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