann! + + + + +"_BLESSED ARE THEY_" + +"Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they +who sing in the morning, whose faces have smiles for their early +adorning, who come down to breakfast companioned by Cheer, who won't +dwell on trouble, nor entertain fear, whose eyes smile forth bravely, +whose lips curve to say, "Life! I salute you. Good-morrow, New +Day!" "Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are +they who treat one another, though merely a sister, a father, a +brother, with the very same courtesy they would extend to a casual +acquaintance, or dearly-loved friend; who choose for the telling +encouraging things, and choke back the bitter, the sharp word that +stings. "Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed +are they who give of their best, who bring to the home bright +laughter, gay jest, who make themselves charming for no other reason +than charm is a blossom for homes, every season! Who bestow love on +others throughout the long day--pleasant to live with and blessed are +they! + + + + +_A MOTHER SPEAKS_ + +A lovely photograph? Ah, yes! But still it does not show the sun +turning to copper each brown tress--but I have seen this done. You +cannot see how in each cheek a laughing dimple comes and goes and +plays a game of hide-and-seek in petals of a rose. You cannot see +the bright star-shine within her beaming hazel eyes; nor see the +colour, like red wine, denote a glad surprise. You have not watched +her body's grace, its perfect, joyous symmetry; nor have you glimpsed +her sleeping face, turned happily to me. My baby's photograph. Ah, +yes! But you should hear her lilting voice with tones that break +with happiness and make the birds rejoice. You have not felt her +tiny hand caress your cheek; nor known her kiss. But if you had, +you'd understand--she's lovelier, far, than this! + + + + +_THE BOY SAMUEL_ + +He must have been a lonely little boy. The cold stone Temple for a +nursery floor, and the Sanctuary Lamp for a glittering toy, and a +Tamarix tree by the Temple door. (A Tamarix tree with scarcely a +leaf to comfort a homesick child in his grief.) No woman's lips on +his baby face; no woman's arms to hug him tight. Who put his +sandals, each night, in place, and hung up his ephod, small and +white? (Sometimes, I fear, when the old priest slept, the little +child Samuel wept and wept.) What did he think, when once a year, +Hannah, the mother, with love-lit eyes, held him close and whispered, +"Dear! See, I have brought my babe a prize," and gave him a coat +that she had made (I hope it was cut of rich brocade!) I hope it had +friendly birds and flow'rs, embroidered in threads of blue and gold, +playmates for his long, lonely hours in the silent Temple dim and +cold. With such a coat to wear and touch--he might not miss his +mother much. + + + + +_THE PERFECT FRIEND_ + +Shabby and down at heel? What does he care, so long as he can steal +next to my chair? Sombre and dull of wit; feeling morose? He +doesn't mind a bit, snuggles up close. Silence I may require. He's +quite content. Silence is his desire, till my mood's spent. Ready +to run a race, swim, fetch a stone. Yet will, with perfect grace, +leave me alone. Some folks oft misconstrue words we let fall. Alter +the shade and hue, turn sweet to gall. Not so this friend of mine; +he understands. Gives me his secret sign, licks both my hands! +Never misjudges, trusts to the end, pattern of loyalty--Doggie, the +Friend. + + + + +_MAKING THE BEST OF IT_ + +The day was like a garment that I perforce must wear. I didn't like +its colour much, it didn't suit my hair. I didn't like its line or +cut, it didn't please my eye. "You look so very drab and mean," said +I with heavy sigh. But since I had to wear it, this garment made for +me, I said: I will embellish it and trim it prettily. Around its +neck I stitched some smiles, a frill of them, all gold. And at the +wrists, bright fancy's braid, quite lovely to behold. I girdled it +with rosy dreams ('tis wrong to look a dowd!) and for a little +'kerchief, I chose a snow-white cloud. I gathered shining, gleaming +thoughts and looped them here and there. The day it was a garment +that I just loved to wear. + + + + +_A TOAST_ + +Here's to the days that are yet to be, to the life we're going to +lead, to the aim achieved successfully, to the prisoned hope that's +freed. Here's to the strength we're going to find, here's to the +work we'll soon begin, strength of body and strength of mind and the +hill we're going to win. Here's to the El Dorado, friends, the land +of dreams we're soon to sight. Here's to the hour the striving ends +and we stake our claim to the heart's delight. Here's to the road +that winds afar, here's to the courage we'll never lack, to the +dauntless will, the beckoning star, to the eyes that look not back. +Here's to the days that are yet to be, here's to the work that lies +ahead, to the joy in striving constantly--till the last mile's paced, +and the last word's said. + + + + +_THE GARDENER'S PRAYER_ + +I pray You, let this garden be a gentle advocate for me before Your +throne. Lord, it is fair and orderly and through its sweet serenity, +my faults I own. My life at times has gone awry, but here beneath +Your arch of sky, the pattern's true. The wind that softly passes +by; tall trees, bright blossoms, grass, all try to pleasure You. +With zest I've weeded day by day. Judge that my sins I cast away and +am now shriven. And here Your sunbeams come to play, and moonbeams +on this path do stray. Your stars look down from heaven. Will You +not take this pattern bright as handiwork for Your delight and bless +this little garden? See how the lilies tall and white stand unafraid +within Your sight, and ask, for me, Your pardon. + + + + +_LEGS AND ARMS_ + +A curious thing, but a fact all the same, some friends of mine (never +mind what name) thought of nothing and talked of naught but a William +and Mary chair they'd bought. And also a table, a tallboy, a chest, +with which they had furnished the room for a guest. Whenever I +visited just for a span, 'twas "William and Mary" or good "Queen +Anne." 'Twas "Heppelwhite" this and "Chippendale" that. I soon had +the periods learnt off pat. They looked at a leg, "Cup-turned," they +said, and bade me observe their Sheraton bed. But now all's changed, +and the reason's this. There's a little curved leg they love to +kiss; there's a dimpled arm so smooth and white, its graceful contour +gives delight. And as for the chest, it gives much joy. Says Daddy, +"Just look at this fine tall boy!" Of Seventeenth Century they don't +speak. Everything dates from just last week. For period furniture +lost its hold--since they have acquired a One-Week-Old. + + + + +_THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST_ + +A lotion, madam, for your eyes? Oh, certainly, come this way, +please. You'll use this one if you are wise. Its chief ingredients +are these: Ten drops of rain, ten drops of dew, a most refreshing, +cooling brew, mixed by a scented breeze. And next? A face cream? +Come this way. Now, here is one I recommend. It can work wonders in +a day, yet quite an inexpensive blend. One ounce of laughter, smiles +and twinkles. 'Tis guaranteed to smooth out wrinkles. I thank you, +madam. Take or send? For jaded nerves? A recipe? I've this that +all my clients heed. A draught of wholesome sympathy for someone +else's urgent need; forgetfulness of your own cares by thinking of +world brotherhood--though you may find a few grey hairs you'll also +find that life is good. Good morning, madam. This way, please. No, +naught to pay for things like these. + + + + +_THE FIRST BIRTHDAY_ + +It's all as strange as it can be, and Baby wonders, silently. Mother +hugs him even more than she ever did before. Father has such +boisterous ways, bellows words of petting praise, flings him high +into the air. "Oh!" shrieks mother, "do take care." 'Tis four +o'clock, he's been to sleep and yet he's not allowed to creep; not +allowed the happiness of sucking bits of his clean dress. He has to +sit in his high chair and let a lot of people stare. They bring him +things to touch and squeeze, and sister plagues him to say "please." +Then someone cries, "Now, Baby, look! Here is a lovely picture +book." And someone else says, "Here's a bunny, a soft, white woolly +one, for Sonny." He's feeling bored. He thinks he'll cry. Just +then he catches mother's eye. She lifts him up, oh! pretty sight, a +little candle burning bright! And Mummie whispers in his ear, "It's +your first birthday, precious dear." + + + + +_FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON_ + +"For that which is common, be praised, O Lord!" For sun and the tang +in the morning air. For mist and the grey of a soothing sky. For +night and the stars within her hair. For work and the joy in the +will to try. For love and its binding silken cord--for that which is +common, be praised, O Lord! For hands and their clasp of friend with +friend. For clever fingers that mould and make; for home and its +rest at the day's long end, for Peace that the thirsty soul doth +slake, for china and flowers and homely board--for that which is +common, be praised, O Lord. For laughter of children absorbed in +play, for laughter of adults whose hearts are young, for the hillocks +and valleys of life's short day, for gift of speech and the gentle +tongue, for love of service, its own reward--for that which is +common, be praised, O Lord. + + + + +_SPRING CLEANING_ + +Sing a song of Spring-cleaning! Polish up the mind, open all the +windows, pull up every blind; let in shafts of sunshine, cleansing +breezes, too; sweep away all cobwebs--that's the thing to do. Bathe +the eyes in gladness, look at sky and earth. Fill the lungs with +laughter, magic's worked by mirth. Sweep out every corner, free the +heart from dust; intolerance and prejudice are nasty types of rust! +Key the slackened heart-strings, ready for a tune. Love will be in +need of them, lilac time is soon. When the mind is polished, when +the heart is clean, what a charming person will step upon the scene! + + + + +_A SPRINGTIME LULLABY_ + +Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby! Pink and white blossom, go +you to sleep. Bluebells are silent, hushaby, lullaby, only the stars +may twinkle and peep. Blue eyes of baby, hushaby, lullaby, now must +they close 'neath their curtains so white. The thrush has ceased +singing, hushaby, lullaby, pink and white blossom, I kiss you +good-night. The white woolly lambkins are peacefully sleeping, +hushaby, lullaby, gold-haloed head. O'er the gold of the meadows a +grey mist is creeping, the wings of the angels now curtain your bed. +Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby. Your cot is a garden, the +fairest I know. Rose petals your cheeks are, hushaby, lullaby, and +the curls on the pillow like buttercups glow! Pink and white +blossom, hushaby, lullaby, fall you to sleep while the nightingales +sing. Bluebells your eyes are, hushaby, lullaby, pink and white +blossom, the glory of spring. + + + + +_UNTO THE DAY--_ + +Many things in this world are bad, no good looking the other way, +lots of things to make us sad--but it's very fine to-day. Loads of +troubles come to us, you've had yours and I've had mine. We won't +brood and fret and fuss--for to-day is very fine. Chilly when the +winter's here, and no leaf is on the bough. Let us sing a song of +cheer--for it's very pleasant now. Life is often cruel, unkind. +Vainly seek we for the light. Gusts of passion fog the mind--but, +just now, the sun shines bright. Let's not brood on grief that's +past, shadows fall but shadows lift. Only Love and Goodness +last--let's enjoy to-day's good gift. + + + + +_AT THE DAY'S END_ + +Your pardon, Life, if we have treated ill one hour of this good day; +if we have shown a stubborn, sulky will, choosing an ugly way, though +you have offered for our errant feet a well-built, clean, a straight +and smiling street! Your pardon, Life, if we have failed to see the +beauty of each hour; if we have walked with eyes turned inwardly, +blind to a bird or flow'r; to all the loveliness you offered us. +Your pardon, Life, if we have acted thus. And if we have, one +moment, turned deaf ears to voices that inspire; if we have +entertained pale, cowardly fears and fanned a low desire; if we have +brought to naught one gift you gave, your pardon, Life, we crave. +Oh, hear us, Life, if we have acted ill, in deed or thought along the +way; to-morrow we will rise with strengthened will--and tarnish not +your day. + + + + +THE FAMILY DOCTOR + +He has no time to "specialise," is quite unknown to fame; he's +understanding, kindly, wise, and "doctor" is his name. Always at +patients' beck and call, all hours of day and night, for both +momentous ills and small--and oft with death to fight. Not always is +it draughts to drink, his trusting patients need. He tries to make +the thoughtless think--'tis sometimes hearts that bleed. The +honoured confidant and friend of families is he, and often when for +him they send, they crave but sympathy. "Doctor," one says, "will +make the lad see reason quickly, dear." Doctor is asked to soften +Dad, or cast out mother's fear. Their joys and sorrows he doth +share, for doctor always must be told; he lightens many a heavy care, +and this for love, not gold. And he mends broken spirits, too, +dispenses cheer and mirth. The every-ready friend and true--the very +salt of earth. + + + + +_MEMORY'S GARDEN_ + +How fortunate are we, blessed with a memory! It is God's gift to all +in high estate and small. A storehouse for the keeping of beauty +we've been reaping from life's fields, along the way, hour by hour +and day by day. Oh Eyes! let nothing pass. The dew-kissed morning +grass is a very lovely sight. Then there are stars at night; and a +little child at play is a twinkling star for day! Oh Ears! drink in +the sounds with which this world abounds. Not music only, no, not +this alone. For what more lovely than the throbbing tone of human +voice that blends tenderly with voice of friends? Oh Soul! garner +most zealously each quiet joy, each ecstasy, each sound, each touch, +each sight, whate'er has given delight. Then when the summer days of +life draw to a close, from Memory's fair garden--we can pluck a rose. + + + + +_MY TRUANT SHADOW_ + +I envied little girls to-day: I envied little boys. For part of me +just longed to play with Springtime's jolly toys. I longed to have a +hoop to bowl, a spinning top and whip, a bright red ball to bounce +and roll--a rope so I might skip. A rope with handles very gay, on +each a painted rose. Then little girls who passed my way would say, +"Oh! look at those!" But I, alas! this morning walked with silly, +grown-up tread; so wisely my companion talked, such solemn things he +said. But suddenly my shadow tripped a little way ahead. And with a +brand new rope it skipped--I feared it would drop dead. So fast it +skipped, such slender feet, it really made me wince. And then it +skipped across the street; I have not seen it since. But what it's +doing I can guess, that naughty, truant, Shadow-me! It's spinning +tops (oh! happiness) and bowling hoops with ecstasy! + + + + +_TO CAT PETER_ + +My Peter! It is time I told you flat, just what I think of species +known as cat. Throughout the centuries, from earliest days, mere +human-beings have sung loud your praise. Beloved of popes the cat +has often been; sacred in Egypt; petted by king or queen. And you, +you orphan, common little stray, accept the homage that we weakly pay +as if it were your just and proper due. I am disgusted, quite +annoyed with you. What do you do for us, I'd like to know? You care +not when or where we come or go. You show no joy when we return at +night, but blink your eyes, and are indifferent, quite. You stalk +into the kitchen, drink your milk, then lick your paws until they +shine like silk; sit in a sunny window, catch a fly; then, feeling +bored, leap to a shelf on high, and from this prominence you view +with scorn--those who have served with love since you were born! + + + + +_IN THE BEGINNING_ + +In the beginning was the seed. And silently the work went on. The +roots struck deep; new life was freed; the warm rain fell; the bright +sun shone. A tiny shoot; two leaves of green; growth hour by +hour--and then the day when all the glory of a flower was seen. The +deed perfected in true beauty's way, for not a single word had yet +been heard! Grant us the power to act this way. Let each good +impulse strike upon rich soil, and there take root and blossom +through the day not by the breath of words but silent toil. For +gracious words should follow what we do, the lovely blossoms of a +fruitful deed; or like the sun's exquisite farewell hue, beauty that +is of service, the just meed. "First, we will act." This is the +best of creeds. For words draw life after the good is done; and +flash within the sunlight of our deeds like rays reflected from the +spirit's sun. + + + + +_HAMMER AWAY_ + +Watching the blacksmith, were you, son? Watching the way his work is +done. Muscle is needed and also brain. Hammer, and hammer, and +hammer again, striking the blow, tirelessly, true. Fashioned at last +the perfect shoe. Wasn't done quickly, lad, admit; persistence +needed and strength and grit. That is the way we all must work (no +use tiring nor trying to shirk). Not for an hour, not for a day; nor +for a week, nor month, nor year; just how long no one can say (keep +on, laddie, success is near), hammer away, boy, hammer away. Look +how ambition's sparks are flying (Splendid! laddie, just keep on +trying), fashion your dream on the anvil, duty; mould and hammer it +into beauty. You are a smith; your anvil, life. Keep swinging the +hammer, despite all strife. Honest your purpose, stroke that is +true; joy in the thing you are trying to do; ambition's flame for the +smithy's fire, lit by the strength of a great desire. Then noble the +work, at the end of the day--hammer away, lad, hammer away. + + + + +_WHITHER BOUND?_ + +A window filled with naught but shoes of every shape and every size; +of black and brown and flaunting hues--they claimed my fascinated +eyes. I simply had to stand and stare (would you believe me, in the +rain!), I had no wish to buy a pair, indeed, I have a foolish brain. +But this is why I could not go: I could not tear myself away, I felt +a great desire to know where all these shoes would wend one day. And +while the raindrops, laughing, fell, I stood and mused a little +while. This pair, oh, anyone could tell, would walk for many a +business mile, and those would mince along the street as proud as +proud as they could be; and these, they were for dancing feet. +Perhaps (hoped I) they'll dance with me! Just then a cosy pair I +spied. Ah, they would meet my heart's desire, for when it rained and +stormed outside, they'd stay, with books, beside the fire. + + + + +_LOOKING BACKWARD_ + +I can remember many childhood joys, a cashmere frock my mother made +for me; a woolly lamb, best loved of many toys; mauve frock, white +lamb, and little girl of three. I can remember (Oh! I'm full of +shame) picking big holes in mother's gingerbread. And when she asked +me for the culprit's name, "It must have been the flies," I calmly +said. I can remember a laburnam tree spanning a river with its arch +of gold. And stored for ever in my memory are all the Fairy Tales my +father told. I'll ne'er forget a little magic door, a little shiny +gate of yellow wood. Through it I passed whene'er the clock struck +four (provided that I really had been good). Then down a hill, quite +steep and very wide, a perilous descent to Paradise! The +drawing-room door--and I was safe inside, and reached the haven of my +mother's eyes. + + + + +_THE KITCHEN_ + +Of course, I'm proud! (the kitchen said). 'Tis I who harbour water, +bread. The staff of Life these two things be, and both of them come +forth from me. The Salt and Spice of Life I share with all dependent +on my fare. And oh! I've always something sweet for Nursery Folk, +on truant feet! There's great work done in my domain. 'Tis I who +nourish brawn and brain. Where would this family now be except for +cook, and fire, and me! And who but I sends forth a tray, with +fragrant brew each new-born day? And where would be sweet +Friendship's hour, the dainty china, lovely flow'r, the rush of +children in the room dispelling any hint of gloom, did I, at five +o'clock, not send hot toast and tea of perfect blend? May nought but +cheerful cooks come here; for I, at any time of year, in my great +purpose take delight: to serve the Healthy Appetite. + + + + +_THE HARBOUR HEART_ + +The heart is like a quiet port expecting ships each day. The spirit +is the armoured fort that guards the ocean way. For, sometimes, on +the sea of life there rides an evil ship. The crew belongs to +Captain Strife, who shows a bitter lip. Dead Hopes and Fears and +shattered Dreams, his cargo in the hold; above his ship a vulture +screams, the wind blows keen and cold. Then Coastguard Spirit calls +with zest, "Oh, heart of mine, beware, let not this vessel come to +rest, 'twill bring you black despair." One day, when lovely is the +sky, a ship sails into view. Its banner, Courage, floats on high, +and joyous is the crew. 'Tis Captain Youth with dreams of yore, how +gently he doth speak. Oh, gallant ship, pull into shore, my heart's +the port you seek. + + + + +_TO A PATCHWORK QUILT_ + +Who made you? Was she old or young? Were her fingers white and soft +and slim? And the song that was sung (as she worked) a love song or +a hymn? You think, old quilt, in vain I probe and ask? But like a +mirror you reflect it all. For I can see her at her homely task, +sweet-faced and comely, fair and queenly tall. And there were +toddlers pressed against her knee, their rosy fingers petting each +bright hue. One trilled, "That pretty scarlet piece is meant for +me." Another, "May I have this lovely blue?" How clear it is she +loved all outdoor things. So many shades of sky she's brought +together; touches of crimson seen on blackbirds' wings; the greens of +trees; soft greys of rainy weather. And here is mauve, a wistful, +gentle shade, when she felt weary and a little sad. Ah, me! This +brown is serious and staid, but yellow smiles and proves that she +grew glad. But when she reached the borders then, I think, she chose +the blue to match a midnight sky, and silver snippets for the stars +that wink; and, as she stitched, she sang a lullaby. + + + + +_MY OLD DOLL_ + +"Too old," they cried, "with dolls to play." And so I gently laid +away the doll my father bought for me when I was only half past +three. One day, I mused, my own wee girl may hug that doll and kiss +each curl. How could I tell a roguish boy would treat with scorn my +childhood's joy? One spring, when tidying things anew, my dolly came +again to view. I hugged her and I smoothed her head. "You'll go to +Barbara," I said. "My niece, my golden Babs, is four, she'll love +you as I did of yore." But when it came to paper, string, I felt my +eyes with salt tears sting. I put that dolly back again! Absurd? I +know. But oh! the pain. Then later, when a year had passed, I took +that doll, and held her fast. Said I, "To little Ruth you'll go, +that niece of mine will love you so." I smoothed her dress and +ironed her lace--then put her back in her old place. It's very, very +clear to me, the little girl I used to be refuses to relinquish Moll, +the first, and last, and best-loved Doll! + + + + +_LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS_ + +The little roads to happiness, they are not hard to find; they do not +lead to great success--but to a quiet mind. They do not lead to +mighty power nor to substantial wealth. They bring one to a book, a +flower, a song of cheer and health. The little roads to happiness +are free to everyone; they lead one to the wind's caress, to kiss of +friendly sun. These little roads are shining white, for all the +world to see; their sign-boards, pointing left and right, are love +and sympathy. The little roads of happiness have this most charming +way; no matter how they may digress throughout the busy day; no +matter where they twist and wind through fields of rich delight, +they're always of the self-same mind to lead us home at night. + + + + +_FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION_ + +Friendship and Suspicion cannot dwell together. Friendship loves the +sun; Suspicion, cloudy weather. Friendship needs must trust; +Suspicion has to doubt, and, seeking hidden faults, turn all things +inside out. Friendship clings to Truth, which is Suspicion's foe. +'Tis Truth that feeds the wick for Friendship's steady glow. No +matter what the problem, ah! Friendship understands. And proffers +ready helpfulness with eager, outstretched hands. And never +questions coldly, nor probes with bitter sneer, but eases every +burden, dispels each chilly fear. Friendship seeks companions, +Suspicion walks alone, eyelids drooping meanly, in his heart, a +stone. Friendship's joy is service, fair or foul the weather. +Suspicion turns from giving--so they cannot dwell together. + + + + +_THE WORTHY CREW_ + +Discontented? Job no good? Chief is never praising you? Going +elsewhere? Wish you could? Feeling bitter, tired and blue? Sure +you're meant for bigger things. Never get a chance, that's all. +Long to use ambition's wings; feel you're up against a wall? Only +just occurred to you--well, you scarcely like to ask--but, after all, +what _does_ he do, what is the Chief's important task? Quite +convinced you do the most? Confident you should earn more? Of +course, you do not like to boast--you've other chances, by the score! +When this mood has you in grip (as some day it's bound to do), +remember--a successful ship must carry, too, a worthy crew. When +this mood nags at your heart, reflect--we can't all captains be; each +must play his special part; ships need crews when off to sea. + + + + +_THE POSTMAN_ + +He is the aide-de-camp of merchandise. While thousands calmly lie +a-bed and dream, he bears the seeds of some great enterprise from +which springs forth a money-making scheme! Ambassador from +Friendship's court is he, bearing those greetings that enrich the day +with happy thoughts, and with sweet melody which, on the +heart-strings, only friends can play. Life's messenger! And so he +needs must bring echoes from Sorrow's Hall as well as Joy. We hold +no grudge against him for the sting, knowing all happiness has its +alloy. Greater than Mercury who served the gods, the sturdy Postman, +of our busy days. Wingless, on patient feet, he daily plods, evoking +from all hearts a word of praise. He is the very pulse of life for +all; without his letters we would be as dumb. No interchange of +thoughts, how life would pall. Oh, joyous sound, the Postman has +just come! + + + + +"_ANGELS IN THE SNOW_" + +I would go back to Canada, at this time of the year, for three +things, just three things, my memory holds most dear. And this, I +say, is one of them: a blanket of white snow, a-glistening with +diamonds, and the breakfast sun aglow! A smooth, white blanket +undisturbed except where Bunny's feet have pricked a pattern from a +bush, right to a human street! And this, I say is two of them: to +see bare branches dressed in fluffy, frozen, flakes of snow when pink +clouds blush the west. And this, I say, is three of them, and this I +long to see: the woolly-armoured toddlers, playing so merrily. With +arms outstretched they fall down flat, and lie there, laughing so. +And when they rise, each leaves behind "an angel in the snow"! + + + + +_TO MONDAY MORNING_ + +Good morning, Monday! Welcome, Sir! Indeed, I'm glad to see you +here. They utter treason who aver you are devoid of joy and cheer. +That Monday feeling--well, it's this: Hurrah! the week has now begun +and who can say what luck and bliss will come our way e'er set of +sun. A brand new week with work to do, and past mistakes all swept +away; our energies strung up anew to meet and greet the unknown day. +This morn when sleep dropped from my eyes, I felt a most delightful +thrill. I saw, to my intense surprise--a guest upon my window-sill. +He'd one leg out and one leg in (he'd opened up the window wide), I +liked his merry, carefree grin, and so I begged him step inside. +'Twas you, oh, Monday. Welcome, Sir! Your presence fills me with +great glee; my pulses with excitement stir--I wonder what you've +brought for me. + + + + +_SECURITIES_ + +One thing there is more Greek than Greek to my bemused and puzzled +brain. I read it daily, week by week, but never is its meaning +plain. It is the column that one sees naming securities galore. +There's oil and rubber--several teas--and gold in far-off Labrador. +Those fractions! How they puzzle me. I must confess they make me +laugh. How can there be security in what is listed minus half? You +scorn my denseness, clever Sir? There's just this thing I have to +say. The stocks I own, I much prefer--such splendid dividends they +pay. I've many shares in mines of mirth, in sunshine, air and +flowers and sky, in all the things of sterling worth, yes, very rich +indeed am I. I've neither copper, tin, nor gold; nor platinum +without alloy. I own what can't be bought or sold--for I have many +shares in Joy. + + + + +_WHEN DECEMBER COMES_ + +December with her skirts a-blowing, frozen dew-drops in each ear; +berries at her breast a-glowing, rosy-cheeked December's here. +Hoar-frost to her garments clinging, prettier gems she could not +find; merrily, December's singing songs best suited to her mind. +Songs of mistletoe and holly; songs of labels, paper, string; loving +thoughts and Gayhearts folly--and just a tiny hint of Spring! +December bears herself right proudly, Amazonian Queen is she. Hear +her laughing, long and loudly--boisterous winds her minstrelsy. +December's crown is bright and gleaming, Jack Frost made it for a +gift. Just like stars her eyes are beaming, mouth has such a happy +lift! December knows that we adore her. Joyfully she goes her way; +eleven sisters march before her--in her train comes Christmas Day. + + + + +_THE LITTLE SHOPS_ + +Oh, smiling god of Good Luck, now night has slipped away, look down +upon the little shops, and help them through the day. The shutters +have been taken down and polished are the window-panes; the brasses +glow, the front is swept--smile, god of Luck, till daylight wanes. +The little shops pull at one's heart, so simple is their merchandise. +A little window beckons us through which we peer with misted eyes. +For narrow shops are often kind to tiny folk scarce counter-high. +Above a shop, behind a blind, I've heard a little baby cry. Above a +shop, I've often seen a mother's anxious face appear. How many +customers have been? The closing hour is drawing near. Great shops, +like temples dedicate to merchandise from every mart, are over-lords +of their own fate--but little shops tug at the heart! + + + + +_SUMMER IN YOUR HEART_ + +What's the sense of fretting because the sun's forgetting almost +every day to play his part? What care you for the weather, let it +rain and hail together, if there's summer time a-shining in your +heart. No wonder you feel weary if you think that life is dreary +just because a bitter wind decides to blow. What care you for the +weather, come snow and fog together, if the heart of you with +sunshine is aglow. What's the sense of sighing because Old Time is +trying to turn your darksome hair to solemn grey? He can't rob you +of your youth when your spirit is, forsooth, a shining, flaunting +banner bright and gay. Let Father Time grow fleeter, the years will +prove but sweeter, though youth--it is thus ordered--must depart. +Life has no winter season, for this very sound good reason--one can +always have the summer in one's heart! + + + + +_APRIL, THE JESTER_ + +Hark to April's merry laughter! Glad is she to reach this earth. +Perhaps she'll weep a minute after--sorrow often follows mirth. Not +to-day, though, will she sorrow; she's our Jester, queen of fun. +Time enough to weep to-morrow, when her roguishness is done. Cap and +bells is April wearing, Punchinello in her hand; jokes with Brother +Wind she's sharing, mortals cannot understand. Oh! beware of April's +laughter; trust her not, she is not true. First she laughs--a minute +after, she will make a fool of you. Now I've warned you, you'll be +clever, quite prepared for April's wit. Let her whisper "Perfect +weather," you'll not be deceived by it! April her attire is +flaunting, cap and bells and motley gay; and her smile is mocking, +taunting--April's fools are we to-day. Play the Jester, little +April, just for four and twenty hours. Then to duty, naughty +April--earth awaits your smiles and show'rs. + + + + +_THE SONG OF THE SOUL_ + +"I have put on mine armour," sings the soul. "The flashing armour of +will to do the Right. Thus I go forth, not blindly t'wards the goal, +but guided safely, by the Light." "Righteousness for armour," cries +the soul. "Beauty and Truth--the longed-for goal." "Beneath mine +armour," chants the soul, "I've donned a scarlet tunic for my +spirit's sake. In scarlet tunic, to the great Beyond, with courage +flaming, to the road I take. Righteousness for armour, flashing +bright; a scarlet tunic--for courage in the night." "I will go forth +and in this armour clad to meet Temptation, that most subtle foe. +Like David of Bethlehem, the shepherd lad, sure of my strength and +power, I go. And in the stream of Truth I'll find missiles to fling +against Goliath's mind. I have put on my armour: Truth my sword; +Slave unto none, but Captained by the Lord." + + + + +_A BED-TIME SONG_ + +Sleepy shadows fear to fall, so they lean against the wall, while the +tall dock in the hall sings: "'Tis time for bed." Wooden hills we +now must climb. Up we go, two at a time, singing such a sleepy +rhyme, little Curly Head. Wooden hills, clip-clop, clip-clop. First +a jump, and then a hop. Now we've reached the very top, nursery fire +glows red. Sleepy town we've reached at last, dreamland's ship is +anchored fast, rosy fancies fly the mast, prayers must now be said. +Weigh the anchor, off you go. Dreamland's miles away, you know. +Little dreams as white as snow wait for Curly Head. Sleepy shadows +fear to fall, lean against the nursery wall, and to one another call: +"Sleepy Head's in bed!" + + + + +_AN ANNIVERSARY_ + +My House! I give you thanks tonight for one year's comfort and +delight. I thank the sturdy walls and beams that have enclosed my +quiet dreams. I thank the windows through which came pale shafts of +light and sunset's flame. The dining-room I thank as well, where I +my hunger did dispel! I thank my bedroom, papered blue, for when +sore wearied through and through, it spoke to me: "O Sleepy Head, I +bid you welcome to your bed." I give the floors a grateful glance +for every joyous whirling dance. The fireplace owns my thankful +heart--what comfort from its depths can dart! What dreams I've +dreamt when near its blaze; what pictures seen as I would gaze within +the birch-log's flames of gold that leapt like dragons fierce and +bold. But most of all I thank the door--the thick front door, oak at +its core, because for twelve months now on end it has let in some +dear-loved friend! + + + + +_TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW_ + +How often have I paused to bless your vivid, glowing loveliness! +Have paused to say a "Thank you, window-pane," because despite a +sullen fog or driving rain, I still have had my glimpse of Paradise +through your untroubled, bright, reflecting eyes. My heart was sad +when vanished summer days. I came to you and stood a silent while, +and felt uplifted on the wings of praise. Rich autumn tints, God +bless your golden smile! Once when a blackish mood enveloped me, +sprays of white lilac arched your shining pane; the beauty of their +curves spoke tenderly; and I passed on, happy, revived again. And +now 'tis glorious tulip time with you! Yesterday their happy colours +beckoned me. Rose pink and mauve and sunlight's golden hue. Did +you, quiet window-pane, not feel the ecstasy that flooded all my +being while I stood to bless a florist's window--as all city pilgrims +should? + + + + +_TWO COINS_ + +I had two coins offered me, they shone like gold, they shone like +gold. I clutched at them so greedily, I clutched at them with +fevered hold. I hid them quickly out of sight. They were for me +alone to see. They gave delight, such keen delight; I hoarded them +most miserly. One day, alack! and oh! alas! I took them from their +secret place; a sorry thing had come to pass; my bright gold coins +were dull of face. I tended them with loving hand. Oh! shine again, +be bright again! This fact I could not understand: their gleam and +sheen were on the wane. "I will not hoard you any more," to them I +sighed, to them I cried. I shared with one, with two, with four; +with all the friends whom I espied. Now this is strange but this is +true. My wealth is more instead of less; I spent and spent--and +still it grew. Those coins were Love and Happiness! + + + + +_THE STREET SINGER_ + +Truth went singing down the street; on his head a golden crown, +broken sandals on his feet, shabby, too, his flowing gown. "Truth," +I shouted, "wait for me. I desire to learn your song." Nought cared +he for my poor plea; just went hurrying along. "Truth," I gasped, +quite out of breath, "I can't hear the words you sing." "You will +learn them ere your death," was the jibe he stopped to fling. +"Truth," I prayed him, "wait awhile. I have followed you for years. +Sometimes you have made me smile, sometimes caused me bitter tears. +Do, I pray you, let me learn what it is you sing to-day." Then at +last he deigned to turn, sang for me this roundelay: "Rich you are? +And strong you are? Good indeed these things to be. Beloved by +friends is better far. Take this living truth from me." Singing, +down the street Truth went. Others now will follow fast. As for me, +I am content--having learnt his song at last. + + + + +_MERELY PARENTS_ + +Lads and lassies, hear our plea--give us of your courtesy; we, not +you, need sympathy, being parents. 'Tis a most exacting age, +children are so very sage, the "complex" now is all the rage, we're +but parents. Give us, do, a helping hand. We would like to +understand, we are such a purblind band, merely parents. You are +witty, clever, wise, source of all high enterprise, soon you'll be +(for Old Time flies) like us, just parents. Then you'll know the +self-same fears (aching heart and unshed tears), having travelled +down the years, as we, your parents. Then you'll say, as now we do, +"We but long to shelter you, make you love the good and true, as did +our parents." Lads and lassies! Patience show! Perhaps we're +difficult and slow, but it is harder than you know--being parents. + + + + +_SONG OF THE GIVER_ + +First there's the joy of choosing. Now then, what shall it +be?--Useful? Pretty? Amusing? Love chooses thoughtfully. Then +there's the joy of paper, green leaves with berries red; a card with +a Christmas taper, tied with a golden thread. Then there's the joy +of tying (not string of the common kind!) ribbons that we've been +buying that glitter as they unwind. Then there's the joy of +weighing, addressing the label, too; and, of course, there's the joy +of saying, "With love from me, to you!" But nought like the joy of +dreaming how happy that someone will be; how eyes will be brightly +gleaming and mouth smile happily. Joy past the power of rhyming to +follow that parcel in thought; to hear, with gay laughter chiming, +"Look what the postman has brought!" + + + + +_THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR_ + +A steadying hand, a cheerful grin, "Hold tight," he cries, and helps +us in. We pay the fare, whate'er it be, and dream of home and fire +and tea. But not the conductor, no, not he. Cold or heat, wind or +rain, up he goes and down again; ringing bells, cracking jokes, +helping parcel-burdened folks, lifting babies with great care, "Where +to, Mum? Hold tight there." Answering questions by the score: +"Other way to Arthur's Store!" "Full inside, one on top." +Conductor's duties never stop. "Hi! Miss, your purse is on the +seat." Someone tramps on both his feet. Jerks a rope to let him +out, then again his cheery shout, "Hold tight, there! Fares please, +fares." Mounts again the winding stairs, whistling blithely, he runs +down--cheeriest man in all the town! + + + + +_A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP_ + +When the sun is shining bright, when the sky is calm and blue, when +the Port of Luck's in sight, then I turn to you. For I know you'll +laugh with me, share in full my jollity, and the world will fairer +be--'cause of you. When the sun is veiled from sight, when the +clouds of grief hang low, when the day seems turned to night--then to +you I go. For I know you'll comfort me with a tender sympathy, and +the load will lighter be--'cause of you. Not alone for days serene, +not for moments of success, but a friend you've ever been--in joy and +in distress. When the road was rough and long, you have borne the +journey, too. So I've made this little song--'cause of you. + + + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ + UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING + + + + + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75154 *** diff --git a/75154-h/75154-h.htm b/75154-h/75154-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e170c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/75154-h/75154-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2182 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + +<head> + +<link rel="icon" href="images/img-cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + +<meta charset="utf-8"> + +<title> +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Silken Threads, by Wilhelmina Stitch +</title> + +<style> +body { color: black; + background: white; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +p {text-indent: 1.5em } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.t1 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 200%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + text-align: center } + +p.t2b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 150%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t3 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + text-align: center } + +p.t3b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 100%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t4 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + text-align: center } + +p.t4b {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + font-weight: bold; + text-align: center } + +p.t5 {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 60%; + text-align: center } + +h1 { text-align: center; color: #1e90ff } +h2 { text-align: center } +h3 { text-align: left; color: #1e90ff } +h4 { text-align: center } +h5 { text-align: center } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; } + +p.thought {text-indent: 0% ; + letter-spacing: 2em ; + text-align: center } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.footnote {text-indent: 0% ; + font-size: 80%; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +.smcap { font-variant: small-caps } + +p.transnote {text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 10% ; + margin-right: 10% } + +p.intro {font-size: 90% ; + text-indent: -5% ; + margin-left: 5% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.quote {text-indent: 4% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.finis { font-size: larger ; + text-align: center ; + text-indent: 0% ; + margin-left: 0% ; + margin-right: 0% } + +p.capcenter { margin-left: 0; + margin-right: 0 ; + margin-bottom: .5% ; + margin-top: 0; + font-weight: normal; + float: none ; + clear: both ; + text-indent: 0%; + text-align: center } + +img.imgcenter { margin-left: auto; + margin-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 1%; + margin-right: auto; } + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75154 ***</div> + +<p class="capcenter"> +<a id="img-cover"></a> +<br> +<img class="imgcenter" src="images/img-cover.jpg" alt="Cover art"> +</p> + +<h1> +<br><br> + SILKEN THREADS<br> +</h1> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + BY<br> +</p> + +<p class="t2"> + WILHELMINA STITCH<br> +</p> + +<p class="t3"> + AUTHOR OF<br> + "THE FRAGRANT MINUTE FOR EVERY DAY"<br> + "SILVER LININGS," "THE GOLDEN WEB"<br> + "WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS", ETC.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + EIGHTH EDITION<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + METHUEN & CO., LTD.<br> + 36 ESSEX STREET W.C.<br> + LONDON<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t4"> + <i>First Published ... October 20th 1927<br> + Second Edition ... November 1927<br> + Third Edition ... December 1927<br> + Fourth Edition ... January 1928<br> + Fifth Edition ... April 1928<br> + Sixth Edition ... December 1928<br> + Seventh Edition ... March 1929<br> + Eighth Edition ... 1929</i><br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t4"> + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3b"> + CONTENTS<br> +</p> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="noindent" style="line-height: 1.5"> + <a href="#chap05">THE OLD SAMPLER</a><br> + <a href="#chap06">EVERYDAY RELIGION</a><br> + <a href="#chap07">THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL</a><br> + <a href="#chap08">THE WEEK ROUND</a><br> + <a href="#chap09">HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND</a><br> + <a href="#chap10">THE STRING BAG</a><br> + <a href="#chap11">LIFE GROWS FAIRER</a><br> + <a href="#chap12">TO THE FIRST-BORN</a><br> + <a href="#chap13">A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER</a><br> + <a href="#chap14">THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME</a><br> + <a href="#chap15">THE TEACHER</a><br> + <a href="#chap16">PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN</a><br> + <a href="#chap17">"BLESSED ARE THEY"</a><br> + <a href="#chap18">A MOTHER SPEAKS</a><br> + <a href="#chap19">THE BOY SAMUEL</a><br> + <a href="#chap20">THE PERFECT FRIEND</a><br> + <a href="#chap21">MAKING THE BEST OF IT</a><br> + <a href="#chap22">A TOAST</a><br> + <a href="#chap23">THE GARDENER'S PRAYER</a><br> + <a href="#chap24">LEGS AND ARMS</a><br> + <a href="#chap25">THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST</a><br> + <a href="#chap26">THE FIRST BIRTHDAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap27">FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON</a><br> + <a href="#chap28">SPRING CLEANING</a><br> + <a href="#chap29">A SPRINGTIME LULLABY</a><br> + <a href="#chap30">UNTO THE DAY—</a><br> + <a href="#chap31">AT THE DAY'S END</a><br> + <a href="#chap32">THE FAMILY DOCTOR</a><br> + <a href="#chap33">MEMORY'S GARDEN</a><br> + <a href="#chap34">MY TRUANT SHADOW</a><br> + <a href="#chap35">TO CAT PETER</a><br> + <a href="#chap36">IN THE BEGINNING</a><br> + <a href="#chap37">HAMMER AWAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap38">WHITHER BOUND?</a><br> + <a href="#chap39">LOOKING BACKWARD</a><br> + <a href="#chap40">THE KITCHEN</a><br> + <a href="#chap41">THE HARBOUR HEART</a><br> + <a href="#chap42">TO A PATCHWORK QUILT</a><br> + <a href="#chap43">MY OLD DOLL</a><br> + <a href="#chap44">LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS</a><br> + <a href="#chap45">FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION</a><br> + <a href="#chap46">THE WORTHY CREW</a><br> + <a href="#chap47">THE POSTMAN</a><br> + <a href="#chap48">"ANGELS IN THE SNOW"</a><br> + <a href="#chap49">TO MONDAY MORNING</a><br> + <a href="#chap50">SECURITIES</a><br> + <a href="#chap51">WHEN DECEMBER COMES</a><br> + <a href="#chap52">THE LITTLE SHOPS</a><br> + <a href="#chap53">SUMMER IN YOUR HEART</a><br> + <a href="#chap54">APRIL, THE JESTER</a><br> + <a href="#chap55">THE SONG OF THE SOUL</a><br> + <a href="#chap56">A BED-TIME SONG</a><br> + <a href="#chap57">AN ANNIVERSARY</a><br> + <a href="#chap58">TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW</a><br> + <a href="#chap59">TWO COINS</a><br> + <a href="#chap60">THE STREET SINGER</a><br> + <a href="#chap61">MERELY PARENTS</a><br> + <a href="#chap62">SONG OF THE GIVER</a><br> + <a href="#chap63">THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR</a><br> + <a href="#chap64">A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP</a><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap05"></a> +<i>THE OLD SAMPLER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Dear little girl of Long Ago, so +sweetly docile, quiet and prim, +making, laboriously and slow, your silken +prayer to Him—did your child-heart beat +eager wings beneath the bones of your +stiff dress, like some caged bird that +sweetly sings, longing for freedom's +happiness? It must have been a day +in June when with a gleaming, scarlet +thread, you worked the livelong afternoon, +"Give us this day our daily bread." For +look! Just where a line begins your +needle strayed a square too high; quite +crooked are the words "our sins." Oh! were +you gazing at the sky? Or did the +daisies on your lawn begin to wink and +blink at you? Perhaps you spied a +leprechaun just where your mother's +roses grew? I think God smiled at that +mistake, dear little girl so fair and prim, +and blessed those hands that failed to +make—a perfect gift for Him. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap06"></a> +<i>EVERYDAY RELIGION</i> +</h3> + +<p> +How far you seek, poor soul, to find +your God, through such a maze of +noisy, foolish words, and yet they speak +of Him—each silent sod, each crooning +breeze, and all the singing birds. He +dwells not in a tenet or a creed, no roof +can compass Him, nor walls enclose, but +you will find Him in the humblest weed +and in the beauty of a budding rose. +Think you He cares for some +high-sounding phrase, the gift from lips that +serve a subtle mind? Some homely +household sounds best sing His praise, +and deeds that spring from hearts sincere +and kind. Why travel such a devious +path and long, when sun and moon and +stars proclaim Him near? Hark to His +voice, a throbbing, pleading song, bidding +us slay Intolerance and Fear. Return, +oh soul, from journeying afar; there is a +quiet road, straight to your breast. +Travel this path, at rise of evening star, +you'll find that He has come to be your +guest. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap07"></a> +<i>THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Your tail's absurdly long for a +doggie of your size. Your ears, +well they look wrong, but the love-light +in your eyes, ah! makes one quite forget +you've won no prize as yet. You're a +mongrel, little chap, just a mongrel, +nothing more. Take your paws off from +my lap. Oh! you silly little bore, must +you make this awful fuss just to show +your love for us? Your hair is such a +length! You're clumsy with your feet; +you've tenacity and strength, you're a +ruffian on the street, and you wriggle +like an eel just to show the love you feel. +Mongrel, with no hope of fame, who's +your father? You don't know? Ought +to slink away in shame, but the children +love you so, and despite your tail and +head—you're at heart, a thoroughbred! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap08"></a> +<i>THE WEEK ROUND</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Idleness we now must shun, another +week of work begun, another hill that +must be won, for 'tis Monday morning. +Clear in brain and strong in limb, now +we're in good fighting trim, Sunday's +joys are growing dim, for 'tis Tuesday +morning. Energies have reached the +crest, we've ambition, hope and zest, +work, of all life's gifts the best, on this +Wednesday morning. Duties pile up +thick and fast, the middle of the week is +past, now our goal's in sight at last, for +'tis Thursday morning. Smiling, singing, +lift the load, do not let the burden goad, +look ahead—there ends the road, for 'tis +Friday morning. Soon we'll fold our +tasks away. A few more hours and then +to play, to-morrow is a precious +day—blithe Saturday, good morning! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap09"></a> +<i>HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"If only," she said (and wistful her +eyes), "my husband would take a +pride in his ties; but somehow he makes +them look like a string. I've pleaded, +I've bullied, I can't do a thing. He'll +never look smart or stylish, I fear—and +yet, all the same, he's really a dear!" "Now +why should he wear, year in and +year out, his hat of grey felt the wrong +way about? And why, when he fastens +his cardigan vest, he should miss the first +buttonhole, I've never guessed. And +then he's surprised there's one button to +spare! I plead or I lecture, but he +doesn't care. He'll never look smart or +stylish, I fear—and yet, all the same, he's +really a dear!" "If all his pockets were +merely for looks, and not for his scissors +and pencils and books; for matches, for +pouch, for pipe and for knife—he'd not +look a lumpy disgrace to his wife. If he'd +brush his clothes sometimes, use hangers +at night, he'd look like our neighbour, so +smart—a delight! He'll never improve, +not the slightest, I fear; but yet, I +assure you, he's really a dear." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap10"></a> +<i>THE STRING BAG</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A task to irritate a saint—unravelling +string of every length! Before +all's done, perhaps I'll faint; it's such a +tax upon one's strength. This piece +seems boastful of its knot, as if it knows +it hurt my nails. Dear me! This bag +does hold a lot; my courage flags and +fails. But, after all—it's rather fun. +Suppose this string is but a street. +Ah! now my journey's well begun; each knot +a mountain at my feet. Till these be +scaled, I can't progress. I clench my +teeth and work away, beyond this knot +lies happiness, and I must pass while yet +'tis day. Another piece leads to a hill +where fairy folk in tree trunks dwell. +I'll blaze this trail with right good will, +and live among them for a spell. So +swift my fingers work, and fast (imagination's +on the wing!) and all my troubles +fade at last—for life is like a knotted +string! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap11"></a> +<i>LIFE GROWS FAIRER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +As life goes by it fairer grows. Oh, +yes, it fairer grows to me. And +may it be so at the close when Death +advances lovingly. It is not greater +pomp nor state, nor high ambitions well +attained, nor any stroke of lucky fate, +nor wealth that Midas-like I've gained. +Material gains I have not known (my +bank account's about the same!) and +yet the world has fairer grown; with +certainty I make this claim. In love and +tenderness and grace, the world grows +fairer day by day. What joy to see a +friendly face as we go bravely on our +way. Not cleverness, nor knowledge, +wit, do much enhance this life of ours +(of course I know they help a bit), but +God be thanked for sun and flow'rs; for +peace beneath the star-strewn skies; for +friends who sit around one's fire; for +books, amusing, helpful, wise; for Love +that crowns the heart's desire. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap12"></a> +<i>TO THE FIRST-BORN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Lovely was life, and seemingly +complete! Such happiness was ours +and deep content. The days flew by like +buoyant birds and fleet: Joy was the +urge to every fresh intent. No hours to +waste, we had so much to do; Life was +our teacher and we loved her well; loved +every sound and every shade and hue; +always she wove some new and potent +spell. And then the blinding miracle—you +came. A crumpled rose leaf, funny +little thing, no teeth, no hair, no words, +not e'en a name, and yet our hearts with +ecstasy did sing. A tiny bundle. Eight +pounds in a shawl! And yet you caused +so swift and great a change, became the +pulse of life, our joy, our all. We lived +without you once, how very strange! +Then was all beauty symbolised by you. +Then did we find all joys on earth, above, +wrapped in a shawl; and then at last we +knew the meaning of that phrase, "Lo! +God is Love." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap13"></a> +<i>A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +My prayer is such a little thing, it +might get lost and go astray. Are +you, dear God, now listening to what I +say? I wish to thank You for the sun +that kissed, this morn, my sleeping eyes; +for all the happy things I've done since I +did rise. For gift of sound and gift of +sight; for feet that skip so merrily; for +food and warmth, and each delight You +gave to me. I thank You for my mother +dear; I thank You for my father kind; +and for the star that watches near—behind +the blind. So many Grown-ups +show me love, though I'm a child and still +quite small. Look down upon them +from above and, please God, bless them +all. And now, dear God, I'll say +"Good-night," and may Your angels guard my +bed until You send Your morning light +to wake this Sleepy Head. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap14"></a> +<i>THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I bid you welcome, Friend! This +thought is joy to me: that you should +seek my sympathy, at the day's end. +My walls—they will enfold you with +tenderness and grace. Maternal arms +are they to hold you in warm and safe +embrace. Here you may cast aside the +cares you had; discard them like old +garments, drab and worn. In robes of +peace, until to-morrow morn, now be +you clad! See what sweet dreams I +have called forth for you. They are the +lovely shadows in the room; and on the +walls, like fairy flowers they'll bloom, +the whole night through. And some will +hover gently o'er your head; and some +press softly 'gainst your sleeping heart; +and you will travel to a magic mart—a +Dreamship is your bed. I bid you +welcome, Guest! Hold out your hands +to me, a loving friend. For now, Tired +Soul, the day is at an end—and I will +give you rest. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap15"></a> +<i>THE TEACHER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +There's Amy, Daphne, Pam, and +Rose; Elizabeth and Lucille fair; +and Jellis with tip-tilted nose; Amanda +with rich auburn hair. And other +blossoms, row on row, standing so primly in +their places. It sets the teacher's heart +aglow to see their morning-glory faces. +Now like a mother she must be—a loving +mother wise and kind—clothing each +tender memory in prettiest garments +she can find. As mothers joy in dainty +frills, so will she trim each baby heart +with melodies and lilting trills, borrowed +for them, from Beauty's mart. For +ribbons—phrases gleaming bright, most +beautiful to hear and say; each one a +streamer of delight with which a little +soul can play! For food—she proffers +Truth's white bread. For drink—the +Spirit's sparkling stream. With fairy-lore +is Fancy fed, that they, her bairns, +may sweetly dream. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap16"></a> +<i>PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Lupins from Patricia Ann! She, +though barely seven, has a garden +of her own, a little bit of heaven. +Blossoms that she grew for me—so her little +letter ran—what gift could more lovely +be. Lupins from Patricia Ann! Purple, +pink and ivory white, here is one with +tint of rose; did they, Pat, o'er-top your +height, though you stood on tippy-toes? +Thoughts are wandering for a span round +about a vase of blue. Lupins from +Patricia Ann—can I help but think of +you. Patricia Ann! Throughout your +days you a gardener must be. Gardeners +have gentle ways, all their thoughts make +melody. As your destined path you take, +and places you must scan; there, sow +seeds for love's own sake, blossoms from +Patricia Ann! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap17"></a> +"<i>BLESSED ARE THEY</i>" +</h3> + +<p> +"Blessed are they who are pleasant +to live with." Blessed are +they who sing in the morning, whose +faces have smiles for their early adorning, +who come down to breakfast companioned +by Cheer, who won't dwell on +trouble, nor entertain fear, whose eyes +smile forth bravely, whose lips curve to +say, "Life! I salute you. Good-morrow, +New Day!" "Blessed are they who +are pleasant to live with." Blessed are +they who treat one another, though +merely a sister, a father, a brother, with +the very same courtesy they would +extend to a casual acquaintance, or +dearly-loved friend; who choose for the +telling encouraging things, and choke +back the bitter, the sharp word that +stings. "Blessed are they who are +pleasant to live with." Blessed are they +who give of their best, who bring to the +home bright laughter, gay jest, who +make themselves charming for no other +reason than charm is a blossom for +homes, every season! Who bestow love +on others throughout the long day—pleasant +to live with and blessed are they! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap18"></a> +<i>A MOTHER SPEAKS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A lovely photograph? Ah, yes! +But still it does not show the sun +turning to copper each brown tress—but +I have seen this done. You cannot +see how in each cheek a laughing dimple +comes and goes and plays a game of +hide-and-seek in petals of a rose. You +cannot see the bright star-shine within +her beaming hazel eyes; nor see the +colour, like red wine, denote a glad +surprise. You have not watched her +body's grace, its perfect, joyous +symmetry; nor have you glimpsed her +sleeping face, turned happily to me. +My baby's photograph. Ah, yes! But +you should hear her lilting voice with +tones that break with happiness and +make the birds rejoice. You have not +felt her tiny hand caress your cheek; +nor known her kiss. But if you had, +you'd understand—she's lovelier, far, +than this! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap19"></a> +<i>THE BOY SAMUEL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +He must have been a lonely little boy. +The cold stone Temple for a nursery +floor, and the Sanctuary Lamp for a +glittering toy, and a Tamarix tree by the +Temple door. (A Tamarix tree with +scarcely a leaf to comfort a homesick +child in his grief.) No woman's lips on +his baby face; no woman's arms to hug +him tight. Who put his sandals, each +night, in place, and hung up his ephod, +small and white? (Sometimes, I fear, +when the old priest slept, the little child +Samuel wept and wept.) What did he +think, when once a year, Hannah, the +mother, with love-lit eyes, held him close +and whispered, "Dear! See, I have +brought my babe a prize," and gave him +a coat that she had made (I hope it was +cut of rich brocade!) I hope it had +friendly birds and flow'rs, embroidered +in threads of blue and gold, playmates +for his long, lonely hours in the silent +Temple dim and cold. With such a +coat to wear and touch—he might not +miss his mother much. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap20"></a> +<i>THE PERFECT FRIEND</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Shabby and down at heel? What +does he care, so long as he can steal +next to my chair? Sombre and dull of +wit; feeling morose? He doesn't mind +a bit, snuggles up close. Silence I may +require. He's quite content. Silence is +his desire, till my mood's spent. Ready +to run a race, swim, fetch a stone. Yet +will, with perfect grace, leave me alone. +Some folks oft misconstrue words we let +fall. Alter the shade and hue, turn sweet +to gall. Not so this friend of mine; he +understands. Gives me his secret sign, +licks both my hands! Never misjudges, +trusts to the end, pattern of +loyalty—Doggie, the Friend. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap21"></a> +<i>MAKING THE BEST OF IT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The day was like a garment that I +perforce must wear. I didn't like +its colour much, it didn't suit my hair. +I didn't like its line or cut, it didn't please +my eye. "You look so very drab and +mean," said I with heavy sigh. But +since I had to wear it, this garment made +for me, I said: I will embellish it and +trim it prettily. Around its neck I +stitched some smiles, a frill of them, all +gold. And at the wrists, bright fancy's +braid, quite lovely to behold. I girdled +it with rosy dreams ('tis wrong to look a +dowd!) and for a little 'kerchief, I chose +a snow-white cloud. I gathered shining, +gleaming thoughts and looped them here +and there. The day it was a garment +that I just loved to wear. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap22"></a> +<i>A TOAST</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Here's to the days that are yet to be, +to the life we're going to lead, to the +aim achieved successfully, to the prisoned +hope that's freed. Here's to the strength +we're going to find, here's to the work +we'll soon begin, strength of body and +strength of mind and the hill we're going +to win. Here's to the El Dorado, friends, +the land of dreams we're soon to sight. +Here's to the hour the striving ends and +we stake our claim to the heart's delight. +Here's to the road that winds afar, here's +to the courage we'll never lack, to the +dauntless will, the beckoning star, to the +eyes that look not back. Here's to the +days that are yet to be, here's to the work +that lies ahead, to the joy in striving +constantly—till the last mile's paced, +and the last word's said. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap23"></a> +<i>THE GARDENER'S PRAYER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I pray You, let this garden be a +gentle advocate for me before Your +throne. Lord, it is fair and orderly and +through its sweet serenity, my faults I +own. My life at times has gone awry, +but here beneath Your arch of sky, the +pattern's true. The wind that softly +passes by; tall trees, bright blossoms, +grass, all try to pleasure You. With +zest I've weeded day by day. Judge +that my sins I cast away and am now +shriven. And here Your sunbeams come +to play, and moonbeams on this path do +stray. Your stars look down from +heaven. Will You not take this pattern +bright as handiwork for Your delight and +bless this little garden? See how the +lilies tall and white stand unafraid +within Your sight, and ask, for me, Your +pardon. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap24"></a> +<i>LEGS AND ARMS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A curious thing, but a fact all the +same, some friends of mine (never +mind what name) thought of nothing and +talked of naught but a William and Mary +chair they'd bought. And also a table, +a tallboy, a chest, with which they had +furnished the room for a guest. +Whenever I visited just for a span, 'twas +"William and Mary" or good "Queen +Anne." 'Twas "Heppelwhite" this and +"Chippendale" that. I soon had the +periods learnt off pat. They looked at a +leg, "Cup-turned," they said, and bade +me observe their Sheraton bed. But now +all's changed, and the reason's this. +There's a little curved leg they love to +kiss; there's a dimpled arm so smooth +and white, its graceful contour gives +delight. And as for the chest, it gives +much joy. Says Daddy, "Just look at +this fine tall boy!" Of Seventeenth +Century they don't speak. Everything +dates from just last week. For period +furniture lost its hold—since they have +acquired a One-Week-Old. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap25"></a> +<i>THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A lotion, madam, for your eyes? +Oh, certainly, come this way, please. +You'll use this one if you are wise. Its +chief ingredients are these: Ten drops of +rain, ten drops of dew, a most refreshing, +cooling brew, mixed by a scented breeze. +And next? A face cream? Come this +way. Now, here is one I recommend. +It can work wonders in a day, yet quite +an inexpensive blend. One ounce of +laughter, smiles and twinkles. 'Tis +guaranteed to smooth out wrinkles. I thank +you, madam. Take or send? For jaded +nerves? A recipe? I've this that all +my clients heed. A draught of wholesome +sympathy for someone else's urgent +need; forgetfulness of your own cares by +thinking of world brotherhood—though +you may find a few grey hairs you'll also +find that life is good. Good morning, +madam. This way, please. No, naught +to pay for things like these. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap26"></a> +<i>THE FIRST BIRTHDAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +It's all as strange as it can be, and +Baby wonders, silently. Mother hugs +him even more than she ever did before. +Father has such boisterous ways, bellows +words of petting praise, flings him high +into the air. "Oh!" shrieks mother, +"do take care." 'Tis four o'clock, he's +been to sleep and yet he's not allowed to +creep; not allowed the happiness of +sucking bits of his clean dress. He has +to sit in his high chair and let a lot of +people stare. They bring him things to +touch and squeeze, and sister plagues him +to say "please." Then someone cries, +"Now, Baby, look! Here is a lovely +picture book." And someone else says, +"Here's a bunny, a soft, white woolly +one, for Sonny." He's feeling bored. +He thinks he'll cry. Just then he catches +mother's eye. She lifts him up, +oh! pretty sight, a little candle burning +bright! And Mummie whispers in his +ear, "It's your first birthday, precious +dear." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap27"></a> +<i>FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"For that which is common, be +praised, O Lord!" For sun and +the tang in the morning air. For mist +and the grey of a soothing sky. For +night and the stars within her hair. For +work and the joy in the will to try. For +love and its binding silken cord—for that +which is common, be praised, O Lord! +For hands and their clasp of friend with +friend. For clever fingers that mould +and make; for home and its rest at the +day's long end, for Peace that the thirsty +soul doth slake, for china and flowers +and homely board—for that which is +common, be praised, O Lord. For +laughter of children absorbed in play, for +laughter of adults whose hearts are +young, for the hillocks and valleys of +life's short day, for gift of speech and the +gentle tongue, for love of service, its own +reward—for that which is common, be +praised, O Lord. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap28"></a> +<i>SPRING CLEANING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Sing a song of Spring-cleaning! +Polish up the mind, open all the +windows, pull up every blind; let in +shafts of sunshine, cleansing breezes, too; +sweep away all cobwebs—that's the +thing to do. Bathe the eyes in gladness, +look at sky and earth. Fill the lungs +with laughter, magic's worked by mirth. +Sweep out every corner, free the heart +from dust; intolerance and prejudice +are nasty types of rust! Key the +slackened heart-strings, ready for a tune. +Love will be in need of them, lilac time +is soon. When the mind is polished, +when the heart is clean, what a charming +person will step upon the scene! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap29"></a> +<i>A SPRINGTIME LULLABY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Pink and white blossom, hushaby, +lullaby! Pink and white blossom, +go you to sleep. Bluebells are silent, +hushaby, lullaby, only the stars may +twinkle and peep. Blue eyes of baby, +hushaby, lullaby, now must they close +'neath their curtains so white. The +thrush has ceased singing, hushaby, +lullaby, pink and white blossom, I kiss +you good-night. The white woolly +lambkins are peacefully sleeping, hushaby, +lullaby, gold-haloed head. O'er the gold +of the meadows a grey mist is creeping, +the wings of the angels now curtain your +bed. Pink and white blossom, hushaby, +lullaby. Your cot is a garden, the +fairest I know. Rose petals your cheeks +are, hushaby, lullaby, and the curls on +the pillow like buttercups glow! Pink +and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby, +fall you to sleep while the nightingales +sing. Bluebells your eyes are, hushaby, +lullaby, pink and white blossom, the +glory of spring. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap30"></a> +<i>UNTO THE DAY—</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Many things in this world are bad, +no good looking the other way, +lots of things to make us sad—but it's +very fine to-day. Loads of troubles come +to us, you've had yours and I've had +mine. We won't brood and fret and +fuss—for to-day is very fine. Chilly when +the winter's here, and no leaf is on the +bough. Let us sing a song of cheer—for +it's very pleasant now. Life is often +cruel, unkind. Vainly seek we for the +light. Gusts of passion fog the +mind—but, just now, the sun shines bright. +Let's not brood on grief that's past, +shadows fall but shadows lift. Only +Love and Goodness last—let's enjoy +to-day's good gift. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap31"></a> +<i>AT THE DAY'S END</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Your pardon, Life, if we have +treated ill one hour of this good +day; if we have shown a stubborn, +sulky will, choosing an ugly way, though +you have offered for our errant feet a +well-built, clean, a straight and smiling +street! Your pardon, Life, if we have +failed to see the beauty of each hour; if +we have walked with eyes turned +inwardly, blind to a bird or flow'r; to all +the loveliness you offered us. Your +pardon, Life, if we have acted thus. And +if we have, one moment, turned deaf ears +to voices that inspire; if we have +entertained pale, cowardly fears and fanned a +low desire; if we have brought to naught +one gift you gave, your pardon, Life, we +crave. Oh, hear us, Life, if we have +acted ill, in deed or thought along the +way; to-morrow we will rise with +strengthened will—and tarnish not your +day. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap32"></a> +THE FAMILY DOCTOR +</h3> + +<p> +He has no time to "specialise," is +quite unknown to fame; he's understanding, +kindly, wise, and "doctor" is +his name. Always at patients' beck and +call, all hours of day and night, for both +momentous ills and small—and oft with +death to fight. Not always is it draughts +to drink, his trusting patients need. He +tries to make the thoughtless think—'tis +sometimes hearts that bleed. The +honoured confidant and friend of families is +he, and often when for him they send, +they crave but sympathy. "Doctor," +one says, "will make the lad see reason +quickly, dear." Doctor is asked to +soften Dad, or cast out mother's fear. +Their joys and sorrows he doth share, for +doctor always must be told; he lightens +many a heavy care, and this for love, +not gold. And he mends broken spirits, +too, dispenses cheer and mirth. The +every-ready friend and true—the very +salt of earth. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap33"></a> +<i>MEMORY'S GARDEN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +How fortunate are we, blessed with +a memory! It is God's gift to all +in high estate and small. A storehouse +for the keeping of beauty we've +been reaping from life's fields, along the +way, hour by hour and day by day. +Oh Eyes! let nothing pass. The +dew-kissed morning grass is a very lovely +sight. Then there are stars at night; +and a little child at play is a twinkling +star for day! Oh Ears! drink in the +sounds with which this world abounds. +Not music only, no, not this alone. For +what more lovely than the throbbing +tone of human voice that blends tenderly +with voice of friends? Oh Soul! garner +most zealously each quiet joy, each +ecstasy, each sound, each touch, each +sight, whate'er has given delight. Then +when the summer days of life draw to a +close, from Memory's fair garden—we +can pluck a rose. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap34"></a> +<i>MY TRUANT SHADOW</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I envied little girls to-day: I envied +little boys. For part of me just +longed to play with Springtime's jolly +toys. I longed to have a hoop to bowl, +a spinning top and whip, a bright red ball +to bounce and roll—a rope so I might skip. +A rope with handles very gay, on each a +painted rose. Then little girls who passed +my way would say, "Oh! look at those!" But +I, alas! this morning walked with +silly, grown-up tread; so wisely my +companion talked, such solemn things he +said. But suddenly my shadow tripped +a little way ahead. And with a brand +new rope it skipped—I feared it would +drop dead. So fast it skipped, such +slender feet, it really made me wince. +And then it skipped across the street; +I have not seen it since. But what it's +doing I can guess, that naughty, truant, +Shadow-me! It's spinning tops +(oh! happiness) and bowling hoops with +ecstasy! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap35"></a> +<i>TO CAT PETER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +My Peter! It is time I told you +flat, just what I think of species +known as cat. Throughout the centuries, +from earliest days, mere human-beings +have sung loud your praise. Beloved of +popes the cat has often been; sacred in +Egypt; petted by king or queen. And +you, you orphan, common little stray, +accept the homage that we weakly pay +as if it were your just and proper due. +I am disgusted, quite annoyed with you. +What do you do for us, I'd like to know? +You care not when or where we come or +go. You show no joy when we return at +night, but blink your eyes, and are +indifferent, quite. You stalk into the +kitchen, drink your milk, then lick your +paws until they shine like silk; sit in a +sunny window, catch a fly; then, feeling +bored, leap to a shelf on high, and from +this prominence you view with scorn—those +who have served with love since +you were born! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap36"></a> +<i>IN THE BEGINNING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +In the beginning was the seed. And +silently the work went on. The roots +struck deep; new life was freed; the +warm rain fell; the bright sun shone. +A tiny shoot; two leaves of green; +growth hour by hour—and then the +day when all the glory of a flower was +seen. The deed perfected in true +beauty's way, for not a single word had +yet been heard! Grant us the power to +act this way. Let each good impulse +strike upon rich soil, and there take root +and blossom through the day not by the +breath of words but silent toil. For +gracious words should follow what we +do, the lovely blossoms of a fruitful +deed; or like the sun's exquisite farewell +hue, beauty that is of service, the just +meed. "First, we will act." This is the +best of creeds. For words draw life after +the good is done; and flash within the +sunlight of our deeds like rays reflected +from the spirit's sun. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap37"></a> +<i>HAMMER AWAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Watching the blacksmith, were +you, son? Watching the way +his work is done. Muscle is needed and +also brain. Hammer, and hammer, and +hammer again, striking the blow, +tirelessly, true. Fashioned at last the +perfect shoe. Wasn't done quickly, lad, +admit; persistence needed and strength +and grit. That is the way we all must +work (no use tiring nor trying to shirk). +Not for an hour, not for a day; nor for +a week, nor month, nor year; just how +long no one can say (keep on, laddie, +success is near), hammer away, boy, +hammer away. Look how ambition's +sparks are flying (Splendid! laddie, just +keep on trying), fashion your dream on +the anvil, duty; mould and hammer it +into beauty. You are a smith; your +anvil, life. Keep swinging the hammer, +despite all strife. Honest your purpose, +stroke that is true; joy in the thing you +are trying to do; ambition's flame for +the smithy's fire, lit by the strength of a +great desire. Then noble the work, at +the end of the day—hammer away, lad, +hammer away. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap38"></a> +<i>WHITHER BOUND?</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A window filled with naught but +shoes of every shape and every +size; of black and brown and flaunting +hues—they claimed my fascinated eyes. +I simply had to stand and stare (would +you believe me, in the rain!), I had no +wish to buy a pair, indeed, I have a +foolish brain. But this is why I could +not go: I could not tear myself away, +I felt a great desire to know where all +these shoes would wend one day. And +while the raindrops, laughing, fell, I stood +and mused a little while. This pair, oh, +anyone could tell, would walk for many +a business mile, and those would mince +along the street as proud as proud as they +could be; and these, they were for +dancing feet. Perhaps (hoped I) they'll +dance with me! Just then a cosy pair +I spied. Ah, they would meet my heart's +desire, for when it rained and stormed +outside, they'd stay, with books, beside +the fire. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap39"></a> +<i>LOOKING BACKWARD</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I can remember many childhood joys, +a cashmere frock my mother made for +me; a woolly lamb, best loved of many +toys; mauve frock, white lamb, and +little girl of three. I can remember +(Oh! I'm full of shame) picking big holes +in mother's gingerbread. And when she +asked me for the culprit's name, "It +must have been the flies," I calmly said. +I can remember a laburnam tree spanning +a river with its arch of gold. And stored +for ever in my memory are all the Fairy +Tales my father told. I'll ne'er forget a +little magic door, a little shiny gate of +yellow wood. Through it I passed +whene'er the clock struck four (provided that +I really had been good). Then down a +hill, quite steep and very wide, a perilous +descent to Paradise! The drawing-room +door—and I was safe inside, and reached +the haven of my mother's eyes. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap40"></a> +<i>THE KITCHEN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Of course, I'm proud! (the kitchen +said). 'Tis I who harbour water, +bread. The staff of Life these two things +be, and both of them come forth from me. +The Salt and Spice of Life I share with +all dependent on my fare. And oh! I've +always something sweet for Nursery Folk, +on truant feet! There's great work done +in my domain. 'Tis I who nourish +brawn and brain. Where would this +family now be except for cook, and fire, +and me! And who but I sends forth a +tray, with fragrant brew each new-born +day? And where would be sweet Friendship's +hour, the dainty china, lovely +flow'r, the rush of children in the room +dispelling any hint of gloom, did I, at +five o'clock, not send hot toast and tea +of perfect blend? May nought but +cheerful cooks come here; for I, at any +time of year, in my great purpose take +delight: to serve the Healthy Appetite. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap41"></a> +<i>THE HARBOUR HEART</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The heart is like a quiet port expecting +ships each day. The spirit is the +armoured fort that guards the ocean way. +For, sometimes, on the sea of life there +rides an evil ship. The crew belongs to +Captain Strife, who shows a bitter lip. +Dead Hopes and Fears and shattered +Dreams, his cargo in the hold; above his +ship a vulture screams, the wind blows +keen and cold. Then Coastguard Spirit +calls with zest, "Oh, heart of mine, +beware, let not this vessel come to rest, +'twill bring you black despair." One +day, when lovely is the sky, a ship sails +into view. Its banner, Courage, floats +on high, and joyous is the crew. 'Tis +Captain Youth with dreams of yore, how +gently he doth speak. Oh, gallant ship, +pull into shore, my heart's the port you +seek. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap42"></a> +<i>TO A PATCHWORK QUILT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Who made you? Was she old or +young? Were her fingers white +and soft and slim? And the song that +was sung (as she worked) a love song or +a hymn? You think, old quilt, in vain +I probe and ask? But like a mirror you +reflect it all. For I can see her at her +homely task, sweet-faced and comely, fair +and queenly tall. And there were toddlers +pressed against her knee, their rosy fingers +petting each bright hue. One trilled, +"That pretty scarlet piece is meant for +me." Another, "May I have this lovely +blue?" How clear it is she loved all +outdoor things. So many shades of sky +she's brought together; touches of +crimson seen on blackbirds' wings; the +greens of trees; soft greys of rainy +weather. And here is mauve, a wistful, +gentle shade, when she felt weary and a +little sad. Ah, me! This brown is +serious and staid, but yellow smiles +and proves that she grew glad. But +when she reached the borders then, I +think, she chose the blue to match a +midnight sky, and silver snippets for the +stars that wink; and, as she stitched, +she sang a lullaby. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap43"></a> +<i>MY OLD DOLL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"Too old," they cried, "with dolls +to play." And so I gently laid +away the doll my father bought for me +when I was only half past three. One +day, I mused, my own wee girl may hug +that doll and kiss each curl. How could +I tell a roguish boy would treat with +scorn my childhood's joy? One spring, +when tidying things anew, my dolly came +again to view. I hugged her and I +smoothed her head. "You'll go to +Barbara," I said. "My niece, my golden +Babs, is four, she'll love you as I did of +yore." But when it came to paper, +string, I felt my eyes with salt tears +sting. I put that dolly back again! +Absurd? I know. But oh! the pain. +Then later, when a year had passed, I +took that doll, and held her fast. Said +I, "To little Ruth you'll go, that niece +of mine will love you so." I smoothed +her dress and ironed her lace—then put +her back in her old place. It's very, +very clear to me, the little girl I used to +be refuses to relinquish Moll, the first, +and last, and best-loved Doll! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap44"></a> +<i>LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The little roads to happiness, they +are not hard to find; they do not +lead to great success—but to a quiet +mind. They do not lead to mighty power +nor to substantial wealth. They bring +one to a book, a flower, a song of cheer +and health. The little roads to happiness +are free to everyone; they lead one to +the wind's caress, to kiss of friendly sun. +These little roads are shining white, for +all the world to see; their sign-boards, +pointing left and right, are love and +sympathy. The little roads of happiness +have this most charming way; no matter +how they may digress throughout the +busy day; no matter where they twist +and wind through fields of rich delight, +they're always of the self-same mind to +lead us home at night. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap45"></a> +<i>FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Friendship and Suspicion cannot +dwell together. Friendship loves the +sun; Suspicion, cloudy weather. Friendship +needs must trust; Suspicion has to +doubt, and, seeking hidden faults, turn +all things inside out. Friendship clings +to Truth, which is Suspicion's foe. 'Tis +Truth that feeds the wick for Friendship's +steady glow. No matter what the problem, +ah! Friendship understands. And +proffers ready helpfulness with eager, +outstretched hands. And never questions +coldly, nor probes with bitter sneer, +but eases every burden, dispels each +chilly fear. Friendship seeks companions, +Suspicion walks alone, eyelids drooping +meanly, in his heart, a stone. Friendship's +joy is service, fair or foul the +weather. Suspicion turns from +giving—so they cannot dwell together. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap46"></a> +<i>THE WORTHY CREW</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Discontented? Job no good? +Chief is never praising you? Going +elsewhere? Wish you could? Feeling +bitter, tired and blue? Sure you're +meant for bigger things. Never get a +chance, that's all. Long to use +ambition's wings; feel you're up against a +wall? Only just occurred to you—well, +you scarcely like to ask—but, after all, +what <i>does</i> he do, what is the Chief's +important task? Quite convinced you +do the most? Confident you should +earn more? Of course, you do not like +to boast—you've other chances, by the +score! When this mood has you in +grip (as some day it's bound to do), +remember—a successful ship must carry, +too, a worthy crew. When this mood +nags at your heart, reflect—we can't +all captains be; each must play his +special part; ships need crews when off +to sea. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap47"></a> +<i>THE POSTMAN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +He is the aide-de-camp of merchandise. +While thousands calmly lie +a-bed and dream, he bears the seeds of +some great enterprise from which springs +forth a money-making scheme! +Ambassador from Friendship's court is he, +bearing those greetings that enrich the +day with happy thoughts, and with +sweet melody which, on the heart-strings, +only friends can play. Life's messenger! +And so he needs must bring echoes from +Sorrow's Hall as well as Joy. We hold +no grudge against him for the sting, +knowing all happiness has its alloy. +Greater than Mercury who served the +gods, the sturdy Postman, of our busy +days. Wingless, on patient feet, he +daily plods, evoking from all hearts a +word of praise. He is the very pulse of +life for all; without his letters we would +be as dumb. No interchange of thoughts, +how life would pall. Oh, joyous sound, +the Postman has just come! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap48"></a> +"<i>ANGELS IN THE SNOW</i>" +</h3> + +<p> +I would go back to Canada, at this +time of the year, for three things, just +three things, my memory holds most +dear. And this, I say, is one of them: +a blanket of white snow, a-glistening +with diamonds, and the breakfast sun +aglow! A smooth, white blanket +undisturbed except where Bunny's feet +have pricked a pattern from a bush, +right to a human street! And this, I +say is two of them: to see bare branches +dressed in fluffy, frozen, flakes of snow +when pink clouds blush the west. And +this, I say, is three of them, and this I +long to see: the woolly-armoured toddlers, +playing so merrily. With arms +outstretched they fall down flat, and lie there, +laughing so. And when they rise, each +leaves behind "an angel in the snow"! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap49"></a> +<i>TO MONDAY MORNING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Good morning, Monday! Welcome, +Sir! Indeed, I'm glad to see you +here. They utter treason who aver you +are devoid of joy and cheer. That +Monday feeling—well, it's this: Hurrah! the +week has now begun and who can +say what luck and bliss will come our +way e'er set of sun. A brand new week +with work to do, and past mistakes all +swept away; our energies strung up +anew to meet and greet the unknown +day. This morn when sleep dropped +from my eyes, I felt a most delightful +thrill. I saw, to my intense surprise—a +guest upon my window-sill. He'd one +leg out and one leg in (he'd opened up +the window wide), I liked his merry, +carefree grin, and so I begged him step +inside. 'Twas you, oh, Monday. Welcome, +Sir! Your presence fills me with +great glee; my pulses with excitement +stir—I wonder what you've brought +for me. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap50"></a> +<i>SECURITIES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +One thing there is more Greek than +Greek to my bemused and puzzled +brain. I read it daily, week by week, +but never is its meaning plain. It is the +column that one sees naming securities +galore. There's oil and rubber—several +teas—and gold in far-off Labrador. +Those fractions! How they puzzle me. +I must confess they make me laugh. +How can there be security in what is +listed minus half? You scorn my denseness, +clever Sir? There's just this thing +I have to say. The stocks I own, I much +prefer—such splendid dividends they +pay. I've many shares in mines of +mirth, in sunshine, air and flowers and +sky, in all the things of sterling worth, +yes, very rich indeed am I. I've neither +copper, tin, nor gold; nor platinum +without alloy. I own what can't be +bought or sold—for I have many shares +in Joy. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap51"></a> +<i>WHEN DECEMBER COMES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +December with her skirts a-blowing, +frozen dew-drops in each ear; +berries at her breast a-glowing, +rosy-cheeked December's here. Hoar-frost +to her garments clinging, prettier gems +she could not find; merrily, December's +singing songs best suited to her mind. +Songs of mistletoe and holly; songs of +labels, paper, string; loving thoughts and +Gayhearts folly—and just a tiny hint of +Spring! December bears herself right +proudly, Amazonian Queen is she. Hear +her laughing, long and loudly—boisterous +winds her minstrelsy. December's crown +is bright and gleaming, Jack Frost made +it for a gift. Just like stars her eyes are +beaming, mouth has such a happy lift! +December knows that we adore her. +Joyfully she goes her way; eleven +sisters march before her—in her train +comes Christmas Day. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap52"></a> +<i>THE LITTLE SHOPS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Oh, smiling god of Good Luck, now +night has slipped away, look down +upon the little shops, and help them +through the day. The shutters have +been taken down and polished are the +window-panes; the brasses glow, the +front is swept—smile, god of Luck, till +daylight wanes. The little shops pull at +one's heart, so simple is their merchandise. +A little window beckons us through +which we peer with misted eyes. For +narrow shops are often kind to tiny folk +scarce counter-high. Above a shop, +behind a blind, I've heard a little baby +cry. Above a shop, I've often seen a +mother's anxious face appear. How +many customers have been? The closing +hour is drawing near. Great shops, like +temples dedicate to merchandise from +every mart, are over-lords of their own +fate—but little shops tug at the heart! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap53"></a> +<i>SUMMER IN YOUR HEART</i> +</h3> + +<p> +What's the sense of fretting because +the sun's forgetting almost every +day to play his part? What care you +for the weather, let it rain and hail +together, if there's summer time a-shining +in your heart. No wonder you feel +weary if you think that life is dreary +just because a bitter wind decides to +blow. What care you for the weather, +come snow and fog together, if the heart +of you with sunshine is aglow. What's +the sense of sighing because Old Time is +trying to turn your darksome hair to +solemn grey? He can't rob you of your +youth when your spirit is, forsooth, a +shining, flaunting banner bright and gay. +Let Father Time grow fleeter, the years +will prove but sweeter, though youth—it +is thus ordered—must depart. Life +has no winter season, for this very sound +good reason—one can always have the +summer in one's heart! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap54"></a> +<i>APRIL, THE JESTER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Hark to April's merry laughter! +Glad is she to reach this earth. +Perhaps she'll weep a minute after—sorrow +often follows mirth. Not to-day, +though, will she sorrow; she's our +Jester, queen of fun. Time enough to +weep to-morrow, when her roguishness +is done. Cap and bells is April wearing, +Punchinello in her hand; jokes with +Brother Wind she's sharing, mortals +cannot understand. Oh! beware of +April's laughter; trust her not, she is +not true. First she laughs—a minute +after, she will make a fool of you. Now +I've warned you, you'll be clever, quite +prepared for April's wit. Let her whisper +"Perfect weather," you'll not be deceived +by it! April her attire is flaunting, cap +and bells and motley gay; and her smile +is mocking, taunting—April's fools are +we to-day. Play the Jester, little April, +just for four and twenty hours. Then +to duty, naughty April—earth awaits +your smiles and show'rs. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap55"></a> +<i>THE SONG OF THE SOUL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"I have put on mine armour," sings +the soul. "The flashing armour of +will to do the Right. Thus I go forth, +not blindly t'wards the goal, but guided +safely, by the Light." "Righteousness +for armour," cries the soul. "Beauty +and Truth—the longed-for goal." "Beneath +mine armour," chants the soul, +"I've donned a scarlet tunic for my +spirit's sake. In scarlet tunic, to the +great Beyond, with courage flaming, to +the road I take. Righteousness for +armour, flashing bright; a scarlet tunic—for +courage in the night." "I will go +forth and in this armour clad to meet +Temptation, that most subtle foe. Like +David of Bethlehem, the shepherd lad, +sure of my strength and power, I go. +And in the stream of Truth I'll find +missiles to fling against Goliath's mind. +I have put on my armour: Truth my +sword; Slave unto none, but Captained +by the Lord." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap56"></a> +<i>A BED-TIME SONG</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Sleepy shadows fear to fall, so they +lean against the wall, while the tall +dock in the hall sings: "'Tis time +for bed." Wooden hills we now must +climb. Up we go, two at a time, singing +such a sleepy rhyme, little Curly Head. +Wooden hills, clip-clop, clip-clop. First +a jump, and then a hop. Now we've +reached the very top, nursery fire glows +red. Sleepy town we've reached at last, +dreamland's ship is anchored fast, rosy +fancies fly the mast, prayers must now +be said. Weigh the anchor, off you go. +Dreamland's miles away, you know. +Little dreams as white as snow wait for +Curly Head. Sleepy shadows fear to fall, +lean against the nursery wall, and to one +another call: "Sleepy Head's in bed!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap57"></a> +<i>AN ANNIVERSARY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +My House! I give you thanks +tonight for one year's comfort and +delight. I thank the sturdy walls and +beams that have enclosed my quiet +dreams. I thank the windows through +which came pale shafts of light and +sunset's flame. The dining-room I thank +as well, where I my hunger did dispel! +I thank my bedroom, papered blue, for +when sore wearied through and through, +it spoke to me: "O Sleepy Head, I bid +you welcome to your bed." I give the +floors a grateful glance for every joyous +whirling dance. The fireplace owns my +thankful heart—what comfort from its +depths can dart! What dreams I've +dreamt when near its blaze; what +pictures seen as I would gaze within the +birch-log's flames of gold that leapt like +dragons fierce and bold. But most of all +I thank the door—the thick front door, +oak at its core, because for twelve months +now on end it has let in some dear-loved +friend! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap58"></a> +<i>TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW</i> +</h3> + +<p> +How often have I paused to bless +your vivid, glowing loveliness! Have +paused to say a "Thank you, window-pane," +because despite a sullen fog or +driving rain, I still have had my glimpse +of Paradise through your untroubled, +bright, reflecting eyes. My heart was +sad when vanished summer days. I +came to you and stood a silent while, and +felt uplifted on the wings of praise. Rich +autumn tints, God bless your golden +smile! Once when a blackish mood +enveloped me, sprays of white lilac arched +your shining pane; the beauty of their +curves spoke tenderly; and I passed on, +happy, revived again. And now 'tis +glorious tulip time with you! Yesterday +their happy colours beckoned me. Rose +pink and mauve and sunlight's golden +hue. Did you, quiet window-pane, not +feel the ecstasy that flooded all my being +while I stood to bless a florist's +window—as all city pilgrims should? +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap59"></a> +<i>TWO COINS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I had two coins offered me, they shone +like gold, they shone like gold. I +clutched at them so greedily, I clutched +at them with fevered hold. I hid them +quickly out of sight. They were for me +alone to see. They gave delight, such +keen delight; I hoarded them most +miserly. One day, alack! and oh! alas! I +took them from their secret place; a +sorry thing had come to pass; my +bright gold coins were dull of face. I +tended them with loving hand. Oh! shine +again, be bright again! This fact +I could not understand: their gleam and +sheen were on the wane. "I will not +hoard you any more," to them I sighed, +to them I cried. I shared with one, with +two, with four; with all the friends +whom I espied. Now this is strange but +this is true. My wealth is more instead +of less; I spent and spent—and still it +grew. Those coins were Love and +Happiness! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap60"></a> +<i>THE STREET SINGER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Truth went singing down the street; +on his head a golden crown, broken +sandals on his feet, shabby, too, his +flowing gown. "Truth," I shouted, +"wait for me. I desire to learn your +song." Nought cared he for my poor +plea; just went hurrying along. "Truth," +I gasped, quite out of breath, "I can't +hear the words you sing." "You will +learn them ere your death," was the jibe +he stopped to fling. "Truth," I prayed +him, "wait awhile. I have followed you +for years. Sometimes you have made +me smile, sometimes caused me bitter +tears. Do, I pray you, let me learn +what it is you sing to-day." Then at +last he deigned to turn, sang for me this +roundelay: "Rich you are? And strong +you are? Good indeed these things to +be. Beloved by friends is better far. +Take this living truth from me." Singing, +down the street Truth went. Others +now will follow fast. As for me, I am +content—having learnt his song at last. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap61"></a> +<i>MERELY PARENTS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Lads and lassies, hear our plea—give +us of your courtesy; we, not you, +need sympathy, being parents. 'Tis a +most exacting age, children are so very +sage, the "complex" now is all the rage, +we're but parents. Give us, do, a helping +hand. We would like to understand, we +are such a purblind band, merely parents. +You are witty, clever, wise, source of all +high enterprise, soon you'll be (for Old +Time flies) like us, just parents. Then +you'll know the self-same fears (aching +heart and unshed tears), having travelled +down the years, as we, your parents. +Then you'll say, as now we do, "We but +long to shelter you, make you love the +good and true, as did our parents." Lads +and lassies! Patience show! Perhaps +we're difficult and slow, but it is +harder than you know—being parents. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap62"></a> +<i>SONG OF THE GIVER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +First there's the joy of choosing. +Now then, what shall it be?—Useful? +Pretty? Amusing? Love chooses +thoughtfully. Then there's the joy of +paper, green leaves with berries red; +a card with a Christmas taper, tied +with a golden thread. Then there's the +joy of tying (not string of the common +kind!) ribbons that we've been buying +that glitter as they unwind. Then there's +the joy of weighing, addressing the label, +too; and, of course, there's the joy of +saying, "With love from me, to you!" But +nought like the joy of dreaming how +happy that someone will be; how eyes +will be brightly gleaming and mouth +smile happily. Joy past the power of +rhyming to follow that parcel in thought; +to hear, with gay laughter chiming, +"Look what the postman has brought!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap63"></a> +<i>THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A steadying hand, a cheerful grin, +"Hold tight," he cries, and helps +us in. We pay the fare, whate'er it be, +and dream of home and fire and tea. +But not the conductor, no, not he. +Cold or heat, wind or rain, up he goes +and down again; ringing bells, cracking +jokes, helping parcel-burdened folks, +lifting babies with great care, "Where to, +Mum? Hold tight there." Answering +questions by the score: "Other way to +Arthur's Store!" "Full inside, one on +top." Conductor's duties never stop. +"Hi! Miss, your purse is on the seat." Someone +tramps on both his feet. Jerks +a rope to let him out, then again his +cheery shout, "Hold tight, there! Fares +please, fares." Mounts again the winding +stairs, whistling blithely, he runs +down—cheeriest man in all the town! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap64"></a> +<i>A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP</i> +</h3> + +<p> +When the sun is shining bright, +when the sky is calm and blue, +when the Port of Luck's in sight, then I +turn to you. For I know you'll laugh +with me, share in full my jollity, and the +world will fairer be—'cause of you. +When the sun is veiled from sight, when +the clouds of grief hang low, when the +day seems turned to night—then to you +I go. For I know you'll comfort me +with a tender sympathy, and the load +will lighter be—'cause of you. Not alone +for days serene, not for moments of +success, but a friend you've ever been—in +joy and in distress. When the road +was rough and long, you have borne the +journey, too. So I've made this little +song—'cause of you. +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t4"> + <i>Printed in Great Britain by</i><br> + UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br><br></p> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75154 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/75154-h/images/img-cover.jpg b/75154-h/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..38ce9fe --- /dev/null +++ b/75154-h/images/img-cover.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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