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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> + + |