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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/75156-0.txt b/75156-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4eb3347 --- /dev/null +++ b/75156-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1258 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75156 *** + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Cover art] + + + + + + WHERE + SUNLIGHT FALLS + + + BY + + WILHELMINA STITCH + + AUTHOR OF + "SILKEN THREADS," "SILVER LININGS," + "THE GOLDEN WEB," "VERSES FOR CHILDREN," ETC. + + + + SECOND EDITION + + + + METHUEN & CO. LTD. + 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. + LONDON + + + + + _First Published ... March 21st 1929 + Second Edition ... 1929_ + + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + + + + + CONTENTS + + + A SONG TO CHEER + AT A DOG'S HOME + THE WAYSIDE PULPIT + SPOONS + ABOVE DEFEAT + COURTESY + BUILDING PALACES + PRESERVES + WHEN FRIENDSHIP DIES + THE HARPIST + THE STRONG WILL + CONKERS + THE BEAUTY-REAPER + REMEMBER MAY + TO MY UMBRELLA + AN EASTER SONG + AT A PIANO RECITAL + SPRING CLEANINGS + DEER IN AUTUMN + COMPENSATIONS + LONDON TO GREENHITHE + THE LITTLE CANDLE + TO A CHILD + LIFE'S SONG + HOLIDAY MEMORIES + FAILURE + HIS 21ST BIRTHDAY + FELLOWSHIP + IN A LITTLE ROOM + DO IT NOW + ON ST. CRISPIN'S DAY + THE EVER YOUNG + BROADCAST FRIENDS + SEEKING HAPPINESS + THOUGHTS WHEN BULB-PLANTING + TO EACH HIS GIFT + IN AN APRIL GARDEN + THE QUIET HEART + DREAM-STREET CRIES + SPRING IS COMING + SALUTE TO THE BRAVE + MY VISITORS + THIS WAY BUT ONCE + WANDERING THOUGHTS + ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH + THE SEA OF LIFE + THE CARAVAN SETS FORTH + MARCH, THE LION + PLAY THE GAME + A PIECE OF PAPER + AFRAID, BUT UNDETERRED + TO SOME DAHLIAS + STEADFASTNESS + CANDLEMAS + THE COBWEB'S STRENGTH + A NICHT WI' BURNS + MY GUY FAWKES + CUPPED WINGS + EVEN AS YOU AND I + TROUBLE, THE TUNNEL + + + + +_A SONG TO CHEER_ + +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. + + + + +_AT A DOG'S HOME_ + +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. + + + + +_THE WAYSIDE PULPIT_ + +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. + + + + +_SPOONS_ + +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! + + + + +_ABOVE DEFEAT_ + +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! + + + + +_COURTESY_ + +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! + + + + +_BUILDING PALACES_ + +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. + + + + +_PRESERVES_ + +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. + + + + +_WHEN FRIENDSHIP DIES_ + +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. + + + + +_THE HARPIST_ + +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." + + + + +_THE STRONG WILL_ + +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. + + + + +_CONKERS_ + +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." + + + + +THE BEAUTY-REAPER + +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. + + + + +_REMEMBER MAY_ + +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!" + + + + +_TO MY UMBRELLA_ + +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! + + + + +_AN EASTER SONG_ + +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. + + + + +_AT A PIANO RECITAL_ + +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! + + + + +_SPRING CLEANINGS_ + +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! + + + + +_DEER IN AUTUMN_ + +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! + + + + +_COMPENSATIONS_ + +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. + + + + +_LONDON TO GREENHITHE_ + +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. + + + + +_THE LITTLE CANDLE_ + +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. + + + + +_TO A CHILD_ + +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. + + + + +_LIFE'S SONG_ + +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. + + + + +_HOLIDAY MEMORIES_ + +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! + + + + +_FAILURE_ + +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! + + + + +_HIS 21ST BIRTHDAY_ + +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! + + + + +_FELLOWSHIP_ + +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. + + + + +_IN A LITTLE ROOM_ + +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. + + + + +_DO IT NOW_ + +'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. + + + + +_ON ST. CRISPIN'S DAY_ + +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! + + + + +_THE EVER YOUNG_ + +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. + + + + +_BROADCAST FRIENDS_ + +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! + + + + +_SEEKING HAPPINESS_ + +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! + + + + +_THOUGHTS WHEN BULB-PLANTING_ + +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! + + + + +_TO EACH HIS GIFT_ + +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. + + + + +_IN AN APRIL GARDEN_ + +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. + + + + +_THE QUIET HEART_ + +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. + + + + +_DREAM-STREET CRIES_ + +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." + + + + +_SPRING IS COMING_ + +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! + + + + +_SALUTE TO THE BRAVE_ + +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! + + + + +_MY VISITORS_ + +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. + + + + +_THIS WAY BUT ONCE_ + +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. + + + + +_WANDERING THOUGHTS_ + +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! + + + + +_ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH_ + +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! + + + + +_THE SEA OF LIFE_ + +"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. + + + + +THE CARAVAN SETS FORTH + +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." + + + + +_MARCH, THE LION_ + +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! + + + + +_PLAY THE GAME_ + +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. + + + + +_A PIECE OF PAPER_ + +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. + + + + +_AFRAID, BUT UNDETERRED_ + +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." + + + + +_TO SOME DAHLIAS_ + +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! + + + + +_STEADFASTNESS_ + +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! + + + + +_CANDLEMAS_ + +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. + + + + +_THE COBWEB'S STRENGTH_ + +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. + + + + +_A NICHT WI' BURNS_ + +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. + + + + +_MY GUY FAWKES_ + +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! + + + + +_CLIPPED WINGS_ + +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. + + + + +_EVEN AS YOU AND I_ + +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. + + + + +_TROUBLE, THE TUNNEL_ + +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!" + + + + _Printed in Great Britain by_ + UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING + + + + + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75156 *** 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 diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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