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diff --git a/75155-h/75155-h.htm b/75155-h/75155-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..afa6153 --- /dev/null +++ b/75155-h/75155-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2168 @@ +<!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 Silver Linings, 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 75155 ***</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> + SILVER LININGS<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," "SILKEN THREADS"<br> + "THE GOLDEN WEB," "JOY'S LOOM"<br> + "WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS," ETC.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + FOURTH 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"> + First Published ... February 23d 1928<br> + Second Edition ... April 1928<br> + Third Edition ... January 1929<br> + Fourth Edition ... 1929<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">SONG OF LOVELY THINGS</a><br> + <a href="#chap06">TO ONE WHO SIGHED</a><br> + <a href="#chap07">LOOK FORWARD</a><br> + <a href="#chap08">THE WORLD'S BEAUTY</a><br> + <a href="#chap09">TO FATHER TIME</a><br> + <a href="#chap10">MIRACLE OF SPRING</a><br> + <a href="#chap11">EASTER THOUGHTS</a><br> + <a href="#chap12">SENSE OF HUMOUR</a><br> + <a href="#chap13">TO A PETULANT HEART</a><br> + <a href="#chap14">NEIGHBOUR JANE</a><br> + <a href="#chap15">DIMINISHING EVILS</a><br> + <a href="#chap16">THE DEATHLESS RAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap17">LITTLE HEARTBREAK</a><br> + <a href="#chap18">THIS WAY PASSED HEROES</a><br> + <a href="#chap19">JUST AS EASY</a><br> + <a href="#chap20">TO AN ALMOND TREE</a><br> + <a href="#chap21">MICHAEL INSISTS</a><br> + <a href="#chap22">RAINY DAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap23">BEGONE, DULL CARE!</a><br> + <a href="#chap24">IN A ROCKING-CHAIR</a><br> + <a href="#chap25">AT A RAILWAY STATION</a><br> + <a href="#chap26">IN PRAISE OF A WHOLE WEEK</a><br> + <a href="#chap27">A PRAYER IN ADVERSITY</a><br> + <a href="#chap28">THE WATCHFUL TONGUE</a><br> + <a href="#chap29">PETITION</a><br> + <a href="#chap30">A LITTLE THOUGHTLESSNESS</a><br> + <a href="#chap31">MAKE ME NORMAL</a><br> + <a href="#chap32">LIFE, THE TEACHER</a><br> + <a href="#chap33">THE SINGING KETTLE</a><br> + <a href="#chap34">HARVESTING</a><br> + <a href="#chap35">A PAEAN TO WORK</a><br> + <a href="#chap36">THE PRAYER OF THE HOME</a><br> + <a href="#chap37">THE MILLINER</a><br> + <a href="#chap38">IN CONVALESCENCE</a><br> + <a href="#chap39">A QUEER PHYSICIAN</a><br> + <a href="#chap40">THE ENVIABLE GREENGROCER</a><br> + <a href="#chap41">MOVING IN</a><br> + <a href="#chap42">GOOD MONTH OF AUGUST</a><br> + <a href="#chap43">TO A BOY OF SEVENTEEN</a><br> + <a href="#chap44">FOR THOSE IN CITY LODGINGS</a><br> + <a href="#chap45">THE PERFECT GUEST</a><br> + <a href="#chap46">JUST GROWING-PAINS</a><br> + <a href="#chap47">A MAN</a><br> + <a href="#chap48">TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES</a><br> + <a href="#chap49">THE ANTIQUE SHOP</a><br> + <a href="#chap50">TIME'S SACK</a><br> + <a href="#chap51">THE HUMDRUM WAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap52">GIFT OF GLOVES</a><br> + <a href="#chap53">DOGGIE—IN MEMORIAM</a><br> + <a href="#chap54">WHEN IN THE DUMPS</a><br> + <a href="#chap55">"FETCH THE FITTER!"</a><br> + <a href="#chap56">BAGPIPES</a><br> + <a href="#chap57">WHEN I WAS EIGHT</a><br> + <a href="#chap58">MY FATHER</a><br> + <a href="#chap59">THE HEART'S WAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap60">LIFE IS TOO SHORT</a><br> + <a href="#chap61">POINT OF VIEW</a><br> + <a href="#chap62">LIFE'S A.B.C</a><br> + <a href="#chap63">NURSE</a><br> + <a href="#chap64">FOUR WALLS</a><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap05"></a> +<i>SONG OF LOVELY THINGS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +How many lovely things there be! +The ever-changing, restless sea; +the gracious, friendly, shady tree; and +children laughing in their glee. How +many lovely things there are! The +glowing, beaming, friendly star, the +garden gate that stands ajar, the sound +of Church bells from afar. How many +lovely things I know! Stories of lovers +long ago, and places where the lilies blow, +and children's voices sweet and low. +What lovely things have touched my +heart—see how the waves caress and +part, and watch pale Dawn from Night +upstart and slip into her mystic mart. +What lovely things my ears have heard: +the thrilling song of happy bird, a horse +by anxious lover spurred, a toddler's +sweetly lisped first word. What lovely +things my eyes have seen: snow-covered +hills and fields of green, and silks of +wondrous weave and sheen—and Baby's +toothless smile serene! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap06"></a> +<i>TO ONE WHO SIGHED</i> +</h3> + +<p> +You cannot sing? Well, others +can. You do not dance? but +others do. And ever since the world +began there have been certain folk like +you who cannot dance, and cannot sing, +nor weave a play nor write a book. +But you can sew? Most anything? +And are quite expert as a cook? And +you can draw a little bit, amuse your +friends with pen and ink? You make +folk laugh—this you admit. You have +a lot of gifts, I think. Oh, foolish one, to +sigh and fret because you're not as some +folk are. Suppose a plant of mignonette +withered because 'twas not a star! Be +what you are, dear girl, with pride. +Accept your limits with good grace; the +world is varied, very wide; for each of +us there is a place. Within your sphere +be quite content, be proud of work that +is your own, and to life's complex +instrument with sweetness add your mite +of tone. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap07"></a> +<i>LOOK FORWARD</i> +</h3> + +<p> +What a mess I made of things! +That was yesterday. Yesterday +has taken wings—hide mistakes away. +Things I did can't be undone. Silly +then to sorrow. Better is the task begun +on a bright new morrow. If I hadn't +acted thus! Silence, puling heart. +Useless now to fume and fuss, make a brand +new start. All the energy that goes into +senseless fretting would rebuild, if you +so chose, your plan in some new setting. +What a blow! Fate is unkind. Grit +your teeth, don't murmur. Smile as if +you didn't mind, stand a little firmer. +Here is solace for your grief, nothing's +done beyond recall. Smudged a page? +Well, turn a leaf. Begin again. That's +all. Failed to-day? To-day is past. +To-morrow's peeping round the door. +Never doubt you'll win at last. That is +what to-morrow's for. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap08"></a> +<i>THE WORLD'S BEAUTY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Not in seclusion is true beauty seen, +not in a fragrant, silent country +lane, nor in a daisy field all white and +green, nor in a golden meadow washed +with rain. But in a smoky, noisy, busy +street, whose only colours through +shop-windows show; where there is constant +march of human feet that bravely journey +daily to and fro; where cripples play a +gay and daring air; and blind folk stand +and dream that it is light; where passers-by +who haven't much to spare yet stop +to give ungrudgingly their mite. And +where small houses nestle close together, +beneath whose roofs hard-working people +live, who help each other in the stormy +weather, who have so little yet can always +give. O beauty of the world, you are +seen best where the soul's banner floats +courageously above the turmoil of the +day's high-fevered quest—in ugly places +beautified by Love! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap09"></a> +<i>TO FATHER TIME</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Whene'er you care to turn my +hair from brown to grey or white; +whene'er you line this face of mine with +wrinkles left and right, I shall not mind +nor call unkind these changes that you +bring; nor shall I pray for you to stay +your swift, relentless sting. But Father +Time, please read this rhyme and grant +me this request. Take not from me the +power to see a joke and merry jest. +Let me not tire of my desire to try +adventures new, nor e'er destroy my deep keen +joy in flowers of vivid hue. Though +eyes grow dim and stiff each limb, please +leave untouched my heart. So I will +heed another's need and act a friendly +part. Pile on the years, give cause for +tears, but keep my courage strong. +Then come what may, I'll ease the day +with laughter and with song. Do what +you will, you cannot kill my dreams, for +ever fair. For they are mine, old Father +Time. In them you have no share! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap10"></a> +<i>MIRACLE OF SPRING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Were I to live a thousand years +I still would know that flaming +thrill, that rush of joy when first +appears—the golden daffodil. A thousand +times my heart would sing when purple +irises unfold; or when forsythia's +branches bring their dazzling showers +of gold. I could not see an almond tree +with branches all a rosy glow but that a +tide of ecstasy would through my being +flow. Were I to see, a thousand times, +blue scilla bells amid green grass, I know +I'd hear their fairy chimes as I would +pass. Were I to live a thousand years +I'd never watch the nesting birds except +through eyes bedimmed with tears, my +tongue bereft of words. Were I to weave +ten thousand lays, knew I a thousand +songs to sing, I still would lack the power +to praise—the miracle of Spring. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap11"></a> +<i>EASTER THOUGHTS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Little growing things, pushing +through the earth, petals for soft +wings, bells to echo mirth. Little bud +and leaf, spite of winter's pain, spite +of nature's grief, they are here again. +Little growing things, roots are in my +heart. Hark! the robin sings. Sorrow +must depart. Doubts and chilly fears! winter +now is o'er, wipe away your tears. +Courage! rise once more. Courage has +not fled, simply slept awhile. Hope, +that you deemed dead, revived beneath +a smile. Good cannot be slain, beauty +never dies, spring has come again, soul +of man, arise. Arise and go forth now, +Easter calls to you. Blossoms on the +bough, spirit burgeons, too. The Lenten +lilies sing "From dead self, arise," while +every growing thing says, "Beauty +never dies." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap12"></a> +<i>SENSE OF HUMOUR</i> +</h3> + +<p> +What it is, can't just say, only +know it saved the day, drove the +gathering clouds away. Just a twinkle +in the eye, just a smile instead of sigh; +Lo! the storm soon passed right by—all +through a sense of humour. What it is, +don't just know, but it made rich laughter +flow, life took on a rosy glow: troubles +shrank to half their size; sorrow wore a +cheerful guise; work appeared to be the +prize—all through a sense of humour. +Things were going very wrong, flowers no +colour, birds no song; weakness ousted +courage strong—stepped in a sense of +humour: put the balance right again, +saved two people lots of pain, brought the +sunshine after rain—and that's a sense +of humour. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap13"></a> +<i>TO A PETULANT HEART</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Such a resentful voice—"I didn't +ask to be born," it said. But being +here, 'tis fitting to rejoice. In gratitude +lift up your voice. "What for?" it +said. For these and many things. For +the flowers' gay hue; the bird that +sweetly sings, for grass bedecked with +sparkling dew, for being born an heir to +all the beauty that the world enfolds. +Come! have you not your share in sea +and sky, in hills and vales and wolds? +But more for this, oh, petulant heart. +That for your strength there is provided +toil. And for your soul's sake, the +chance to do your part in planting fruitful +seeds in barren soil. Oh, lad, oh, petulant +lad, cast off the foolish mood; be glad. +Be glad that there are battles you must +fight; and hills to climb; defeats to +suffer; goals to keep in sight. Be glad, +yea, all the time. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap14"></a> +<i>NEIGHBOUR JANE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Every morning, when she woke, +quaint and short the prayer she +spoke. "Make me easy, Lord, I pray, +to live with—easy through the +day." Nothing more did Jane e'er ask. But +straightway faced the first hour's task. +Neighbours said it was a fact, Jane had +charm and Jane had tact. She didn't +hurt nor irritate; she didn't prick, she +didn't grate. Gentle, courteous, kindly +Jane, neighbours called and called again! +Found her presence like sweet balm, +sympathetic, soothing, calm. "Jane," +said one, "sweet oil has found to make +the wheels of life go round. Bumpy +places disappear just as soon as Jane +draws near." Every evening, e'er she +slept, to the window this Jane crept; +worshipped there the starry crowd. +"Who am I?" she cried aloud, "to +make a fussy, wordy riot when such +nobility is quiet! Make me easy, Lord, +I pray, to live with—easy through the +day." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap15"></a> +<i>DIMINISHING EVILS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +How high those hills, how far away. +Menacing hills at break of day. +Friend, keep going; there's no knowing +when you will come to the end of the +way. Be not alarmed, fear not at all; +at the foot of the slope the hill looks +small. Journey along, hearty and strong, +the summit is reached e'er the shadows +fall. How great those ills, grim foes +they seem. Swift and swollen life's +angry stream. Friend, keep going, +there's no knowing when troubles will +vanish as if in a dream. Be not alarmed, +have no fear; the further away the worse +they appear. Journey along, hearty and +strong; troubles are bubbles when +Courage is near. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap16"></a> +<i>THE DEATHLESS RAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Oh! Happiness, that bright, winged +ray, went darting blithely on its +way. It made a little baby smile, and +then it skipped another mile, and made +a busy mother sing; and then again it +took to wing and darted swiftly to a boy, +filling his heart with youthful joy. From +thence, a weary man it found. To +sorrow he'd been straitly bound; but +suddenly his heart felt light and all the +world was fair and bright. It darted +further; here and there—around the +world—just everywhere! Right through +a thousand hearts it went, and yet its +strength was never spent. This is a +truth we should remember, through all +the months, right to December, and +then the cycle round again: a ray of +joy need never wane. Our happiness +we need not save; the store will last us +to the grave. Give joy away; it will +return. A lovely lesson this to learn. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap17"></a> +<i>LITTLE HEARTBREAK</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A little Heartbreak, wan and sore, +was sitting by herself. A sunbeam +slipped around the door and danced upon +a shelf. Though little Heartbreak knew +not why, she ceased, quite suddenly, to +cry. Still little Heartbreak sat alone. +"I never will be whole again," thus said +she in her saddest tone, "I never will be +healed of pain." Then, unannounced, a +little breeze that had been playing in the +trees, passed softly over Heartbreak's +face, and, lo! of tears there was no trace. +Then when a bird began to sing, and +Heartbreak couldn't help but hear, there +happened such a curious thing—a silvern +echo did appear, enthroned itself in +Heartbreak's breast and, like the bird, +sang with sweet zest! So little Heartbreak +tossed her head and laughed to +find the world so fair. "It's true," she +cried, "my heart has bled, and I have +lived with black despair. But I can't +be quite broken, long—with sunbeams, +zephyrs, and birds' song!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap18"></a> +<i>THIS WAY PASSED HEROES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +They passed but once this way, but +they have left a flowered trail +behind. Surprising how in life's brief +day they found so many chances to be +kind. They passed but once—this way +they went, and with them joy and grief, +and work and play. There is no need to +raise a monument to heroes such as they. +They once were found in simple homes +and small, in offices and shops, engaged +in work. They heard quite clearly Duty's +trumpet call, and forth they marched with +no attempt to shirk. Soldiers were they, +no medals on their breast, a broom for +weapon, or an office pen; and victory +oft crowned the spirit's quest. All +honour to these womenfolk and men. They +were so gentle journeying the road, they +scattered little acts of kindness here and +there. They had their burdens, but a +brother's load was also one in which they +wished to share. No wonder we can see +the path they chose, for flowers have +blossomed everywhere they trod. They +passed, and now through them there +grows a lasting symbol of the living God. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap19"></a> +<i>JUST AS EASY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +No harder to praise than to scorn, no +harder to love than to hate; no +harder to sing than to mourn, as easy to +act as to wait. No harder to smile than +to frown. It's as easy to stand as to +lean, as easy to lift as pull down, to be +generous rather than mean. It's not +very hard to be glad, it's not very hard +to rejoice, it's harder indeed to be sad. +Let happiness then be our choice. No +harder to trust than to doubt, and +courage is easy as fear, and foes are quite +easy to rout with weapons of Good Sense +and Cheer. No harder to sing than to +cry, as easy to do as to plan; no harder +to laugh than to sigh, and gulfs aren't +to dread but to span. And giving is +easier, too, than withholding your hand +from a friend; no harder to aid than to +rue—and sweeter the day at the end. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap20"></a> +<i>TO AN ALMOND TREE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Oh, little wakeful tree, how beautiful +art thou, curving so gracefully each +pink blossomed bough. Thou child, in +dainty party dress, to think that thou +wouldst brave—to give us mortals +happiness—a wind-blown, frost-lined grave! +Oh, little wakeful one, why didst thou +stir so soon? The Spring has scarce +begun, thou wouldst have graced fair +June. Thy blossoms will ne'er see thy +prophecies come true, nor summer's +pageantry with happy blushes view. Pink +petals soon will fall (oh, little tree, be +still); soon will the thrushes call and +Spring trip o'er the hill. Bare will thy +branches be, thy day of beauty o'er, but +little wakeful tree, we will but love thee +more—that thou didst dare to sing: +"Oh, heart, prepare for Spring!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap21"></a> +<i>MICHAEL INSISTS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +On the grass the sunlight falls, near +at hand a blackbird calls; a squirrel +races up a tree. All this, and more, +engrosses me. "Throw a stick," pants +Michael. Such a gentle breeze now +passes; how graceful are the bending +grasses. Here and there the children +play; I could sit and dream all day. +"Throw a stick," pants Michael. Peace +and quiet and sweet repose; someone +has a cold, wet nose; something scratches +at my knees (lovely sun and gentle +breeze). "Throw a stick," pants +Michael. Michael's head is on one side, +Michael's mouth is opened wide; brown +eyes look beseechingly. Michael! take +your eyes from me. "Throw a stick," +pants Michael. Who can sit in selfish +ease, just admiring grass and trees, +deeming life most kind and sweet, when +a branch lies at one's feet—"Throw a +stick," pants Michael. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap22"></a> +<i>RAINY DAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"Rainy day," said Mother Dawn, +"rise from out your cloud-lined +bed. Look upon each field and lawn, a +coverlet of mist I've spread." Rainy +Day slipped from her cloud, shook bright +rain-drops from her hair. As they fell, +she laughed aloud, "Mother Dawn, what +shall I wear?" "Take, my child, this +dress of grey, fashioned from a frowning +sky. Rainy Day, now run away, the +patient, panting earth is dry." Rainy +Day played hide-and-seek, in and out +among the flowers. Cooled a hollyhock's +hot cheek with her gift of gentle showers. +Red roofs shone with great delight when +she touched them for a space. Dry +leaves trembled with delight, pressed +against her loving face. Suddenly, a +flashing gem, heralded from mighty sun, +settled on the grey gown's hem—Rainy +Day her work had done. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap23"></a> +<i>BEGONE, DULL CARE!</i> +</h3> + +<p> +No! little, whining, fretting care, +you cannot come a walk with me. +So lovely is the morning air I do not want +your company. Oh! little, whining, +fretting care, you have no part in graceful +trees; in waving grass you have no share; +you have no kinship with a breeze. I'm +going to a shady place where little children +laugh and play. You'd cast a shadow +on each face if you came out with me +to-day. I'm going where a little stream +bears lovely lilies on its breast. I could +not sit awhile to dream if you're to be +my morning guest. I'm going where the +poppies blow among the friendly golden +corn. No little care would dare to go and +show its face this sunny morn. I'm +going where sweet peace is found within +a fern-grown fragrant dell, where silence +wraps the spirit round—so carking care +farewell! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap24"></a> +<i>IN A ROCKING-CHAIR</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Back and forth; one and two; a +needle flashing, bright as mirth. +Filmy stuff of palest blue, bit of heaven +come to earth! Anyone can visit Spain, +Holland, France, or Italy, if she cares to +go by train, if she cares to go by sea. +Back and forth; soft and slow, needle +dancing merrily. Always thought I'd +like to go where grows the giant banyan +tree. Needle's speeding down one side, +India's moon is very bright. How +delightful thus to glide across a pool of +silver light. Scented is the midnight +air, romance grows on every stem! +Jungle beasts for fights prepare—finished +is the wee skirt's hem. Back and forth; +not too fast, on the way to Fancy's land. +Here we are, on shore at last, fairies take +me by the hand. Back and forth, one +and two, anyone can fly by air. Cleverer, +I think, don't you, to travel in a rocking-chair! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap25"></a> +<i>AT A RAILWAY STATION</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Proud trunk indeed! It looked at +me with ill-disguised antipathy. It +seemed to know I'd never been to all +the places it had seen. I circled it with +humble tread and, filled with awe, its +labels read. One year, I saw, it went +to Spain; and liked it, for it went again. +And once to Venice, once to Rome. I +wondered if it longed for home. I must +admit it travelled far; for there were +labels "C.P.R." This trunk showed +such a haughty face. I hastened to +another place, and soon a battered box +I spied that did not look so dignified, +and on its shabby lid there sat a whistling +boy with ball and bat. Said I (my +manners are so bad), "Where are you +going, whistling lad?" His smile was +wonderful to see. "To jolly Margate +sands," cried he. Back to the haughty +trunk I went. "Each one," I bowed, +"to his own bent. Though you prefer +some far-off land, had I the choice, please +understand, a shabby box I'd rather be, +with whistling lad for company!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap26"></a> +<i>IN PRAISE OF A WHOLE WEEK</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Poor old Robinson Crusoe, a lonely +man was he, with not a soul but +Friday to keep him company. So when +I'm feeling lonely, humble, sad and meek, +I just remember that for friends I have a +whole good week! Six days as well as +Friday, companions brave and strong; +it really seems they all deserve a tribute +and a song. So here's to good Man +Friday, and to his brothers six. There's +always one to help me should I be in a fix. +Suppose that Monday's greyish—there's +Tuesday coming soon, and if the morning's +boresome—there is the afternoon! A +toast, then, to "a whole week" which +has such friendly ways, for should one +Friday disappear—it sends six other +days. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap27"></a> +<i>A PRAYER IN ADVERSITY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"Lord, keep Thou my temper +sweet." Thus I used to hear her +say as she trod life's lonely way, faced +so often by defeat. "Lord, keep Thou +my temper sweet." Phrase of wisdom! +How it clings. Troubles now I never +meet, but within my heart there rings, +"Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Sullen +is the storm-swept sky. Everything +is going wrong. That's no reason +you or I should broadcast a bitter song. +The world has quite enough to bear; we +at least might try to smile. Adding +grief would be unfair, things will brighten +in a while. Though despair is looming +near, let not bitterness hold sway; +now's the time to conquer fear, to-morrow +brings a happy day. Sulk not with life +when things go wrong. What though +you met grim defeat! Chant this +helpful little song: "Lord, keep Thou my +temper sweet." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap28"></a> +<i>THE WATCHFUL TONGUE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The "watchful" tongue I do +despise, the tongue that always +waits to learn what words would be +accounted wise. 'Tis such a tongue I +spurn. The tongue that plays the suavest +airs upon the most expedient string; +that echoes much, but never dares to be +the leader in the ring; that always drops +a pleasing word because it's easiest so to +do; when drums of argument are heard, +by silence, sees the matter through. +Oh! I dislike the trembling tongue that +is afraid of words sincere. I do detest +the song that's sung to the accompaniment +of fear. And there's a silence I +abhor; a silence meant to lead astray; +a silence like a heavy door denying Truth +the right of way. I'd rather hear quick +hammer blows, words edged with steel, +perhaps unkind; a muffled tongue, it +never shows the true complexion of +the mind. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap29"></a> +<i>PETITION</i> +</h3> + +<p> +O Lord, I pray that I may e'er +delight in springtime's fairy +blossoms pink and white, in green and +lacy leaves; may never lose the joy +that always springs at sight of all the +little daily things—of brightly-patterned +weaves; of gaily-coloured china; rich, +dark grains that glow long after +daylight wanes, wood of time-burnished +hue. And joy in sounds—the blackbird's +thrilling call, the human voice letting rich +phrases fall, all precious gifts from You. +O Lord, I pray that I may face each task +and rise to its demands, nor ever ask that +others bear my load; that I may prove +a loyal and helpful friend before I reach +the journey's quiet end along the winding +road. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap30"></a> +<i>A LITTLE THOUGHTLESSNESS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A little thoughtlessness, so very +slight—but someone's sunny day +was turned to night. Someone was +caused unnecessary pain, and it takes +time e'er wounds are healed again. A +little thoughtless phrase dropped like a +leaf—yet someone heard and, through it, +suffered grief. A little thoughtlessness; +the mere not doing of some small act we +might have done so well. Perhaps e'er +long we shall be sorely ruing this slight +omission more than words can tell. The +things we do not do! Ah, this is true, +they often hurt far more than what we +do. A little thoughtlessness, or little +thought; between these two what differences +are wrought! A little thought for +others, word or act—a cheery smile or +letter writ with tact, a putting of ourselves +where others stand, the understanding +heart, the helping hand. The "I +remember," not, "Oh, I forgot"—a little +thoughtfulness has helped a lot. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap31"></a> +<i>MAKE ME NORMAL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Make me normal, I would pray. +Keep me normal, day by day. +Strong, I pray Thee, balanced, sane; +normal body, normal brain. I would be, +if I might choose, somewhat witty to +amuse; somewhat clever to achieve; +somewhat capable to grieve; somewhat +kind to offer balm; somewhat like a +quiet psalm; somewhat fiery when need +be; ever quick with sympathy; not too +good, nor yet too bad; often happy, +sometimes sad; just a normal, decent +friend, courage-girt unto the end! Not +a genius hard to please; rather one who +can with ease, find, wherever she may +go, people she is glad to know. Merely +normal, every way—for this blessing I +would pray. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap32"></a> +<i>LIFE, THE TEACHER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Here is a truth the years have +slowly taught me. There's not an +effort ever made in vain; though fate +within its painful clutch has caught me, +farther along the road I've gone—through +pain. Here is a lesson life has slowly +taught me: to chase good Fortune is +young folly's way. Always I've found +that she herself has sought me when +love of work alone has filled my day. +There's not a fault that I have e'er +committed, there's no mistake that I have +ever made, that has not into life's mosaic +fitted; this is a law that ever is obeyed. +There's not a thread I've used, though it +be knotted, but has in my life's pattern +found its place. There's not a page, +though with mistakes it's blotted, that +does not show of destiny some trace. +Here is a truth that I have grown to +cherish: no righteous battle's ever fought +in vain; nor does a thought or deed of +goodness perish, but, like a tree, brings +forth its fruit again. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap33"></a> +<i>THE SINGING KETTLE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Up to its neck in water, boiling +water, too. Yet the kettle keeps +on singing—that's what we ought to do! +Next time we're in some trouble, almost +up to the chin, we'll think of the cheerful +kettle, and a little song begin. It helps, +when feelings are boiling, to let off lots +of steam. Whistle and sing with +courage; things aren't as black as they +seem. Kettle, you merry creature, +scorched by the callous fire, teach us +your power of moulding the will to the +day's desire. Up to your neck in +troubles? They haven't swept over +your head! Sing like the steaming +kettle, till all your troubles have fled. +Singing will sound so pleasant to any +who chance to hear. The kettle does +naught by its duty—but doesn't its +singing cheer! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap34"></a> +<i>HARVESTING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Now when I went a-harvesting +across a golden field, "Turn back," +they said, "this wheat and rye is not for +you," I did not sigh. I did not flinch, +I did but sing, when I went forth +a-harvesting! Within this golden field +(sang I) I've come by right a-harvesting. +And from (cried I) this fruitful field, I'll +take my proper share of yield. I will +not sleep until I reap a goodly harvest +that will last until the winter's come and +passed. I snapped my fingers while +they frowned. I then began to bind up +sheaves of sunlight poured upon the +ground; of shadows made by dancing +leaves. I took a blackbird's sweetest +trill; I gathered in a thrush's song; +where'er I went I gleaned at will; this +harvest does to me belong. They had +no power to say me nay; the beauty of +the earth I own; a harvest song I'll sing +to-day in praise of fields that Joy has +sown. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap35"></a> +<i>A PAEAN TO WORK</i> +</h3> + +<p> +To work! Hour by hour, day by +day; to employ one's hands and +brain. To strive; to win an inch along +the way; to lose; to start again. Oh! it +is joy to work unceasingly with might +and main. Hard work is not a burden, +ever. The busy ones are enviable indeed. +They have no time for petty ills that +sever the power to do, from the insistent +need. That little leisure snatched for a +respite, how packed it is with joy and +keen delight. Gold cannot buy it. 'Tis +reserved for those who labour through +the day until its close. Work does not +irk. It brings relief; assuages grief; +increases pleasure; adds to the measure +of any happiness we find; and brings to +the mind a peaceful satisfaction; to the +heart, a glow. Oh! work! You are the +kindest friend we know. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap36"></a> +<i>THE PRAYER OF THE HOME</i> +</h3> + +<p> +May sunbeams kiss my window-panes +and dance inside to pet each +wall; and when the happy daylight +wanes, may gracious shadows come to +call. May winds speak low to me in +love; may I have friendship with the +skies; and may the stars that shine above +sing me their silvern lullabies. May +books abide with me alway, and flowers +on every window-sill; may joyous +Laughter come to stay, and Kindliness and +Right Good-Will. Oh! may I be a +haven fair for those with whom I daily +live; and may the lonely stranger share +in joy that I, a Home, can give. A +steadfast storehouse I would be for +tender dreams and ideals true; and, oh! I +pray you, think of me as loving arms +enfolding You. May Passers-by glance +up and see my smiling curtains, blossoms +bright, and with a rush of sympathy—ask +God to bless me day and night! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap37"></a> +<i>THE MILLINER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Nice work, a milliner's, I think. +Always intent upon a crown of +silk or velvet, blue or pink; of felt or +straw, of red or brown; nice work, a +milliner's, I think. What dreams a +milliner must dream, stitching a bow or +velvet band, or finishing the lining's +seam, creating beauty all by hand. What +dreams a milliner must dream! For +as she works at this or that she'll see a +smiling, winsome face beneath the +nearly-finished hat, that soon will have such +style and grace—an unknown girl's +delighted face. Nice work a milliner's +must be, to make a jaunty little crown, +and trim it very prettily to match a +new and saucy gown. For as the hat +takes shape and form, then one could +whisper tenderly, "Now, gallant hat, +defy Life's storm and give a moment's +ecstasy." Nice work a milliner's must be. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap38"></a> +<i>IN CONVALESCENCE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The joy of coming down the stairs, +seeing loved faces once again; +familiar objects, pictures, chairs, a tree +that taps the window-pane; and books +that say, "We've missed the touch of +one who always loved us much." The +childish, secret, but keen pride that hands +have grown so thin and white. They look +so pale, so dignified; 'tis strange, but +true, this gives delight! Then languor +and the wish to sleep. Absurd, but one +would like to weep. The lack of power +to concentrate, the feeling there's no soul +to care how hard the blow, how ill the +fate that one is called upon to bear. The +weariness when friends forget one doesn't +wish for chatter yet. The question, +"Will I e'er get well?" that's like a +thumb-screw and a rack; a deep depression +for a spell; then lo! the tide of +health flows back. These feelings come +to everyone when convalescence has +begun. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap39"></a> +<i>A QUEER PHYSICIAN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Such a queer physician, didn't +sound my heart, neither did he feel +my pulse nor read the nurse's chart; +didn't take my temperature, didn't +seem to care, didn't talk of diet; just +gave a searching stare. Asked me, +"Do you worry?" "Are you filled +with dread?" "Are there fears that +haunt you?" this is what he said. +"Do you cherish hatred? Of whom? and +tell me why. You alone can cure +yourself if you really try." "Are the +thoughts you entertain happy ones and +bright, or are they fraught with +bitterness and malice, envy, spite?" Such a +queer physician, but his questions made +me think, and ever since his visit I've +been feeling "in the pink." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap40"></a> +<i>THE ENVIABLE GREENGROCER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +See him every morning (through +my window-pane), his little shop +adorning, sun, or fog, or rain. He dresses +up the front of it (a nice, wide, sloping +stall) with market garden produce, +imported fruits and all. Suppose he sold +but hardware; a blackish pot and pan. +He really is, you must admit, a very +lucky man. For he has flaming oranges, +and apples shining red; he doesn't deal +in tin-tacks, but smooth green beans +instead. The friendly brown of walnuts +and cauliflowers so white, pale honey-hued +bananas—the nursery folks' delight. +With these he decks his window, and +makes his stall so gay, so passers-by must +stop to look—no matter what the day. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap41"></a> +<i>MOVING IN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Yes, they have a piano—very glad +of that. Hope the men won't bump +it going through the door. Looks as +if that basket contains a pussy-cat. +Roll of blue linoleum to grace the kitchen +floor. Love to stand upon the kerb and +watch a "Moving-in," makes the blood +run warmly, gives the heart-strings such +a tug. Don't know the people, but all +the world's akin (that's a comfy-looking +chair and that's a cheerful rug). Don't +know the people, matters not a bit, all +the dreams they're dreaming are trooping +from the van. Look at that large roll +of blinds, oh, I hope they'll fit! There's +a garden roller and a bright red watering-can. +Yes, they have a baby—had to +wait to see. High chair is coming, it's +new and shiny white, and there's a pale +blue wardrobe and a little wooden tree +on which to hang small garments whilst +Baby sleeps at night. Love to stand +upon the kerb and watch a "Moving-in"—tables, +chairs, and curtain-rods, make +all the world akin. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap42"></a> +<i>GOOD MONTH OF AUGUST</i> +</h3> + +<p> +They're pouring out of offices, +from shops and schoolrooms, too. +And so, good month of August, please see +what you can do. They're leaving tapes +and scissors, the inkpot and the pen, and +books with tiresome figures—they're +seeking hill or glen. They'll wake, just when +they wish to; go out or sit at home. +Oh! August, you were lucky for that +Emperor of Rome. So please bring luck, +I pray you, for the youngsters and the +old who are having days of leisure—be +not tearful, dull, or cold. Smile on them, +month of August, let them see the world +is fair; let them feel the world is kindly, +in its beauty let them share. Be it +seaside, be it country, wherever be their +goal, kind August, act benignly, refresh +them heart and soul. So fill their eyes +with beauty, they never will forget the +August sun's great glory when it begins +to set. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap43"></a> +<i>TO A BOY OF SEVENTEEN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Oh! boy, how fortunate you are. +Ahead of you the long, long trail; +above ambition's shining star to beckon +over hill and dale. Oh! boy, how +fortunate you are that you have still to travel +far. Before you lies the unknown road, +a great adventure to begin. Up, lad, +fling shoulder-high the load; stride forth, +my son, intent to win. Be deaf to all +but honour's code, and loiter not in +sloth's abode. I do believe I envy you. +Such wide horizons for your eyes, so many +things to learn and do. Dear lad, grow +not so over-wise; you will not note the +sunset's hue; nor marvel at the dawn's +bright dew. Just seventeen! Oh, lucky +boy, to have so many hours to spend in +which to learn life's greatest joy springs +from the struggle as we wend towards the +goal that marks the end. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap44"></a> +<i>FOR THOSE IN CITY LODGINGS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Let them have windows high above +the street, and let them see at least +one city tree; windows high-flung so +that their eyes may greet the sky and +night-time's noble pageantry. Then +sister moon can be a precious friend, +and stars companions when the shadows +fall, and through these lodging-windows +prithee send a scented breeze, a blackbird's +cheery call. And let them find +companionship in stairs that creak a +welcome when they mount at night, +and in the friendliness of well-used chairs, +and all small things, through time, made +dear to sight. And let there be a child +who'll shyly peep at lonely lodgers as +they come and go—a laughing child who +nightly falls asleep while mother sings in +accents sweet and low. And give them +this and this and then still more—a +neighbour's friendly word at start of day, +a cheery greeting floating through the +door, so that they go not lonely on their +way. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap45"></a> +<i>THE PERFECT GUEST</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The perfect guest has named the +day when she'll arrive, and by what +train. Nor did she then forget to say +when she will travel home again; and +having named the hour and date she +doesn't, whim swayed, change her mind +and come too early or too late, for that +indeed would be unkind. She doesn't +need a lot of aid, nor ask for service that +will irk, nor by her presence give the +maid unnecessary, increased work. She +keeps her room quite spick and span, is +always punctual, talks with ease, falls +in with every household plan, and does +her very best to please. She can amuse +herself quite well, she writes her letters, +sews or reads, and leaves her hostess for +a spell to give her time for her own needs. +And at the pleasant visit's end, her host +and hostess both agree when speaking of +their absent friend, a very perfect guest +was she. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap46"></a> +<i>JUST GROWING-PAINS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Just growing-pains that made him +say that hurtful, bitter thing to-day. +He didn't mean to give you pain. 'Twas +just a storm that swept his brain and +made him argue black was white; and +bad was good, and wrong was right, and +made him scoff and made him sneer at +all the things you hold most dear. He +isn't bad, that boy of yours, but just like +others, scores and scores. First babyhood, +then childhood wanes, and then, +there come those growing-pains! Oh! +Foolish parents to believe he likes to +make you fret and grieve. The minute +that the word had leapt from his hot +tongue he could have wept, he felt +ashamed, too proud, alack! to take the +silly statement back. He is a man (and +you should know it!) and loves you much, +but cannot show it. He has to quote +from Bernard Shaw, and rant about life's +highest law, and say religion's out of +date, and reconstruct the Church and +State. Soon will this phase grow weak +and wane—it's nothing but a growing-pain. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap47"></a> +<i>A MAN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Successful? Yes, through honest +work, not through some happy turn +of fate. Never has he been known to +shirk since he attained to man's estate. +Approached each task with buoyant zest, +of all life's gifts deemed work the best. +But this alone does not portray the man +that I would have you see. A zest for +work, I hear you say, is not a claim on +sympathy. So other virtues I'll outline +which well describe this friend of mine. +He has that questing type of mind that +one associates with youth. T'wards +fulsomeness he's deaf and blind; abhors a +lie, respects the truth; and honesty is +part of him, as much a part as any limb. +Quite perfect, then? Oh! no, indeed. +Did I not say he was a man? But turn +to him when you're in need and he will +help you all he can. A loyal, sincere, +and upright friend, whom one can trust +right to the end. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap48"></a> +<i>TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Just with a little pipe of clay, a bowl +of water and some soap, you find your +happiness to-day, releasing fairy worlds +of hope. Now watch these iridescent +balls sailing so lightly and so high, and +some collide with chairs and walls, and +then to beauty it's "Good-bye!" You +do not weep, but blow and blow until +another doth appear, then wave your +small hand to and fro—it floats towards +the chandelier. I watch your velvet +cheeks puff out, your lovely eyes are +shining bright. I thrill to hear your +happy shout, "This one will reach a +star to-night." Dear little child, in later +years may you make beauty with such +ease; and fashion, out of smiles and tears, +rainbows of glowing hope like these. +And should one bubble's fate be ill, then, +from your pipe of dreams, I pray you'll +blow another, laughing still, as you are +doing, dear, to-day. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap49"></a> +<i>THE ANTIQUE SHOP</i> +</h3> + +<p> +There is a little antique store, just +round the corner on Life's road; +and paved with tear-drops is its floor, and +smiles light up this small abode. And +Memory sits there every day; she is the +guardian of these wares. My heart, it +often wends that way, to see this shop +and how it fares. My heart peers through +the window-pane with eyes like pools of +smiles and tears, so glad and sad to see +again the curios of bygone years. Says +Memory, "O heart, draw near! Here is +a little shining dream, and here a rippling +song of cheer; and here, your childhood's +fairy stream." An antique shop this +Past of mine; its gems kept safe by +Memory; each kind word heard, how +they do shine, set in rare Fancy's filigree. +Just round the corner, on Life's street, a +little Antique Shop I know. My heart +fares forth with quickened beat to view +the gems of Long Ago. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap50"></a> +<i>TIME'S SACK</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"OH, Father Time! what have +you there? What's in your bag? +Now, prithee, say. How do you know +which is my share of all those things +you hide away? And are there pleasant +things for me? Please, Father Time, +just one quick peep. To-morrow's share +do let me see, before I wrap myself in +sleep." Old Father Time said not one +word, just went a-walking down Life's +street. It's very strange he never heard +my eager, chasing, racing feet. And +yet next day, without a doubt, I find a +dozen things to do. From Time's big +sack they've fallen out. He might have +told—of course, he knew! I'm wiser +now, I do not ask what Father Time will +bring to-morrow; for each day has its +play and task; its joy and e'en its sorrow. +And each awakening has this thrill: +I wonder what To-day will bring? +Perhaps a golden daffodil a-trumpeting, +"It's Spring!" "It's Spring!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap51"></a> +THE HUMDRUM WAY +</h3> + +<p> +When something unusual has to +be done, a perilous hill to be +scaled, a bridge to be crossed, a venture +begun, we think not of those who have +failed, but we tackle the job with courage +and zest, for really and truly it's fun to +feel that our strength is standing the +test when there's something of worth to +be done. When we feel we are watched +by critical eyes, when we know there's +reward if we win, it's neither a matter for +praise nor surprise that we're only too +glad to begin; for it's human to like the +cheers and applause that follow spectacular +feats, but save a few cheers for this +other cause—for the heroes in quiet little +streets. When the same old thing has +got to be done—a drab little, quiet little, +everyday task, a floor to be swept, a +ledger begun, then this is the boon we +justly may ask—that we may be given +the strength, day by day, to walk with +sweet grace the dull, Humdrum Way. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap52"></a> +<i>GIFT OF GLOVES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A gift of gloves! I must confess +no other gift can quite express, so +clearly yet so silently, a friend's most +loving thought of me (he knew my size, +how did he guess?). It exercises +thoughtfulness, a knowledge of my style of dress, +to choose with perspicacity—a gift of +gloves! For they must fit precisely, yes, +if they'd achieve a huge success. The +texture, colour, must agree with other +garments worn by me, must harmonize; +well, more or less. But here's the point +I wish to stress: it is a gift that comes to +bless, for when one dons them carefully, +a loving thought springs up, you see, +responsive to the gloves' caress. One's +hands are clothed in friendliness and +space is bridged by gloves that press +with human warmth and gentleness. +One feels a sweet cam'raderie, if one is +wearing happily—a gift of gloves! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap53"></a> +<i>DOGGIE—IN MEMORIAM</i> +</h3> + +<p> +This doggie was young when I was +young. We understood each other's +tongue; we understood each other's +ways, together we spent our childhood's +days. Later, 'twas he who understood +each change of temper and of mood. +He lived to give and I to take; he +changed his ways just for my sake. If +rest I wished, then so did he; he gave me +love and sympathy; he liked my silence, +liked my talk; was ever glad to race or +walk; to wait for me, to sit quite still, +happy and proud to do my will. Now +that he's travelled on alone, there's +naught to do but set this stone, then +try to reach my journey's end as nobly as +this canine friend. Oh, little pal of +childhood's days, I ought to have such +decent ways. You did your best to +teach me, pet—and doggie, dear, I +shan't forget. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap54"></a> +<i>WHEN IN THE DUMPS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Don't be sorry for yourself—better +smile. Worst of troubles will +disperse—in a while. If self-pity mounts +up high, you are bound to mope or cry, +bound to amplify your trouble, make it +grow in size, quite double, being sorry +for oneself is out of style! Don't be +sorry for yourself—better smile; +blackest clouds will pass away—in a while. +'Tis true, you've been hard hit, not a +friend but would admit you have cause +to lose some sleep, quite a lot to make +you weep. Don't you do it, though, for +pity's out of style! Don't be sorry for +yourself—better smile. Sun and moon +and stars will shine—in a while, and +self-pity doesn't pay, for it has a nasty +way of turning courage pale, and then +we're bound to fail. So let's toss our +heads and laugh; lo! the troubles fade +to half. Just keep smiling—for +self-pity's out of style! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap55"></a> +"<i>FETCH THE FITTER!</i>" +</h3> + +<p> +"Fetch the fitter, frock's all wrong; +sleeves too tight and waist too +low; neck line ugly; skirt too long, +worn so very short, you know. Fetch +the fitter, please." Fitter comes and +eyes the dress, fills her mouth with +shining pins, shows no signs of deep +distress, but her fearful task begins, +flopping on her knees. Snips and pins +and pins and snips, stands upright and +snips some more; mutters through her +pin-filled lips: "Just twelve inches +from the floor." Now she measures it. +Here some gathers, here a pleat; lifts a +bit and snips a bit; dress is looking now +quite neat, just a perfect fit. Wouldn't +it be luck, indeed, when life's pattern +goes awry, when it doesn't fit the need, +we had only just to cry: "Fetch the +fitter, pray"? Swiftly she would come +and smile (fitters always are so nice), +cut the day to beauty's style, without +grumbling, in a trice, perfect fitting day. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap56"></a> +<i>BAGPIPES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Since I have heard the great pipes +playing, not on the stage nor +crowded street, but out on a moorland +with heather swaying to the pibroch's +rhythm about our feet. Since I have +heard the pipes thus playing—for aye in +my blood is their throb and beat. Since +I have heard the great pipes wailing, +lamenting the death of a gallant chief +and the strength of his clan that was +slowly failing (perish the fruit and fall +the leaf). Since I have heard the pipes +thus wailing—for aye in my heart is the +pibroch's grief. Since I have seen a +calm loch sleeping, with starshine and +moonshine upon its breast, and heard +the pipes with sorrow weeping lamenting +a chieftain gone to his rest. Since I have +heard the great pipes playing a summons +to war that the clans must obey, whilst +over the moorland the heather was +swaying—their throb and their beat in my +blood lives for aye. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap57"></a> +<i>WHEN I WAS EIGHT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +When I was only eight years old, +I longed to be twice ten, and wear +a frock of lace and gold to dazzle princely +men. To marry was my great desire, +because it seemed to me, once married I +could then aspire to drink the strongest +tea! At every meal I then would eat, +thus to myself I said, a mustard pickle +for a treat (one could when one was +wed!). My skirts would trail along the +floor, my hair I'd pin up high and stick +in pins, at least a score; an ostrich ruff +I'd buy. Ah, me! How quickly years +do pass; how quickly youth has fled. +I stand before the looking-glass—no +hair-pins in my head! No fan-shaped +combs like Mother wore, my hair is short, +you see; my skirts refuse to sweep the +floor, and I dislike strong tea! But yet +I love to bring to mind these dreams I +had of yore. The future looms both +bright and kind when one is two times +four. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap58"></a> +<i>MY FATHER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +My recollections are of little things! +How his two hands would flap and +soar like wings above my curly head. +Then suddenly, oh magic, great and +strange, my curls to coloured sugar-sticks +would change—at least, so Father said. +And it was true! I'd see them tumble +out. And only stupid grown-ups then +could doubt that Father worked a spell. +Sometimes he'd make a pistol of his +hand. One shot, and lo! there'd fall, at +his command (this I remember well), a +thrilling secret parcelled up so tight, +right on my plate—and this in broad +daylight! A mother's songs, and care +and romping fun, we do accept as we +accept the sun and lovely flowers that +blow. But magic fathers! Those who +cure all ills by hourly doses of some +spongecake pills, are marvellous to know! +There was a father much beloved by all. +To him the shy birds came; and babies +small gurgled and cooed love's sign. +These memories are now as fragrance +blown across the fields of life which he +has sown—this Father who was mine. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap59"></a> +<i>THE HEART'S WAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +'Tis strange—but what I love the +best is not the garden at its height, +when fragrant flowers, in masses bright, +are rioting for my delight, the blue, the +red, the yellow, white—not then I love +the garden best! But when I make a +humble quest around each pregnant +garden bed, and look for bits of blue and +red or marguerite with golden head, just +shortly after winter's sped—'tis then I +love the garden best. For then one +greets with joyous zest a little spray of +Columbine, some Bleeding Heart to +intertwine, one Iris dressed in purple +fine; a small bouquet, but Spring's +sweet sign. 'Tis then I love the garden +best. Or when the leaves in brown are +dressed, when many blossoms faint with +cold; but here a saffron Snap stands +bold; and here a Pansy splashed with +gold; Tobacco flowers at night unfold—'tis +then I love the garden best. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap60"></a> +<i>LIFE IS TOO SHORT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Life is too short for sighing and +regretting. That which is done, +we cannot now undo. Before the sun +completes another setting, Life may have +changed its aspect and its hue. Blunders +are never mended by mere fretting; +better to start afresh, mistakes forgetting. +Life is too short a single thing to rue. +Life is too short for bitterness and hating. +Nothing is gained by venom and despair. +'Tis not a virtue to be ever prating that +worms abide within the blossom fair. +Goodness, forsooth, is not one whit +abating, though Cynics give a jaundiced, +twisted rating. Life is too short to +entertain dull care. Life is just long +enough for you and me to do our work +with energy and zest. Just long enough +for each of us to try to make of it a helpful, +joyous quest; to brighten up, perchance, +a neighbour's sky. Too short for hate; +too short for futile sigh. Just long +enough to learn that Love is best. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap61"></a> +<i>POINT OF VIEW</i> +</h3> + +<p> +If only I could prove to you—so +much depends on point of view. If +only I could make it clear that you are +worried by a fear! If only I could make +you see that we are what we wish to be. +If only I could give you cause to put aside +your grief, and pause, and look within +your own sad heart—'tis there you'd +find the poisoned dart. If only I could +make it plain that sun no better is than +rain; that there's no riches just like +health; that happiness comes not from +wealth. If only I could make you try +to view the world with smiling eye, to +look not down but up instead; for thus +one sees the sunset red, for thus one sees +the rosy dawn, and gleaming glory of +the morn. If only I could prove to you +that all depends on point of view—I think +you'd find life quite worth while, deserving +of your praise and smile. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap62"></a> +<i>LIFE'S A.B.C.</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Do you remember how we used to +say the A.B.C. when we were very +young? We stood in semi-circular array, +and proved a nimbleness of brain and +tongue! 'Twas "A.B.C." right to the +final "Z," we chanted in a wailing minor +key. One little blue-eyed girl with curly +head always stopped short each time she +reached the "D." But patient teacher, +smiling, put her right. Then on she'd +go quite blithely to the end. And some +who were exceptionally bright, from +"Z" to "A" the backward trail could +wend! But now, we often find Life goes +awry. Its "A.B.C." is very hard to +learn. Letters refuse, no matter how we +try, to follow smoothly, each in proper +turn. 'Tis then, like children of the +long-ago, we ask the Teacher, watching +patiently, if He will help us so that we +may know the way to read Life's puzzling +A.B.C. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap63"></a> +<i>NURSE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Her modulated voice is sweet, she +ne'er looks tired, she's never late. +She's neat and trim from head to feet; +she does not gossip, does not prate, and +always she is most discreet. She never +wears harsh, squeaky shoes, nor aprons +with a rustling noise. She never shows +she has the blues; she is a model of +calm poise; she never angers nor annoys. +She's temperate always, in all things. +She's sympathetic, strong in mind. A +ray of hope her presence brings. Her +counsel's wise, she's always kind, and +yet she has not angel's wings! And +from her very soul there flows a vital +current that inspires, as through the +anxious house she goes rekindling Hope's +extinguished fires. She serves with love, +with courage glows—this Nurse whom all +the world admires. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap64"></a> +<i>FOUR WALLS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +What precious things four walls +enclose: a glowing fire, deep +chairs for rest, a slender vase to hold one +rose. What precious things four walls +enclose when there is present some loved +guest. What charming things four walls +embrace: a paper of entrancing hues, +and shadows like spell-woven lace. What +charming things four walls embrace: +loved books to guide us and amuse. +Four walls enclose the best of life, its +meaning and its very core; a happy +husband, happy wife. Four walls enclose +the best of life where baby crawls along +the floor. Four walls enclose such magic +things, the sound of laughter, joyous, +free; and peace that spreads its gleaming +wings. Four walls enclose such magic +things where there is love and sympathy. +</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 75155 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/75155-h/images/img-cover.jpg b/75155-h/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec43f69 --- /dev/null +++ b/75155-h/images/img-cover.jpg |
