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diff --git a/75156-h/75156-h.htm b/75156-h/75156-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e6f194 --- /dev/null +++ b/75156-h/75156-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2145 @@ +<!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 Where Sunlight Falls, 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: bold; + 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 75156 ***</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> + WHERE<br> + SUNLIGHT FALLS<br> +</h1> + +<p><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + BY<br> +</p> + +<p class="t2"> + WILHELMINA STITCH<br> +</p> + +<p class="t4"> + AUTHOR OF<br> + "SILKEN THREADS," "SILVER LININGS,"<br> + "THE GOLDEN WEB," "VERSES FOR CHILDREN," ETC.<br> +</p> + +<p><br><br></p> + +<p class="t3"> + SECOND 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 ... March 21st 1929<br> + Second 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">A SONG TO CHEER</a><br> + <a href="#chap06">AT A DOG'S HOME</a><br> + <a href="#chap07">THE WAYSIDE PULPIT</a><br> + <a href="#chap08">SPOONS</a><br> + <a href="#chap09">ABOVE DEFEAT</a><br> + <a href="#chap10">COURTESY</a><br> + <a href="#chap11">BUILDING PALACES</a><br> + <a href="#chap12">PRESERVES</a><br> + <a href="#chap13">WHEN FRIENDSHIP DIES</a><br> + <a href="#chap14">THE HARPIST</a><br> + <a href="#chap15">THE STRONG WILL</a><br> + <a href="#chap16">CONKERS</a><br> + <a href="#chap17">THE BEAUTY-REAPER</a><br> + <a href="#chap18">REMEMBER MAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap19">TO MY UMBRELLA</a><br> + <a href="#chap20">AN EASTER SONG</a><br> + <a href="#chap21">AT A PIANO RECITAL</a><br> + <a href="#chap22">SPRING CLEANINGS</a><br> + <a href="#chap23">DEER IN AUTUMN</a><br> + <a href="#chap24">COMPENSATIONS</a><br> + <a href="#chap25">LONDON TO GREENHITHE</a><br> + <a href="#chap26">THE LITTLE CANDLE</a><br> + <a href="#chap27">TO A CHILD</a><br> + <a href="#chap28">LIFE'S SONG</a><br> + <a href="#chap29">HOLIDAY MEMORIES</a><br> + <a href="#chap30">FAILURE</a><br> + <a href="#chap31">HIS 21ST BIRTHDAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap32">FELLOWSHIP</a><br> + <a href="#chap33">IN A LITTLE ROOM</a><br> + <a href="#chap34">DO IT NOW</a><br> + <a href="#chap35">ON ST. CRISPIN'S DAY</a><br> + <a href="#chap36">THE EVER YOUNG</a><br> + <a href="#chap37">BROADCAST FRIENDS</a><br> + <a href="#chap38">SEEKING HAPPINESS</a><br> + <a href="#chap39">THOUGHTS WHEN BULB-PLANTING</a><br> + <a href="#chap40">TO EACH HIS GIFT</a><br> + <a href="#chap41">IN AN APRIL GARDEN</a><br> + <a href="#chap42">THE QUIET HEART</a><br> + <a href="#chap43">DREAM-STREET CRIES</a><br> + <a href="#chap44">SPRING IS COMING</a><br> + <a href="#chap45">SALUTE TO THE BRAVE</a><br> + <a href="#chap46">MY VISITORS</a><br> + <a href="#chap47">THIS WAY BUT ONCE</a><br> + <a href="#chap48">WANDERING THOUGHTS</a><br> + <a href="#chap49">ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH</a><br> + <a href="#chap50">THE SEA OF LIFE</a><br> + <a href="#chap51">THE CARAVAN SETS FORTH</a><br> + <a href="#chap52">MARCH, THE LION</a><br> + <a href="#chap53">PLAY THE GAME</a><br> + <a href="#chap54">A PIECE OF PAPER</a><br> + <a href="#chap55">AFRAID, BUT UNDETERRED</a><br> + <a href="#chap56">TO SOME DAHLIAS</a><br> + <a href="#chap57">STEADFASTNESS</a><br> + <a href="#chap58">CANDLEMAS</a><br> + <a href="#chap59">THE COBWEB'S STRENGTH</a><br> + <a href="#chap60">A NICHT WI' BURNS</a><br> + <a href="#chap61">MY GUY FAWKES</a><br> + <a href="#chap62">CUPPED WINGS</a><br> + <a href="#chap63">EVEN AS YOU AND I</a><br> + <a href="#chap64">TROUBLE, THE TUNNEL</a><br> +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap05"></a> +<i>A SONG TO CHEER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Here's a song to cheer us, when +worry creeps too near us and burdens +seem too heavy for our strength. +Endurance oft grows double to match +the large-sized trouble, and shorten by +its presence the weary journey's length. +And this there's no denying, when hearts +are faint with sighing and all the future's +given o'er to dread; the tiniest little ills, +no bigger than mere pills, begin to swell +and thicken and to spread! This thought +is truly cheerful—whenever we are fearful +of troubles we believe are coming fast—if +they ever come at all, they prove so +very small, before the day is ended they +have passed. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap06"></a> +<i>AT A DOG'S HOME</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Said a Cocker to a Pekinese, +swinging his silky ears, "What is the +date, oh, tell me, please, for each week +seems like years!" And his mournful eyes +looked misty with a doggy's unshed tears. +The Peke replied, "I understand. Your +family's away. And so is mine—a foreign +land!" His nose expressed dismay. "But +they're coming back, I know they are, in +one more night and day." A gallant bulldog +sniffed the air and spoke with British +pride to that depressed and homesick +pair, "I let my folks decide. This is a very +kindly place and here I will abide...." He +sniffs, he trembles. Can it be? He wags +his tail, pricks up his ears, runs back and +forth—(oh, were he free!) and through the +kennel bars he peers, gives two sharp +yaps of glad surprise and meets his +master's loving eyes. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap07"></a> +<i>THE WAYSIDE PULPIT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Banks and hedgerows, woods and +downs, all have felt the mystic +Breath. Trees are donning lacy gowns, +vanished winter's vaunt of death. The +primrose lines the mossy banks; in the +woods dance daffodils. Hearts are +brimming o'er with thanks whilst the happy +blackbird trills. Everywhere fresh signs of +life; birds so busy with their nests. Shall +we harbour thoughts of strife? Peace and +Love would be our guests. Hum of insects +fills the air, blackthorn robes the hedge in +white; rosy is the flow'ring pear; daisies +twinkle with delight. Bursting buds and +leafing trees, catkins on the oak like lace. +Voice of God on every breeze, in every +little flow'r—His Face. Wayside Pulpits +for His Voice! Oh, the comfort that they +bring. Soul of Man, awake, rejoice! +Blossom forth—for it is Spring. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap08"></a> +<i>SPOONS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +there ought to be a tinkling rhyme +for spoons we're using all the time, +for special spoons with dainty faces that +live in velvet-padded cases and only see +the light of day when visitors have come +to stay! For spoons we use at every meal +that have a homey, friendly "feel"; for +wooden spoons and spoons of tin and +spoons by age worn sharp and thin. +Long-handled spoons, and curved and short, +and those that by-gone goldsmiths +wrought. Big spoons for soup and small +for tea and those that serve cook's +artistry and spoons we've bought on +holiday to prove we've really been away! +Of all the spoons I've ever seen in any +place that I have been, the one I like the +best of all is specially made and neat and +small, its handle looped that it can fit the +dimpled hand that clutches it—the spoon +that makes a dozen trips to Baby's +laughing, rosy lips! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap09"></a> +<i>ABOVE DEFEAT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +What is the grandest sight beneath +the sun? To see—and this at times +we all have done—a body smiling though +there be no cause; fighting against great +odds without a pause; fighting and +smiling, knowing grim defeat, yet keeping +breath enough to call life sweet! To +see a body carrying his load as if it were +a joy and not fate's goad, no thought of +giving in, nor turning back, although the +path be rough and skies grow black. +Stumbling, yet singing, the while the race +is run—this is indeed a grand sight 'neath +the sun. Does it not make one yearn to +cheer aloud, feeling most humble, yet +exceeding proud, to watch a fellow-being +lose a race, sore handicapped, but with a +gallant grace? Indeed, it is a grand sight +'neath the sun to see defeat so very nobly +won! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap10"></a> +<i>COURTESY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A little poor man attired in brown +(shabby the hood, shabby the +gown), around his waist a piece of cord, +entered the woods to praise the Lord. +The feathered choir was singing loudly, +above their boughs the sun shone proudly. +He's coming, he's coming, into the wood, +a little poor man 'neath a shabby brown +hood. "Good-morrow, brother!" he bowed +to the sun, "accept my thanks for the +good you have done. I slept on the ground +you warmed at noon. To-night I shall +greet my Sister Moon." Then he turned +to the birds in the leafy trees, "Good little +sisters, if you please, since you have sung +your merry lay, may I, your brother, have +my say?" The singing ceased, and each +small bird opened her heart to receive the +word of gentle Saint Francis praising the +Lord in a shabby tunic tied with a cord! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap11"></a> +<i>BUILDING PALACES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A prison or a palace? Will you +choose? For one or other is your +dwelling-place, and this is regulated by +your views which have the power to make +a thing of grace out of a seeming dull, +confined and ugly space. Don't scorn the +town or village where you dwell, deeming +yourself too fine a soul for it. The smallest +place has magic things to tell to those who +have an understanding wit, a lamp of +friendliness that is forever lit. Often we +hear a foolish person say, "How you can +live in this place, I don't know!" And yet +the sun gives of his golden ray; nor do the +stars withhold their silver glow; flourish +the trees, birds sing and blossoms grow. +'Tis not the place, but quality of mind +that builds a palace or a prison bare. With +ears and eyes we may be deaf and blind +to harmony and beauty passing fair. +There is no spot but Friendship blossoms +there. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap12"></a> +<i>PRESERVES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The pantry shelves are cool and wide, +their paper covers crisp and clean. +The housewife gazes with just pride—the +finest jams she's ever seen! Jellies and +jams; like gems they shine! Like garnet, +ruby, amethyst, topaz and jade and +almandine—produced by her, the +Alchemist! Gold bottled sunshine in those jars, +the fragrant essence of the Spring, the +radiant gleam of watchful stars that shone +above each growing thing. The hearty +breakfast's marmalade, the strawberry +jam to tempt a guest, while that from +gooseberry was made—some think her +cherry jam is best. All neatly labelled, +row on row, and high upon the topmost +shelf are placed preserves that gleam and +glow and are entirely for herself. For these +are Memory's preserves of beauty garnered +with delight, when branches hid +their gracious curves beneath spring +blossoms, pink and white. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap13"></a> +<i>WHEN FRIENDSHIP DIES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Nothing so sad in all the year, +nothing so sad on land or sea, as +friendship that we once held dear, becoming +but a memory. Not e'en a memory to +hold, as one will clasp a precious thing; +for once a friendship has grown cold, no +comfort can remembrance bring. The +pleasant interchange of thought, the rush +of feeling warm and true, the proffered +aid, the comfort sought, and hope through +laughter born anew. Ah! that desire to +please a friend, how it inspires and +nurtures strength, but should the friendship +sadly end, its very shadow dies at length. +Then there is naught so sad to see, +where'er we roam beneath the sky, two +who were friends but now agree to pass +each other coldly by. Too sad for tears, +too sad for sighs, when Memory herself +seems dead and gazes with unseeing eyes +at all the gentle words once said. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap14"></a> +<i>THE HARPIST</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Her hands! Two blossoms white +that, sleeping, float like water-lilies +on the harp's still breast. One petal +quivers, lo! a liquid note persuades the +lilies they must wake from rest. Ah, see! her +hands are birds with flutt'ring wings, +strong, graceful birds, circling the Ship of +Gold, sweeping with passion the responsive +strings that calmed a king's +tempestuous heart of old. I cannot watch +these birds, for I am blind; blinded with +ecstasy. But I can hear the rhythmic beat +of drums upon the wind, and Arabs o'er +the desert drawing near. Into the room +they come, loose garments flowing, and +all the magic of the East comes, too. And +now the Harp is sighing, "They are going, +and with them goes the spellbound heart +of you!" The scene is changed. The +blazing East gives way to some cool spot, +with trees outspread and tall. A most +exquisite peace holds us in sway; parched +souls revive beneath "The Waterfall." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap15"></a> +<i>THE STRONG WILL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Strong of will? That's good, indeed. +Nice, of course, to get one's way. +Sometimes, though, one has to heed a +brother's still more urgent need, allow +his will to have full sway. Stout-of-will +sometimes works ill for those he forces to +obey. You always reach the topmost +peak? Very nice indeed for you. But did +you hurt the shy and meek, the +inexperienced and the weak, in doing what +you had to do? Did you step upon +another, a weaker and a slower brother? +There are many ways to gain all the +things that seem most sweet, but if the +getting might cause pain, better then to +meet defeat. To renounce is not so ill as +ruthless arrogance of will. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap16"></a> +<i>CONKERS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Not in a dictionary? How absurd! +Conker is such a stalwart, English +word. You do not know it? Well, it is a +shame to think you never played that +Autumn game, beginning with the cry of +"Oblionker." (Oh, magic word preceding +"My first conker!") First the attack upon +the Chestnut tree; the fruits fall down +'mid noisy shouts of glee. Pockets are +stuffed, the robbers homeward go to +polish these large seeds to ruddy glow. +Then each is pierced with nicety and care +and strung in readiness to cleave the air +and hit a conker-foe held at arm's length, +and shatter it by virtue of one's strength. +Oh, joy it is to tramp the woods again +and smell the earth fresh washed by +Autumn rain, and hear the thrilling, +fascinating sound of Chestnuts plopping +on the leaf-strewn ground and cry aloud +unthinking, "Oblionker," as in the +long-ago, "'tis my first conker." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap17"></a> +THE BEAUTY-REAPER +</h3> + +<p> +Rich fields of beauty 'neath the sun +are yours and mine, our heritage. +And there is work for every one; and +lasting joy's the living wage. There is a +field of lovely sights, where eyes may +glean, if they but go; may garner such +intense delights as only Beauty-lovers know. +There is a field of haunting sounds +for ears to glean if they desire: some +simple phrases which may yield the music +of a heart-strung lyre. There is a field of +precious thought where eager minds may +daily stray; where blossoms rare are never +bought, but grow for all to bear away. +And there is yet another field, the field of +Service, far-flung, wide; the beauty that +this land can yield, above all else is +glorified. To be a reaper, I must try, in fields +that Life has sown for me. My sheaves of +beauty will I tie with silken threads of +memory. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap18"></a> +<i>REMEMBER MAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Who watched May slip away last +night? Only the stars with eyes +grown bright with unshed tears. Only the +moon, as thin and white as some young +girl assailed by fright of unnamed fears. +A bride May looked! Golden her hair; and +fragile blossoms nestled there, fallen from +chestnut trees. Golden Laburnum circled +each slim wrist; her snow-white cheeks to +blushing pink were kissed by tender +midnight breeze. Eastward she gazed towards +the dawnlit sky, and saw Queen Juno's +chariot drawing nigh. Then breathed +"farewell." Westward she turned, and, +like a bird in flight, white arms +outstretched, she vanished out of sight. +Where? Who can tell? Only this song +comes wafted on the breeze: "Behold the +Iris and the blossomed trees, and tulips +tall and gay. And when you praise the +loveliness of these, though June be here +and strives her best to please—you will +remember May!" +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap19"></a> +<i>TO MY UMBRELLA</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Why is it, when you come with me, +there's not a drop of rain to see? +But should I leave you safe indoors; +ah! then, invariably, it pours. You are a +nuisance, without doubt. The wind blows +high—you're inside out! And sometimes +when you're opened wide, you slowly +down the handle slide, until you close +about my hat, pressing it almost pancake +flat! You won't stand up, you won't sit +down; you've often made a stranger +frown. (Such ill behaviour in a train, +you've made me blush, time and again!) And +when I'm busy in a shop on to the +floor you always flop. Your virtues? Well, +they're really few. I like your cover's +cheery hue; your handle, too, is rather +gay. Now, where on earth are you to-day? +Why do you always cause a fuss—you +must have stayed atop that 'bus! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap20"></a> +<i>AN EASTER SONG</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Easter is a gentle maiden, robed in +white and meek is she; both her arms +with lilies laden, all her movements graceful, +free. At her breast are violets, +fragrant. Stars adorn her silky hair. She +is not, like Spring, a vagrant, wand'ring, +care-free, here and there. Easter has a +field for sowing, Easter has her goal in +sight, Lenten lilies all ablowing, glorify +her day and night. 'Tis the heart that +Easter's seeking. There she'll sow her +precious seed. Hark! 'tis Easter sweetly +speaking, "I have come for your great +need." Heart that is bowed down with +sorrow, tree that is now bare of leaf, wait +with patience; for the morrow brings an +end to winter's grief. Easter's such a +gentle maiden, trees for her will bud +again. Hearts with sorrow, heavy laden, +are, by Easter, healed of pain. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap21"></a> +<i>AT A PIANO RECITAL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +To think those fingers, a little while +ago, were busy with small tasks, +friendly and intimate; fastening a buckle +of a shoe, and smoothing out a bow, +groping to find a watch, for fear the hour +be late! To think those fingers coiled that +blue-black hair and strayed among the +folds of that gold dress; and then, like +restless birds, fluttering here and there, +brushed each arched eyebrow with a light +caress. To think those fingers deigned to +do such things—they that have power to +weave a potent spell to bear the heart +aloft on eagle's wings, or drown the soul +beneath the music's swell. Fingers +interpreting the mind in pain; or dance of +fairies round a moonlit tree; quarrels and +love; fierce sun and gentle rain; and then +the spirit's shining ecstasy. The whole of +life flowing through fingers white! To +think those fingers will let loose black +hair, fling off gold dress, and late, this +very night, lie, like good children, +wrapped in dreams most fair! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap22"></a> +<i>SPRING CLEANINGS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +With brooms of every length and +weight, of every style and varying +price, from early morning until late she +swept to make the house look nice. With +powders, soaps, and elbow grease, she +scoured each pot, she scraped each pan; +she ironed away each curtain crease, and +soon the house was spick and span. With +sudden showers every day that spoilt our +hats and damped our mirth, did April, in +time-honoured way, begin to spring-clean +mother Earth. She brightly smiled and +then she cried and washed away the dust +with rain; the trees and flowers we +thought had died, awoke, and blossomed +forth again. With thoughts of gladness +and of cheer, with thankfulness and +heartfelt praise for this renascence of the +year, I let my eyes on nature gaze. And +while I looked at sky and earth, I had an +impulse to be kind, to do some service +of real worth—spring-cleaning thus my +heart and mind! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap23"></a> +<i>DEER IN AUTUMN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +If you would see great beauty, watch +the deer, that look their loveliest when +Autumn's here against a background of +the deep-toned year. The distance shows +a veil of misty blue, the ferns are +richly-clad, a russet hue, the deer seem garbed +in velvet soft and new. They are +fastidious creatures when they eat, turning +from verdure trampled by man's feet +and seeking pastures that look fresh and +sweet. They are, indeed, embodiment of +grace, moving with dignity from place to +place, impossible to think a deer's heart +base! How eloquent and friendly are their +eyes. They couch upon a bed of ferns and +look so wise. Hark! What was that? The +falling leaves' faint sighs. So faint a sound +and yet the shy beasts hear, rise to their +feet in agony of fear—to think that man +would ever hurt a deer! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap24"></a> +<i>COMPENSATIONS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Sad Heart says, "It's easy talking, +but she doesn't understand. Luck +with her is ever walking. Sorrow has me +by the hand." Don't I understand, Sad +Heart? Seems to me it's very plain. Life +has cast you for a part; Sorrow you must +entertain. But the beauty of the Dawn is +for you, for your sad eyes. Dew-drops, +diamonds on the lawn fill you with a glad +surprise. Stars at night in vault of blue; +moon, a floating daffodil—these are joys +bestowed on you, yours to cherish at your +will. Music is a precious gift; it is yours if +you will hear. Watch the gruesome +shadows lift, chased away by Laughter's +cheer. Books you love? Oh! fortunate! +And there's work for you to do? Cease, +then, railing at your fate—Joy will find +its way to you. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap25"></a> +<i>LONDON TO GREENHITHE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I wish that you had been with me to +Greenhithe just the other day. Enjoyed +myself? Tremendously! Such lovely +sights along the way. Oh! fairy pink, the +almond trees; the Prunus trees were +dazzling white. And every little teasing +breeze was whispering of Spring's delight. +But lovelier far than bud or tree were +toddlers clad in woolly things. One +roguish elf, he smiled at me. Strange how +that memory still clings! We passed a +market all ablaze with fruits and flowers +of springtime's best. I dote on Nature's +lavish ways—she uses colours with such +zest. Then London River—misty, grey. +And ghost-like steamers, doubtful, slow; +and rooks a screaming "go away!" "It's +time," said I, "we homeward go." But +what I liked the most of all, throughout +this drive of many miles, were letterboxes, +scarlet, small, set in grey walls, +like cheery smiles. Like laughing scarlet +lips they seemed. And as we passed, +oh! how they beamed. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap26"></a> +<i>THE LITTLE CANDLE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Your room, you say, is very dark +to-night! A little candle—and you've +lots of light! Your baby pleads, "Don't +leave me by myself." You place a night-light +on a little shelf, and baby smiles and +feels quite comforted, and thus +companioned, snuggles into bed. The road +seems very dark and long to you; the +hand-clasp of a friend, a smile that's true, +and that grim darkness is dispersed by +love and brightly shines the sun or moon +above. The mind that gropes in darkness +for the truth, and sees a little light is rich, +forsooth. A little light is what we all +desire, a tiny candle for our spirit's fire. +Here is a helpful thought I read to-day +for us who grope and stumble on our way; +there's not enough of darkness round +about to put the smallest waxen candle +out! So hold aloft your candle, shine or +rain, that those in darkness may take +heart again. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap27"></a> +<i>TO A CHILD</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Such a beautiful gift has this world +been. Lovely the Springtime's pink +and white and green, and then the +summer's richer, warmer glow, followed by +Autumn's tints—and then the snow. +Each season brings such gifts for joyous +hearts, there is no sorrow when the +Spring departs. And when late summer +slowly drops her leaves, signals to +Autumn, there is none who grieves, +knowing the beauty that will softly fall +upon the earth whene'er Jack Frost may +call. And there are books, dear child, such +constant friends that serve with joy until +the journey ends. And friends more +precious still than books who give us +clasp of hand and tender looks, tears for +our sorrow, laughter for our joy, the +golden element in life's alloy. As I do +now, dear child, may you one day—review +the years that seem so far away, +and standing on Time's lichen-covered +hill have cause to claim that life is lovely +still. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap28"></a> +<i>LIFE'S SONG</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I bring joy, but also sorrow, all my +children must know grief. Buoyant +spring, then on the morrow Autumn's +dried and falling leaf. Success I bring and +golden laughter; Man I help to high +estate. Disappointments follow after—this +my way with small or great. Work I +give as well as pleasure; sunshine—then +the clouds and rain! No one can escape a +measure of my bitterness and pain. Cause +for singing, cause for weeping, rough and +smooth and dark and bright. Time for +work and hours for sleeping, calm and +noise and day and night. Lovely gardens, +barren places, stumbling-blocks and paths +of ease; bread and honey, rags and laces, +these I offer where I please. Joy I bring +and also sorrow, light and shade and hills +and vales and this gift for each new +morrow—courage to the one who fails. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap29"></a> +<i>HOLIDAY MEMORIES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Now, hold your breath; oh, do not +talk, for Baby has begun to walk! +Travel all the world with me, no greater +sight we'll ever see than Baby, fat legs +wide apart, smiling, gurgling, bless his +heart! Left foot, right foot—well, I never, +isn't he extremely clever! Yes, of course, +I liked the Rhine. The castles were +extremely fine. Cologne Cathedral robs +one quite of the power to speak or write. +Hans Sachs' house and Dürer's, too, these +were sights indeed to view. A Market +Place with many treasures added much +to Nurnberg's pleasures. But none of this +thrilled me so much as just this little +human touch—a quaint Dutch house, an +open door, a mother sitting on the floor +with hands outstretched and eyes aflame, +whilst t'ward her, swaying, Baby came. +Left foot, right foot—please don't talk, +for Baby has begun to walk! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap30"></a> +<i>FAILURE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Ah, Failure is a curious thing! It helps +to mend the broken wing and then +inspires a longer flight and whispers, +"Look, the goal's in sight!" And Failure +is a stringent spur, pricking Ambition till +it stir, a strong incentive to proud Pride +o'er every obstacle to ride. Where'er we +stumble, Failure stands and stretches +forth strong, helpful hands, and bids us +rise and try again, ignore the set-back +and the pain. 'Tis Failure makes us scorn +defeat and turn the bitter into sweet, and +seek, yes, on the darkest day, for one +bright scintillating ray. If Fate should +bring a nasty shock, if Life should give +the real hard knock, if everything should +go awry—it's Failure urges us to try. +'Tis Failure says, "I won't give in. I have +a second chance to win." Ah, Failure, +you're a little word so to inspire the +undeterred! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap31"></a> +<i>HIS 21ST BIRTHDAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +He looks the same, he feels the same, +exactly as the day before. He hasn't +changed his home or name, nor has he +grown one hair's breadth more. The suit +he wore but yesterday he's wearing at this +minute, and who is there who'd dare to +say the same boy isn't in it? And yet he's +changed, we must confess, for since the +clock struck twelve last night (we wish +him health and happiness!) he has +attained to manhood's height. And Life +grips fast his eager hand and says, "The +midnight bell has tolled and you're a +man, this understand, for you are twenty-one +years old." And here's our wish and +here's our hope, Oh, bold adventurer and +gay! May you have courage as you grope +through unlit paths along life's way. +There is so much for man to do; and +brains may plot and brains may plan; +but this our golden hope for you, may +you have strength to play the man! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap32"></a> +<i>FELLOWSHIP</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I love to walk on cool, ribbed sands +with never a soul by my side; for then +my spirit understands the murmur of the +tide. But not for long does Neptune's +voice engross my soul and mind. It +wearies me; I would rejoice—to hear +Mankind. I love to climb to some high +peak and watch the stars at night. I hear +the voice of Silence speak; it fills me with +delight. Of this my soul soon weary grows, +for always do I find the current of my +being flows—towards Mankind. I'd love +a house well tucked away among tall +trees, wide-spreading trees; and there I'd +write a song each day with no one near to +talk or tease! I would not stay there very +long; a crowded place I'd have to find. +My heart would barren be of song—without Mankind. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap33"></a> +<i>IN A LITTLE ROOM</i> +</h3> + +<p> +O silly, box-like, little room, I'm +very tired of you to-day. Four +silent walls enclosing gloom. I charge +you, what have you to say? But stop a +minute! I admit I like your carpet's soft +design; and from this angle, as I sit, the +sideboard has a gracious line. 'Tis strange +I did not note till now the depth of blue +on this old plate, the lovely curve of +leafy bough, the lovers standing near a +gate. I wonder, was I very young—perhaps +I was not even born—when first +this dinner bell was rung, and now its +brass is thin and worn. A lovely thing—this +antique bowl; its beauty urges me to +sing. I think the craftsman's very soul +was melted for its fashioning. O silly, +little, box-like room! Your pardon, please, +you humble me. You have no space for +scowls and gloom, with so much charm +for all to see. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap34"></a> +<i>DO IT NOW</i> +</h3> + +<p> +'Twas yesterday we thought we'd +write that letter which would give +delight. 'Twas yesterday we thought we'd +send some money to a needy friend. 'Twas +yesterday we meant to cheer; we meant +to wipe away a tear; we meant to help a +weaker man achieve his good, but half-formed +plan. 'Twas yesterday we made it +plain we'd help a failure start again; +'twas yesterday we wished to praise, +commend a brother for his ways; some +seeds of love we meant to sow, some +kindliness we meant to show. But yesterday, +alas! has fled. Not one act done, not +one word said. Now, when we feel that +inner urge, when o'er the soul kind feelings +surge, when we are suddenly aware that +we have more than just our share; when +words of praise invade the heart, and +when we see grief's tears upstart—oh! let +us do the kindly thing before To-day is +on the wing. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap35"></a> +<i>ON ST. CRISPIN'S DAY</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I'd love to be a shoemaker on this +Saint Crispin's Day. I'd pray him for +some leather that the angels gave away. +(For they used to give him leather, so all +the legends say.) Softest leather from the +angels! Each piece of finest grain, well +tanned by golden sunbeams, kept moist +by sister rain. The loveliest bits of leather, +ne'er bought nor sold for gain. Bright bits +supplied by angels! And some would be +sky-blue and some of pearly greyness +with dawn's pinkness blushing through. +And some would be rich crimson, like a +sunset bold and new. And I'd take Saint +Crispin's leather that the angels had let +fall and fashion shoes a-plenty for +dimpled feet and small, whilst Saint +Crispin stood beside me and blessed my +last and awl! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap36"></a> +<i>THE EVER YOUNG</i> +</h3> + +<p> +There is a path called Never-Old, +a most entrancing, smiling road; and +only those with spirits bold, who, laughing, +shoulder life's big load, who value +Beauty more than gold, who faithful are +to Love's high code, can find this road to +walk along. And as they walk, they sing +a song, oh, buoyantly the words are sung, +"We are the old, for ever young!" There +is a path called Never-Old, and only +certain feet may tread this smiling road, so +I've been told. Those who fared forth +with high-held head, whose hearts have +warmed some hearts grown cold, whose +hands have helped the frail and weak, +whose lips the gentlest words do speak, +they'll find this smiling road I know. And +as along this path they go, this is the +song that will be sung, "We are the old, +for ever young!" All those who've +laughed at hostile fate, who can a tale +of Love unfold, who live for others, early, +late—have found the road of Never-Old. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap37"></a> +<i>BROADCAST FRIENDS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +The bogy of loneliness has gone for +ever. She now has friends that visit +by the score. And all of them are pleasant +and so clever, coming when she desires, +at noon or four, and no one waits to knock +upon the door! They slip into the room +on magic wings borne by the ether for her +keen delight. One gives her household +hints, another sings, one speaks of +theatres or of those who write, and she +sees much that once was out of sight. For +now she travels as she sits and sews, and +solitude no longer hurts or palls. With +world-explorers gallantly she goes, far, +far beyond her four confining +walls—whene'er the announcer's voice through +ether calls. The world is hers and she can +walk abroad; listen to music, look upon +great art. The many things she could not +once afford she now enjoys, in them she +has a part—and thanks the wireless from +a woman's house-bound heart! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap38"></a> +<i>SEEKING HAPPINESS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Someone said (it might have been +you or I), "I vow to find happiness +e'er I die." So he sought for it high and +he sought for it low; by the glare of the +sun, by the moonbeam's pale glow. He +sought for it far, and sought for it near. +He sought for a day, and he sought for a +year, but Happiness ever eluded his hand; +'twas the same on high seas as it was on +the land. Back to the everyday things of +life, to the turn of Fate's wheel with its +love and strife; back to engrossing work +he went. Laboured hard, and was well +content. Gave of his brain, his hands and +his heart, fulfilling with zest his destined +part. Took delight in the new-born day; +gloried in work and deemed it play. +Found his pleasures in simple things; in +a book, a tree, and a bird that sings. In a +gracious curve of a leafy bough—and he +quite forgot his former vow. Then +suddenly someone, running fast, exclaimed, +"Oh! brother! We've met at last." The +sound of this voice was a soft caress. +And the face—was the face of Happiness! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap39"></a> +<i>THOUGHTS WHEN BULB-PLANTING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I have a rendezvous with Spring—she'll +keep her word and so will I. +I took a bulb, a small brown thing, and +said, "'Tis here I bid you lie." A brick-red +pot, some sandy soil. Now, little bulb, +lie warm, I pray. A pleasant task—so +little toil, all on a sweet, Autumnal day. +Now let Jack Frost come back again and +scatter snowflakes everywhere, and let +him star the window pane with frosty +breath—I will not care. For I've a +precious rendezvous with one in green and +gold attire and with another robed in +blue—this thought sets all my heart afire. +Some magic pots, bulbs buried deep, all +in the sweet autumnal hours. My little +bulbs now fall asleep, but soon they will +bring forth spring flow'rs. With Spring I +have a rendezvous, we'll meet upon my +window-sill when in one pot are scillas +blue and in the next, a daffodil! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap40"></a> +<i>TO EACH HIS GIFT</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I am so glad to be awake. So glad to +feel my pulses leap freed from the +servitude of sleep. So glad a deep-drawn +breath to take; O heart of mine, we are +awake! Hear now the vow I wish to make. +Before the coming of night's sable wing +I will create at least one lovely thing in +gratitude for life and for life's sake. O +heart of mine, what shall we try to make? +These hands, you say, are dull at +fashioning. Then find them service, there is +much to do; some task that destiny has +planned for you. O heart of mine, the +morning's praises sing. "This brain," you +say, "cannot create a song, nor can it +weave imagination's tale." Yet in your +spoken vow, you need not fail—one +lovely thing—the righting of some wrong. +O heart of mine, I pray you keep me +strong. "These hands," you say, "have +not the power to make; nor has this brain +the great creative gift." But two soft lips +you have through which may drift a +stream of beauty, thirsty souls to slake. +O heart of mine, rejoice! We are awake. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap41"></a> +<i>IN AN APRIL GARDEN</i> +</h3> + +<p> +There's the daffodil, the primrose, +and the small forget-me-not; the +ruddy, flaming, fragrant, rich, velvety +wallflower; anemones and pansies, and +aubrietia's purple plot; forsythia grows +more golden with the passing of each +hour. There's the yellow-blossomed berberis +with promise of blue fruit; japonica +the lovely, coral-tinted fragile stars. And +a blackbird, with the sweetness of an +ancient, mellow flute, is trilling thrilling +quavers, and ecstatic little bars! But the +glory of the garden is a stately, queenly +tree, magnolia the beautiful, in robes of +dazzling white. The sun into her goblets +pours his golden ecstasy, and moonbeams +turn them silver with their kisses in the +night. Yea, lovely is the garden, beyond +the power of words. But lovelier is the +promise of the beauty yet to come. O +sound the garden's praises, you happy, +singing birds! For we, poor tongue-tied +mortals, by such beauty are struck dumb. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap42"></a> +<i>THE QUIET HEART</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Her heart is such a fragrant room, +with daffodils and bright blue squills +bedecking all the window-sills, defying +entry to Sir Gloom—her heart is such a +sunny room. Her heart has windows east +and west, and windows south and north +as well; and thus she always can foretell +if one in need would be her guest—her +heart has windows east and west. And +through these shining window-panes, the +eyes of little children peer. And those in +quest of warmth and cheer, stand there +until the daylight wanes—and bless her +heart's bright window-panes. Her heart +has such a charming door. The knocker +shows the face of Love; forget-me-nots +trail high above; one gentle knock, no +need for more—then opens wide her +heart's white door. Her heart is such a +sunny room, and oh! she offers all such +fare, they love to go and linger there, and +touch the petals of each bloom within this +fragrant, quiet room. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap43"></a> +<i>DREAM-STREET CRIES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +In the land of dreams I heard him call +upon a bright, warm summer's day. +"All broken hearts, big breaks and small, +will be repaired that come my way! Torn +hearts to mend, torn hearts to mend," he +cried while coming round the bend. "Torn +hearts repaired, torn hearts repaired"—I +stood quite still and stared and stared. +And then he spoke and then I heard, +"Good-day to you, give me your +heart." "Indeed, I won't, you're quite absurd, +how could I from my heart now part?" "Torn +hearts to mend, torn hearts to +mend——" "Oh, very well, here's mine, +good friend." I gave him mine, almost in +two; he made it look as good as new. And +then I woke and heard quite clear, all +down the street from end to end, the same +old voice I yearly hear, "Old chairs to +mend, old chairs to mend." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap44"></a> +<i>SPRING IS COMING</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Expectancy is in the air; we seem +to live with greater zest; there's +hushed excitement everywhere. With +leaves the Honeysuckle's dressed. The +hazel catkins are in flow'r; they patiently +await the bees. I hear, well, almost any +hour, a secret whispered by the breeze. +The sun's more generous with his gold; +he spilt it at my feet to-day. A happy +wren was very bold and carolled forth a +roundelay. The sturdy tit with sable +breast, the blue tit, lovely little thing, are +pecking with the greatest zest at fat +a-dangling from a string! On every slender +willow bough (with ecstasy this news I +write) the Persian Kittens frolic now; the +boisterous wind gives them delight. They +jump about like anything; and how their +silver fur coats gleam! They prove that it +is really Spring—and not a tantalizing +dream! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap45"></a> +<i>SALUTE TO THE BRAVE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +She'd been the live-long day in one +drab room. An illness kept her +chained. I never saw a more depressing +gloom. And it had rained and rained. No +flowers were there, no books for her to +read, nothing for her caress. No heart +so stony that it would not bleed to see +such loneliness. Then, while I sought for +words not out of tune, a fitting phrase to +cheer, she told me how, each night, the +friendly moon was wont to float quite +near. "It came so near last night," +she, laughing, said—"I really thought it +meant to visit me in bed." A star had +tapped upon her window-pane, and talked +awhile. That day she'd watched the merry +dancing rain. The raindrops made her +smile. And through her window (oh! such +beauty there) she'd seen, she said, a gleam +of sunlight on a baby's hair, a sparrow +with some bread. And thus to others +often do we go through kindliest desires. +And stay to warm our spirits by the glow +from braver, finer fires! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap46"></a> +<i>MY VISITORS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +At Dawn a little rhyme appeared and +whispered: "Take me, pray." "Oh, +little rhyme," I softly jeered, "I bid you +run away. You've sleepy eyes and child-like +grace. I want a rhyme with thoughtful +face." At Noon there came a little rhyme, +and lisped: "Do listen, please!" Said I +"Not now. I have no time. Now, little +rhyme, don't tease. At Twelve-Hours-Old +you are not strong to bear the +burden of a song." Three little rhymes +arrived at night, and sat beside my fire. +I welcomed them with great delight, and +asked them their desire. "We're knocking +at your heart," they cried. "Oh, won't you +let us slip inside?" In turn I looked at +each small face. I recognized each one. +For here was Dawn of child-like grace, +and Noon of work half-done, and weary +Night. I bid them stay, for they made up +the Song of Day. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap47"></a> +<i>THIS WAY BUT ONCE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Above, a very lovely bit of sky, a +rosy edging to a fluffy cloud. You +did not stop, but swiftly hurried by, your +mind engrossed with thought, your head +low bowed. Oh! raise your eyes before +these glories wane—perhaps you will not +pass this way again. A brother on life's +lonely, stone-strewn road is standing in +your sight as you advance. 'Tis clear he +faints beneath his heavy load. You are so +busy, you can barely glance. Oh! lend a +helping hand, assuage his pain—maybe +you'll never pass this way again. It would +be well as we go on our way to speak the +helpful words that spring to mind; to do +whate'er we can each fresh-born day, and +ne'er defer the action just and kind. Nor +hold between our teeth the words of +praise, the words a hungry heart desires +to hear. A blossom at your feet? Then +stoop to gaze. A soul distressed? Go forth +at once to cheer. A chance to help? Then +use that chance to-day—perhaps no more +you'll pass along this way. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap48"></a> +<i>WANDERING THOUGHTS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +With thoughts for sheep, I am a +shepherdess. And I must homeward +bring my flock each night. For some +have ranged to hills of happiness, and +some in sorrow's vale are out of sight. +And some have wandered far upon the +road that leads to memories of long ago, +and when they reached my childhood's +dear abode, they frolicked with a +dream-child that I know. My thoughts are +sheep and pitifully stray, some here, some +there, some eastward, and some west; +whilst I, the shepherdess, at close of day, +must bring them to the fold for warmth +and rest. But some I will not call again to +me—the thoughts that travel to a distant +friend. They, shepherded by Love most +carefully, upon their pleasant journey +swiftly wend. Friend! Gather in these +loving thoughts of mine; and let your +heart, I pray you, be their fold; and you, +the shepherd, with a magic sign, encircle +them and keep them from the cold! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap49"></a> +<i>ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH</i> +</h3> + +<p> +There'll be a band, I know there +will, just at the incline of the hill; +and many folk will loiter there and clap, +and stamp, and shout and stare. But +little children will stand dumb, so +fascinated by the drum. Ah! now guitar and +flute are still—and crowds begin to climb +the hill. What fun it is! Here, stalls begin. +Bright paper hats and masks that grin. +"Fevvers and ticklers. Buy them, boys. +And golliwogs, and jumping toys." Up, +up, it goes, this noisy stream of +merrymakers. "Best ice-cream!" The sun's so +hot, and there's no shade. "Your fortune, +lady! Lemonade!" Up, up, they go. The +noises swell, but why all laugh no one can +tell. The roundabout begins to play and +every heart keeps holiday. And as these +folk swarm up the hill, it's "Two a penny, +try your skill. Such handsome prizes. +Come on, try. Fine fevvers, ticklers. Buy, +boys, buy!" I vowed I'd never go again, +but in this reminiscent strain, I see it +all—and I just long to mingle with that +happy throng! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap50"></a> +<i>THE SEA OF LIFE</i> +</h3> + +<p> +"He was the first that ever burst into +that silent sea." I read this phrase +in childhood's days—that poet wrote for +me. For now I know we all do go like +mariners in life, on seas unknown and all +alone 'mid rocks of fear and strife. We +bend our sails to meet Life's gales. O +untried is the breeze. Our boat is slight +and dark the night, uncharted are Life's +seas. And it's the truth, we all, forsooth, +have little ships to sail. And oft we think +we'll surely sink beneath the furious gale. +For each one knows as on he goes the way +is rough and dim. To left or right, no help +in sight, except it come from Him. Sailors +are we and look to Thee, O Captain of +Life's crew, for guidance kind, though +strong the wind, for guidance safe and +true. Then without fear; with right good +cheer, although the skies be dark, harbour +in sight, towards the light, we'll steer +Life's sea-tossed bark. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap51"></a> +THE CARAVAN SETS FORTH +</h3> + +<p> +Motor-cars and one-horsed carts, +omnibuses, heavy vans—one expects +such vehicles, they fit a city's plans. +On a throbbing city street, who on +earth would think to see a caravan in +brave attire? I did—ah, lucky me! +Purring down the street it came, newly +painted, wheels and all; window-sashes +ivory white, red the roof and green each +wall. Seemed to me it laughed with joy, +window-eyes were shining bright. Shouted +at me as it passed, "I'll sleep 'neath stars +to-night." "City streets I'll leave behind, +country lanes are calling now. Blackbird's +song is luring me to an apple bough. I'm +a happy caravan, all my curtains have +fresh frills. I'm going where the cool green +grass is starred with daffodils." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap52"></a> +<i>MARCH, THE LION</i> +</h3> + +<p> +When Nursie used to say to me, +"The month of March comes +roaringly, just like a lion, seeking prey, +but like a lamb it skips away"; when +Nursie said this frightful thing, then I to +her would tightly cling, and hold my +breath and shut my eyes. Oh! fearsome +March in lion's guise. I'd put my head +upon her lap, my heart would go thud-thud, +trip-trap, because I heard upon the +stair a stealthy pit-a-pat. Beware! +Between my fingers I would peep, just as a +tawny tail would sweep around the +nursery's white door. Oh! listen, how +March Lions roar. But soon I overcame +my fear—I longed to see the lamb appear. +I left her lap, I stood upright, I watched +that beast with all my might; and, sure +enough, as Nurse had said, it changed its +skin and changed its head, and went +away, squeezed through the jamb—a +little, gentle, snowy lamb! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap53"></a> +<i>PLAY THE GAME</i> +</h3> + +<p> +These are the cards Life dealt to +you, and you must play the game. +The cards are weak, that may be true, +but who is there to blame? You cannot +say "a mis-deal, Life!" The game you +have to play. 'Tis uphill work; you're +tired of strife; yet play the game, I say. +Just play the game, don't fume nor fret; +play each card one by one. You never +know, perhaps you'll get a trick by set of +sun. No matter what the game may be, if +bridge or just bezique, whoever heard +such futile plea: "My cards are far too +weak." The other folk would scoff and +jeer, and cry out: "Play the game." And +from these facts you'll see quite clear that +life is much the same. For Fate, the dealer, +does not care what cards you get, or I. +The poorest ones may be our share; to +play the game, let's try. And though we +lose, we still can smile—just to have +played has been worth while. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap54"></a> +<i>A PIECE OF PAPER</i> +</h3> + +<p> +It skipped and fluttered down the +street. It tripped and swirled and +whirled about. It hurried past the swiftest +feet—that it felt pleased I had no doubt. +The panting wind was just behind; it +was a very merry race. The sun peeped +through a cloudy blind and smiled to see +so brisk a chase. I knew for certain who +would win; I backed the paper without +fear! It was so light and white and thin; +I watched it gaily disappear. Since then +I've wondered time again: whence came +that paper, whither went? Did it some +secret code contain, or sharp command +to pay the rent? Perhaps a gentle lover +wrote a tender, throbbing, pleading +rhyme to one to whom he would devote +each moment of his mortal time. I hope +the wind kept up the race and drove along +that message sweet, until it reached its +destined place, and fluttered, humbly, at +her feet. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap55"></a> +<i>AFRAID, BUT UNDETERRED</i> +</h3> + +<p> +It's not exactly courage if you aren't a +bit afraid to climb a fearsome mountain, +descend into a glade, or make a +swimming record or some titanic flight, +or drive a racing motor-car, or jump an +unknown height. But this is really +courage—at least, I call it so—to say, I +fear that mountain, but all the same, I'll +go. And this is truly courage, to lift one's +daily load, to smile though skies are +gloomy and difficult the road, to view an +angry river and beyond a sloping hill, to +say, "That is my journey and I'll take it +with good will." To cry, "I'll grant I'm +fearful, a little bit afraid, but naught will +stop my progress until the journey's +made." +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap56"></a> +<i>TO SOME DAHLIAS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I have seen Beauty time again; in +clouds by day, in stars by night, in +trees refreshed by gentle rain, in +sunbeams dancing with delight. But you, gay +Dahlias, I love best. I count each one a +precious friend. You seem to live with +such a zest. And oh! your colours, how +they blend! White, pink, and red, and +saffron, too, and vibrant hues that glow +like flames. Each day I pass, I nod to you. +I can't remember all your names! One +day (now this should make you proud) I +saw a girl, too young for grief, walk down +the path with head low-bowed; she's like, +thought I, a wind-tossed leaf. Then +suddenly you flashed a smile. I watched her +stop and stand so still and gaze at you for +quite a while, and of your Beauty drink +her fill. I think the girl, that very night, +discovered Life was not so grey—for in +her room were Dahlias bright that +memory had brought away! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap57"></a> +<i>STEADFASTNESS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A difficult task to be done, an +arduous course to be run, a dream +to be shaped, a pattern spun. 'Tis +steadfast does it. Rare is the genius who can +leap whilst others plod and slowly creep +along the stony path and steep, yet also +reach the goal. Though genius is a precious +thing so brightly hued, so swift of +wing, yet lacking it, there is no sting, if +we keep faith with our own soul. We can +persist in doing, doing; preserving faith +and never ruing; the hill-top light for aye +pursuing—'Tis steadfast does it. When +with sincerity we say, "New hope, new +courage, each new day," though obstacles +impede the way—'Tis steadfast does it! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap58"></a> +<i>CANDLEMAS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I think to-day of candle-light, of +soft and soothing candle-light, that +beckons souls to come and pray on +Candlemas, a saintly day. I think of +golden flames so bright, of blue-gold +flames so very bright, of candles standing +slim and white in solemn, silent, sweet +array. I thought: our spirits are like +flames, like steadfast, strong and striving +flames; though all around be grim and +dark, they shed a penetrating spark. I +mused: if all our hearts would be, if all +our hearts (both you and me) could be +like candle-sticks to hold a candle for a +world grown cold; then as we went about +the world, with shining hearts about the +world, we'd bring soft light to some dark +place, and there we'd see a sister's face! +And thus I think of Candlemas, the +ancient, honoured Candlemas, a day on +which to light this earth with acts of +kindliness and worth. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap59"></a> +<i>THE COBWEB'S STRENGTH</i> +</h3> + +<p> +A storm raged fiercely through the +frightened hours, houses were shaken, +chimney-pots torn down, large trees +uprooted, as well as fragile flowers, e'en lives +were lost in that storm-shaken town. And +afterwards we saw a wondrous sight, +walking beneath some trees still drenched +with rain—a stretch of cobwebs silver in +the light, unharmed, unconquered by the +wrack and strain. Cobwebs that looked so +frail a baby's breath could tear to bits +their lacy filigree were quite unharmed +by this attack of death beneath which +fell both man and masonry. And thus it +is in life; the storm-swept soul can still +retain its web of lovely dreams though +hostile winds deter us from the goal and +oft we have to ford hate's swirling +streams. Though merciless the tempests +that have swept over a human life, frail +as a wraith, still has the battered soul +with honour kept its beauteous web of +hope and love and faith. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap60"></a> +<i>A NICHT WI' BURNS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Oh, Robbie Burns, if I could find a +golden phrase that sweetly sings, a +silvern phrase of kingly mind, a magic +phrase with fairy wings—I'd weave, I'd +weave each precious phrase into a song +for your delight; for we who love your +tuneful lays are toasting you this very +night. But, after all, why should I seek +unusual, unfamiliar words? So freely does +your own heart speak in songs that lilt +and trill like birds. A simple phrase, then, +be my choice for all who toast the Bard +to-night: "We drink to that Immortal +Voice whose simplest songs give most +delight." Oh, Robbie Burns, your +deathless lyre was strung by Pity, Love and +Truth. Interpreter of Passion's fire, of +Friendship, Loyalty and Youth, to you, +the David of your time, the Bard who +gives world-wide delight, I offer up this +simple rhyme—just as a toast, to you, +to-night. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap61"></a> +<i>MY GUY FAWKES</i> +</h3> + +<p> +I made my Guy Fawkes yesternight. +I'll burn him up some time to-day. +He is an ugly-looking fright. I built him +up in just this way: I took ten yards of +witch-spun stuff, woven, you know, from +threads of gloom, in colour dark, in texture +rough, and hurried to my little room, +and there I stitched it up one side and +stitched it at the bottom, too. And then +this bag I opened wide, and into it I +swiftly threw a full-grown Temper, scowling +thing; a cowardly Fear with pallid +face, and cold starved Hope with broken +wing, and Pride bedecked in silks and +lace, and Moodiness and Discontent, and +all the horrid things I own. Atop this Guy, +a lemon went; and for its heart a dull grey +stone. Ah! when the flames have eaten it, +how very noble I will be. This thought, +though, bothers me a bit—not one old +friend will then know me! +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap62"></a> +<i>CLIPPED WINGS</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Clipped wings! But all the same, +you've wings. You cannot fly away +from duty, but you can rise above drab +things. Oh, little, lovely flight to beauty. +Clipped wings, indeed, can take you far; +well, far enough to see the sun arise, the +silver radiance of the evening star, the +trustfulness within a baby's eye—lovely, +indeed, these little journeys are. I know, +dear soul, the cage at times seems small, +and you are weary of the daily round. +Better clipped wings than ne'er a wing at +all—at least you rise with ease above the +ground. You can poise level with a daisy's +head, or with a nest within an old forked +bough, and on towards a hollyhock bright +red, and higher, higher still—as you are +now, upon a fleecy cloud with crimson +dyed. Swift flight of dreams! Are you not +satisfied? Clipped wings are not +spectacular, we know. They do not hold the +centre of life's ring. But ah! how swiftly +and how gaily they can go towards the +commonplace, the homely, lowly thing. +Be grateful for clipped wings that carry +you out of the drab into your bit of blue. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap63"></a> +<i>EVEN AS YOU AND I</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Two thousand million people inhabit +this old earth. I saw these figures +somewhere. I mused, "Just think of it. +Two thousand million people—then what +can be the worth of a single human being? +A very little bit!" Two thousand million +people, with troubles like my own, with +work that bores them sometimes, with +bills that must be paid, with longings for +companionship, desire to be alone, and +ghosts that stalk the future of which they +are afraid. Two thousand million people, +with burdens they must bear, with sorrows +and with troubles and foes to put to +rout. No wonder I, but one of these, am +forced to take my share—and thinking of +those millions, self-pity peters out. +</p> + +<p><br><br><br></p> + +<h3> +<a id="chap64"></a> +<i>TROUBLE, THE TUNNEL</i> +</h3> + +<p> +Wouldn't it be awful if troubles +were like caves? Like dark and +gloomy hollows where daylight never +follows, and no sound ever enters but the +echoes of the waves? If troubles were like +caverns—ah! woe betide us all. Forever +groping, groping, till fear prevents us +hoping, and the journey's end is nothing +but a grim and silent wall. But troubles +aren't like caverns, take heart again and +smile. They're tunnels, dark enough, 'tis +true; but I know well, and so do you, +there's always daylight coming, though +the tunnel be a mile. Then let us, when in +trouble, repeat this happy truth, "We're +passing through a sorrow, but we'll +emerge to-morrow into the sun of +happiness, for tunnels end, forsooth!" +</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 75156 ***</div> +</body> + +</html> + + diff --git a/75156-h/images/img-cover.jpg b/75156-h/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5607234 --- /dev/null +++ b/75156-h/images/img-cover.jpg |
