Silken threads
Date: 2025-01-20T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Prose poems

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Silken threads

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Title: Silken threads

Author: Ruth Collie

Release date: January 20, 2025 [eBook #75154]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Methuen & Co. Ltd, 1927

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/75154

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SILKEN THREADS ***

SILKEN THREADS

BY

WILHELMINA STITCH

AUTHOR OF
"THE FRAGRANT MINUTE FOR EVERY DAY"
"SILVER LININGS," "THE GOLDEN WEB"
"WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS", ETC.

EIGHTH EDITION

METHUEN & CO., LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON

First Published ... October 20th 1927
Second Edition ... November 1927
Third Edition ... December 1927
Fourth Edition ... January 1928
Fifth Edition ... April 1928
Sixth Edition ... December 1928
Seventh Edition ... March 1929
Eighth Edition ... 1929

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

THE OLD SAMPLER
EVERYDAY RELIGION
THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL
THE WEEK ROUND
HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND
THE STRING BAG
LIFE GROWS FAIRER
TO THE FIRST-BORN
A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER
THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME
THE TEACHER
PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN
"BLESSED ARE THEY"
A MOTHER SPEAKS
THE BOY SAMUEL
THE PERFECT FRIEND
MAKING THE BEST OF IT
A TOAST
THE GARDENER'S PRAYER
LEGS AND ARMS
THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST
THE FIRST BIRTHDAY
FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON
SPRING CLEANING
A SPRINGTIME LULLABY
UNTO THE DAY—
AT THE DAY'S END
THE FAMILY DOCTOR
MEMORY'S GARDEN
MY TRUANT SHADOW
TO CAT PETER
IN THE BEGINNING
HAMMER AWAY
WHITHER BOUND?
LOOKING BACKWARD
THE KITCHEN
THE HARBOUR HEART
TO A PATCHWORK QUILT
MY OLD DOLL
LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS
FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION
THE WORTHY CREW
THE POSTMAN
"ANGELS IN THE SNOW"
TO MONDAY MORNING
SECURITIES
WHEN DECEMBER COMES
THE LITTLE SHOPS
SUMMER IN YOUR HEART
APRIL, THE JESTER
THE SONG OF THE SOUL
A BED-TIME SONG
AN ANNIVERSARY
TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW
TWO COINS
THE STREET SINGER
MERELY PARENTS
SONG OF THE GIVER
THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR
A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP

THE OLD SAMPLER

Dear little girl of Long Ago, so sweetly docile, quiet and prim, making, laboriously and slow, your silken prayer to Him—did your child-heart beat eager wings beneath the bones of your stiff dress, like some caged bird that sweetly sings, longing for freedom's happiness? It must have been a day in June when with a gleaming, scarlet thread, you worked the livelong afternoon, "Give us this day our daily bread." For look! Just where a line begins your needle strayed a square too high; quite crooked are the words "our sins." Oh! were you gazing at the sky? Or did the daisies on your lawn begin to wink and blink at you? Perhaps you spied a leprechaun just where your mother's roses grew? I think God smiled at that mistake, dear little girl so fair and prim, and blessed those hands that failed to make—a perfect gift for Him.

EVERYDAY RELIGION

How far you seek, poor soul, to find your God, through such a maze of noisy, foolish words, and yet they speak of Him—each silent sod, each crooning breeze, and all the singing birds. He dwells not in a tenet or a creed, no roof can compass Him, nor walls enclose, but you will find Him in the humblest weed and in the beauty of a budding rose. Think you He cares for some high-sounding phrase, the gift from lips that serve a subtle mind? Some homely household sounds best sing His praise, and deeds that spring from hearts sincere and kind. Why travel such a devious path and long, when sun and moon and stars proclaim Him near? Hark to His voice, a throbbing, pleading song, bidding us slay Intolerance and Fear. Return, oh soul, from journeying afar; there is a quiet road, straight to your breast. Travel this path, at rise of evening star, you'll find that He has come to be your guest.

THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL

Your tail's absurdly long for a doggie of your size. Your ears, well they look wrong, but the love-light in your eyes, ah! makes one quite forget you've won no prize as yet. You're a mongrel, little chap, just a mongrel, nothing more. Take your paws off from my lap. Oh! you silly little bore, must you make this awful fuss just to show your love for us? Your hair is such a length! You're clumsy with your feet; you've tenacity and strength, you're a ruffian on the street, and you wriggle like an eel just to show the love you feel. Mongrel, with no hope of fame, who's your father? You don't know? Ought to slink away in shame, but the children love you so, and despite your tail and head—you're at heart, a thoroughbred!

THE WEEK ROUND

Idleness we now must shun, another week of work begun, another hill that must be won, for 'tis Monday morning. Clear in brain and strong in limb, now we're in good fighting trim, Sunday's joys are growing dim, for 'tis Tuesday morning. Energies have reached the crest, we've ambition, hope and zest, work, of all life's gifts the best, on this Wednesday morning. Duties pile up thick and fast, the middle of the week is past, now our goal's in sight at last, for 'tis Thursday morning. Smiling, singing, lift the load, do not let the burden goad, look ahead—there ends the road, for 'tis Friday morning. Soon we'll fold our tasks away. A few more hours and then to play, to-morrow is a precious day—blithe Saturday, good morning!

HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND

"If only," she said (and wistful her eyes), "my husband would take a pride in his ties; but somehow he makes them look like a string. I've pleaded, I've bullied, I can't do a thing. He'll never look smart or stylish, I fear—and yet, all the same, he's really a dear!" "Now why should he wear, year in and year out, his hat of grey felt the wrong way about? And why, when he fastens his cardigan vest, he should miss the first buttonhole, I've never guessed. And then he's surprised there's one button to spare! I plead or I lecture, but he doesn't care. He'll never look smart or stylish, I fear—and yet, all the same, he's really a dear!" "If all his pockets were merely for looks, and not for his scissors and pencils and books; for matches, for pouch, for pipe and for knife—he'd not look a lumpy disgrace to his wife. If he'd brush his clothes sometimes, use hangers at night, he'd look like our neighbour, so smart—a delight! He'll never improve, not the slightest, I fear; but yet, I assure you, he's really a dear."

THE STRING BAG

A task to irritate a saint—unravelling string of every length! Before all's done, perhaps I'll faint; it's such a tax upon one's strength. This piece seems boastful of its knot, as if it knows it hurt my nails. Dear me! This bag does hold a lot; my courage flags and fails. But, after all—it's rather fun. Suppose this string is but a street. Ah! now my journey's well begun; each knot a mountain at my feet. Till these be scaled, I can't progress. I clench my teeth and work away, beyond this knot lies happiness, and I must pass while yet 'tis day. Another piece leads to a hill where fairy folk in tree trunks dwell. I'll blaze this trail with right good will, and live among them for a spell. So swift my fingers work, and fast (imagination's on the wing!) and all my troubles fade at last—for life is like a knotted string!

LIFE GROWS FAIRER

As life goes by it fairer grows. Oh, yes, it fairer grows to me. And may it be so at the close when Death advances lovingly. It is not greater pomp nor state, nor high ambitions well attained, nor any stroke of lucky fate, nor wealth that Midas-like I've gained. Material gains I have not known (my bank account's about the same!) and yet the world has fairer grown; with certainty I make this claim. In love and tenderness and grace, the world grows fairer day by day. What joy to see a friendly face as we go bravely on our way. Not cleverness, nor knowledge, wit, do much enhance this life of ours (of course I know they help a bit), but God be thanked for sun and flow'rs; for peace beneath the star-strewn skies; for friends who sit around one's fire; for books, amusing, helpful, wise; for Love that crowns the heart's desire.

TO THE FIRST-BORN

Lovely was life, and seemingly complete! Such happiness was ours and deep content. The days flew by like buoyant birds and fleet: Joy was the urge to every fresh intent. No hours to waste, we had so much to do; Life was our teacher and we loved her well; loved every sound and every shade and hue; always she wove some new and potent spell. And then the blinding miracle—you came. A crumpled rose leaf, funny little thing, no teeth, no hair, no words, not e'en a name, and yet our hearts with ecstasy did sing. A tiny bundle. Eight pounds in a shawl! And yet you caused so swift and great a change, became the pulse of life, our joy, our all. We lived without you once, how very strange! Then was all beauty symbolised by you. Then did we find all joys on earth, above, wrapped in a shawl; and then at last we knew the meaning of that phrase, "Lo! God is Love."

A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER

My prayer is such a little thing, it might get lost and go astray. Are you, dear God, now listening to what I say? I wish to thank You for the sun that kissed, this morn, my sleeping eyes; for all the happy things I've done since I did rise. For gift of sound and gift of sight; for feet that skip so merrily; for food and warmth, and each delight You gave to me. I thank You for my mother dear; I thank You for my father kind; and for the star that watches near—behind the blind. So many Grown-ups show me love, though I'm a child and still quite small. Look down upon them from above and, please God, bless them all. And now, dear God, I'll say "Good-night," and may Your angels guard my bed until You send Your morning light to wake this Sleepy Head.

THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME

I bid you welcome, Friend! This thought is joy to me: that you should seek my sympathy, at the day's end. My walls—they will enfold you with tenderness and grace. Maternal arms are they to hold you in warm and safe embrace. Here you may cast aside the cares you had; discard them like old garments, drab and worn. In robes of peace, until to-morrow morn, now be you clad! See what sweet dreams I have called forth for you. They are the lovely shadows in the room; and on the walls, like fairy flowers they'll bloom, the whole night through. And some will hover gently o'er your head; and some press softly 'gainst your sleeping heart; and you will travel to a magic mart—a Dreamship is your bed. I bid you welcome, Guest! Hold out your hands to me, a loving friend. For now, Tired Soul, the day is at an end—and I will give you rest.

THE TEACHER

There's Amy, Daphne, Pam, and Rose; Elizabeth and Lucille fair; and Jellis with tip-tilted nose; Amanda with rich auburn hair. And other blossoms, row on row, standing so primly in their places. It sets the teacher's heart aglow to see their morning-glory faces. Now like a mother she must be—a loving mother wise and kind—clothing each tender memory in prettiest garments she can find. As mothers joy in dainty frills, so will she trim each baby heart with melodies and lilting trills, borrowed for them, from Beauty's mart. For ribbons—phrases gleaming bright, most beautiful to hear and say; each one a streamer of delight with which a little soul can play! For food—she proffers Truth's white bread. For drink—the Spirit's sparkling stream. With fairy-lore is Fancy fed, that they, her bairns, may sweetly dream.

PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN

Lupins from Patricia Ann! She, though barely seven, has a garden of her own, a little bit of heaven. Blossoms that she grew for me—so her little letter ran—what gift could more lovely be. Lupins from Patricia Ann! Purple, pink and ivory white, here is one with tint of rose; did they, Pat, o'er-top your height, though you stood on tippy-toes? Thoughts are wandering for a span round about a vase of blue. Lupins from Patricia Ann—can I help but think of you. Patricia Ann! Throughout your days you a gardener must be. Gardeners have gentle ways, all their thoughts make melody. As your destined path you take, and places you must scan; there, sow seeds for love's own sake, blossoms from Patricia Ann!

"BLESSED ARE THEY"

"Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they who sing in the morning, whose faces have smiles for their early adorning, who come down to breakfast companioned by Cheer, who won't dwell on trouble, nor entertain fear, whose eyes smile forth bravely, whose lips curve to say, "Life! I salute you. Good-morrow, New Day!" "Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they who treat one another, though merely a sister, a father, a brother, with the very same courtesy they would extend to a casual acquaintance, or dearly-loved friend; who choose for the telling encouraging things, and choke back the bitter, the sharp word that stings. "Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they who give of their best, who bring to the home bright laughter, gay jest, who make themselves charming for no other reason than charm is a blossom for homes, every season! Who bestow love on others throughout the long day—pleasant to live with and blessed are they!

A MOTHER SPEAKS

A lovely photograph? Ah, yes! But still it does not show the sun turning to copper each brown tress—but I have seen this done. You cannot see how in each cheek a laughing dimple comes and goes and plays a game of hide-and-seek in petals of a rose. You cannot see the bright star-shine within her beaming hazel eyes; nor see the colour, like red wine, denote a glad surprise. You have not watched her body's grace, its perfect, joyous symmetry; nor have you glimpsed her sleeping face, turned happily to me. My baby's photograph. Ah, yes! But you should hear her lilting voice with tones that break with happiness and make the birds rejoice. You have not felt her tiny hand caress your cheek; nor known her kiss. But if you had, you'd understand—she's lovelier, far, than this!

THE BOY SAMUEL

He must have been a lonely little boy. The cold stone Temple for a nursery floor, and the Sanctuary Lamp for a glittering toy, and a Tamarix tree by the Temple door. (A Tamarix tree with scarcely a leaf to comfort a homesick child in his grief.) No woman's lips on his baby face; no woman's arms to hug him tight. Who put his sandals, each night, in place, and hung up his ephod, small and white? (Sometimes, I fear, when the old priest slept, the little child Samuel wept and wept.) What did he think, when once a year, Hannah, the mother, with love-lit eyes, held him close and whispered, "Dear! See, I have brought my babe a prize," and gave him a coat that she had made (I hope it was cut of rich brocade!) I hope it had friendly birds and flow'rs, embroidered in threads of blue and gold, playmates for his long, lonely hours in the silent Temple dim and cold. With such a coat to wear and touch—he might not miss his mother much.

THE PERFECT FRIEND

Shabby and down at heel? What does he care, so long as he can steal next to my chair? Sombre and dull of wit; feeling morose? He doesn't mind a bit, snuggles up close. Silence I may require. He's quite content. Silence is his desire, till my mood's spent. Ready to run a race, swim, fetch a stone. Yet will, with perfect grace, leave me alone. Some folks oft misconstrue words we let fall. Alter the shade and hue, turn sweet to gall. Not so this friend of mine; he understands. Gives me his secret sign, licks both my hands! Never misjudges, trusts to the end, pattern of loyalty—Doggie, the Friend.

MAKING THE BEST OF IT

The day was like a garment that I perforce must wear. I didn't like its colour much, it didn't suit my hair. I didn't like its line or cut, it didn't please my eye. "You look so very drab and mean," said I with heavy sigh. But since I had to wear it, this garment made for me, I said: I will embellish it and trim it prettily. Around its neck I stitched some smiles, a frill of them, all gold. And at the wrists, bright fancy's braid, quite lovely to behold. I girdled it with rosy dreams ('tis wrong to look a dowd!) and for a little 'kerchief, I chose a snow-white cloud. I gathered shining, gleaming thoughts and looped them here and there. The day it was a garment that I just loved to wear.

A TOAST

Here's to the days that are yet to be, to the life we're going to lead, to the aim achieved successfully, to the prisoned hope that's freed. Here's to the strength we're going to find, here's to the work we'll soon begin, strength of body and strength of mind and the hill we're going to win. Here's to the El Dorado, friends, the land of dreams we're soon to sight. Here's to the hour the striving ends and we stake our claim to the heart's delight. Here's to the road that winds afar, here's to the courage we'll never lack, to the dauntless will, the beckoning star, to the eyes that look not back. Here's to the days that are yet to be, here's to the work that lies ahead, to the joy in striving constantly—till the last mile's paced, and the last word's said.

THE GARDENER'S PRAYER

I pray You, let this garden be a gentle advocate for me before Your throne. Lord, it is fair and orderly and through its sweet serenity, my faults I own. My life at times has gone awry, but here beneath Your arch of sky, the pattern's true. The wind that softly passes by; tall trees, bright blossoms, grass, all try to pleasure You. With zest I've weeded day by day. Judge that my sins I cast away and am now shriven. And here Your sunbeams come to play, and moonbeams on this path do stray. Your stars look down from heaven. Will You not take this pattern bright as handiwork for Your delight and bless this little garden? See how the lilies tall and white stand unafraid within Your sight, and ask, for me, Your pardon.

LEGS AND ARMS

A curious thing, but a fact all the same, some friends of mine (never mind what name) thought of nothing and talked of naught but a William and Mary chair they'd bought. And also a table, a tallboy, a chest, with which they had furnished the room for a guest. Whenever I visited just for a span, 'twas "William and Mary" or good "Queen Anne." 'Twas "Heppelwhite" this and "Chippendale" that. I soon had the periods learnt off pat. They looked at a leg, "Cup-turned," they said, and bade me observe their Sheraton bed. But now all's changed, and the reason's this. There's a little curved leg they love to kiss; there's a dimpled arm so smooth and white, its graceful contour gives delight. And as for the chest, it gives much joy. Says Daddy, "Just look at this fine tall boy!" Of Seventeenth Century they don't speak. Everything dates from just last week. For period furniture lost its hold—since they have acquired a One-Week-Old.

THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST

A lotion, madam, for your eyes? Oh, certainly, come this way, please. You'll use this one if you are wise. Its chief ingredients are these: Ten drops of rain, ten drops of dew, a most refreshing, cooling brew, mixed by a scented breeze. And next? A face cream? Come this way. Now, here is one I recommend. It can work wonders in a day, yet quite an inexpensive blend. One ounce of laughter, smiles and twinkles. 'Tis guaranteed to smooth out wrinkles. I thank you, madam. Take or send? For jaded nerves? A recipe? I've this that all my clients heed. A draught of wholesome sympathy for someone else's urgent need; forgetfulness of your own cares by thinking of world brotherhood—though you may find a few grey hairs you'll also find that life is good. Good morning, madam. This way, please. No, naught to pay for things like these.

THE FIRST BIRTHDAY

It's all as strange as it can be, and Baby wonders, silently. Mother hugs him even more than she ever did before. Father has such boisterous ways, bellows words of petting praise, flings him high into the air. "Oh!" shrieks mother, "do take care." 'Tis four o'clock, he's been to sleep and yet he's not allowed to creep; not allowed the happiness of sucking bits of his clean dress. He has to sit in his high chair and let a lot of people stare. They bring him things to touch and squeeze, and sister plagues him to say "please." Then someone cries, "Now, Baby, look! Here is a lovely picture book." And someone else says, "Here's a bunny, a soft, white woolly one, for Sonny." He's feeling bored. He thinks he'll cry. Just then he catches mother's eye. She lifts him up, oh! pretty sight, a little candle burning bright! And Mummie whispers in his ear, "It's your first birthday, precious dear."

FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON

"For that which is common, be praised, O Lord!" For sun and the tang in the morning air. For mist and the grey of a soothing sky. For night and the stars within her hair. For work and the joy in the will to try. For love and its binding silken cord—for that which is common, be praised, O Lord! For hands and their clasp of friend with friend. For clever fingers that mould and make; for home and its rest at the day's long end, for Peace that the thirsty soul doth slake, for china and flowers and homely board—for that which is common, be praised, O Lord. For laughter of children absorbed in play, for laughter of adults whose hearts are young, for the hillocks and valleys of life's short day, for gift of speech and the gentle tongue, for love of service, its own reward—for that which is common, be praised, O Lord.

SPRING CLEANING

Sing a song of Spring-cleaning! Polish up the mind, open all the windows, pull up every blind; let in shafts of sunshine, cleansing breezes, too; sweep away all cobwebs—that's the thing to do. Bathe the eyes in gladness, look at sky and earth. Fill the lungs with laughter, magic's worked by mirth. Sweep out every corner, free the heart from dust; intolerance and prejudice are nasty types of rust! Key the slackened heart-strings, ready for a tune. Love will be in need of them, lilac time is soon. When the mind is polished, when the heart is clean, what a charming person will step upon the scene!

A SPRINGTIME LULLABY

Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby! Pink and white blossom, go you to sleep. Bluebells are silent, hushaby, lullaby, only the stars may twinkle and peep. Blue eyes of baby, hushaby, lullaby, now must they close 'neath their curtains so white. The thrush has ceased singing, hushaby, lullaby, pink and white blossom, I kiss you good-night. The white woolly lambkins are peacefully sleeping, hushaby, lullaby, gold-haloed head. O'er the gold of the meadows a grey mist is creeping, the wings of the angels now curtain your bed. Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby. Your cot is a garden, the fairest I know. Rose petals your cheeks are, hushaby, lullaby, and the curls on the pillow like buttercups glow! Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby, fall you to sleep while the nightingales sing. Bluebells your eyes are, hushaby, lullaby, pink and white blossom, the glory of spring.

UNTO THE DAY—

Many things in this world are bad, no good looking the other way, lots of things to make us sad—but it's very fine to-day. Loads of troubles come to us, you've had yours and I've had mine. We won't brood and fret and fuss—for to-day is very fine. Chilly when the winter's here, and no leaf is on the bough. Let us sing a song of cheer—for it's very pleasant now. Life is often cruel, unkind. Vainly seek we for the light. Gusts of passion fog the mind—but, just now, the sun shines bright. Let's not brood on grief that's past, shadows fall but shadows lift. Only Love and Goodness last—let's enjoy to-day's good gift.

AT THE DAY'S END

Your pardon, Life, if we have treated ill one hour of this good day; if we have shown a stubborn, sulky will, choosing an ugly way, though you have offered for our errant feet a well-built, clean, a straight and smiling street! Your pardon, Life, if we have failed to see the beauty of each hour; if we have walked with eyes turned inwardly, blind to a bird or flow'r; to all the loveliness you offered us. Your pardon, Life, if we have acted thus. And if we have, one moment, turned deaf ears to voices that inspire; if we have entertained pale, cowardly fears and fanned a low desire; if we have brought to naught one gift you gave, your pardon, Life, we crave. Oh, hear us, Life, if we have acted ill, in deed or thought along the way; to-morrow we will rise with strengthened will—and tarnish not your day.

THE FAMILY DOCTOR

He has no time to "specialise," is quite unknown to fame; he's understanding, kindly, wise, and "doctor" is his name. Always at patients' beck and call, all hours of day and night, for both momentous ills and small—and oft with death to fight. Not always is it draughts to drink, his trusting patients need. He tries to make the thoughtless think—'tis sometimes hearts that bleed. The honoured confidant and friend of families is he, and often when for him they send, they crave but sympathy. "Doctor," one says, "will make the lad see reason quickly, dear." Doctor is asked to soften Dad, or cast out mother's fear. Their joys and sorrows he doth share, for doctor always must be told; he lightens many a heavy care, and this for love, not gold. And he mends broken spirits, too, dispenses cheer and mirth. The every-ready friend and true—the very salt of earth.

MEMORY'S GARDEN

How fortunate are we, blessed with a memory! It is God's gift to all in high estate and small. A storehouse for the keeping of beauty we've been reaping from life's fields, along the way, hour by hour and day by day. Oh Eyes! let nothing pass. The dew-kissed morning grass is a very lovely sight. Then there are stars at night; and a little child at play is a twinkling star for day! Oh Ears! drink in the sounds with which this world abounds. Not music only, no, not this alone. For what more lovely than the throbbing tone of human voice that blends tenderly with voice of friends? Oh Soul! garner most zealously each quiet joy, each ecstasy, each sound, each touch, each sight, whate'er has given delight. Then when the summer days of life draw to a close, from Memory's fair garden—we can pluck a rose.

MY TRUANT SHADOW

I envied little girls to-day: I envied little boys. For part of me just longed to play with Springtime's jolly toys. I longed to have a hoop to bowl, a spinning top and whip, a bright red ball to bounce and roll—a rope so I might skip. A rope with handles very gay, on each a painted rose. Then little girls who passed my way would say, "Oh! look at those!" But I, alas! this morning walked with silly, grown-up tread; so wisely my companion talked, such solemn things he said. But suddenly my shadow tripped a little way ahead. And with a brand new rope it skipped—I feared it would drop dead. So fast it skipped, such slender feet, it really made me wince. And then it skipped across the street; I have not seen it since. But what it's doing I can guess, that naughty, truant, Shadow-me! It's spinning tops (oh! happiness) and bowling hoops with ecstasy!

TO CAT PETER

My Peter! It is time I told you flat, just what I think of species known as cat. Throughout the centuries, from earliest days, mere human-beings have sung loud your praise. Beloved of popes the cat has often been; sacred in Egypt; petted by king or queen. And you, you orphan, common little stray, accept the homage that we weakly pay as if it were your just and proper due. I am disgusted, quite annoyed with you. What do you do for us, I'd like to know? You care not when or where we come or go. You show no joy when we return at night, but blink your eyes, and are indifferent, quite. You stalk into the kitchen, drink your milk, then lick your paws until they shine like silk; sit in a sunny window, catch a fly; then, feeling bored, leap to a shelf on high, and from this prominence you view with scorn—those who have served with love since you were born!

IN THE BEGINNING

In the beginning was the seed. And silently the work went on. The roots struck deep; new life was freed; the warm rain fell; the bright sun shone. A tiny shoot; two leaves of green; growth hour by hour—and then the day when all the glory of a flower was seen. The deed perfected in true beauty's way, for not a single word had yet been heard! Grant us the power to act this way. Let each good impulse strike upon rich soil, and there take root and blossom through the day not by the breath of words but silent toil. For gracious words should follow what we do, the lovely blossoms of a fruitful deed; or like the sun's exquisite farewell hue, beauty that is of service, the just meed. "First, we will act." This is the best of creeds. For words draw life after the good is done; and flash within the sunlight of our deeds like rays reflected from the spirit's sun.

HAMMER AWAY

Watching the blacksmith, were you, son? Watching the way his work is done. Muscle is needed and also brain. Hammer, and hammer, and hammer again, striking the blow, tirelessly, true. Fashioned at last the perfect shoe. Wasn't done quickly, lad, admit; persistence needed and strength and grit. That is the way we all must work (no use tiring nor trying to shirk). Not for an hour, not for a day; nor for a week, nor month, nor year; just how long no one can say (keep on, laddie, success is near), hammer away, boy, hammer away. Look how ambition's sparks are flying (Splendid! laddie, just keep on trying), fashion your dream on the anvil, duty; mould and hammer it into beauty. You are a smith; your anvil, life. Keep swinging the hammer, despite all strife. Honest your purpose, stroke that is true; joy in the thing you are trying to do; ambition's flame for the smithy's fire, lit by the strength of a great desire. Then noble the work, at the end of the day—hammer away, lad, hammer away.

WHITHER BOUND?

A window filled with naught but shoes of every shape and every size; of black and brown and flaunting hues—they claimed my fascinated eyes. I simply had to stand and stare (would you believe me, in the rain!), I had no wish to buy a pair, indeed, I have a foolish brain. But this is why I could not go: I could not tear myself away, I felt a great desire to know where all these shoes would wend one day. And while the raindrops, laughing, fell, I stood and mused a little while. This pair, oh, anyone could tell, would walk for many a business mile, and those would mince along the street as proud as proud as they could be; and these, they were for dancing feet. Perhaps (hoped I) they'll dance with me! Just then a cosy pair I spied. Ah, they would meet my heart's desire, for when it rained and stormed outside, they'd stay, with books, beside the fire.

LOOKING BACKWARD

I can remember many childhood joys, a cashmere frock my mother made for me; a woolly lamb, best loved of many toys; mauve frock, white lamb, and little girl of three. I can remember (Oh! I'm full of shame) picking big holes in mother's gingerbread. And when she asked me for the culprit's name, "It must have been the flies," I calmly said. I can remember a laburnam tree spanning a river with its arch of gold. And stored for ever in my memory are all the Fairy Tales my father told. I'll ne'er forget a little magic door, a little shiny gate of yellow wood. Through it I passed whene'er the clock struck four (provided that I really had been good). Then down a hill, quite steep and very wide, a perilous descent to Paradise! The drawing-room door—and I was safe inside, and reached the haven of my mother's eyes.

THE KITCHEN

Of course, I'm proud! (the kitchen said). 'Tis I who harbour water, bread. The staff of Life these two things be, and both of them come forth from me. The Salt and Spice of Life I share with all dependent on my fare. And oh! I've always something sweet for Nursery Folk, on truant feet! There's great work done in my domain. 'Tis I who nourish brawn and brain. Where would this family now be except for cook, and fire, and me! And who but I sends forth a tray, with fragrant brew each new-born day? And where would be sweet Friendship's hour, the dainty china, lovely flow'r, the rush of children in the room dispelling any hint of gloom, did I, at five o'clock, not send hot toast and tea of perfect blend? May nought but cheerful cooks come here; for I, at any time of year, in my great purpose take delight: to serve the Healthy Appetite.

THE HARBOUR HEART

The heart is like a quiet port expecting ships each day. The spirit is the armoured fort that guards the ocean way. For, sometimes, on the sea of life there rides an evil ship. The crew belongs to Captain Strife, who shows a bitter lip. Dead Hopes and Fears and shattered Dreams, his cargo in the hold; above his ship a vulture screams, the wind blows keen and cold. Then Coastguard Spirit calls with zest, "Oh, heart of mine, beware, let not this vessel come to rest, 'twill bring you black despair." One day, when lovely is the sky, a ship sails into view. Its banner, Courage, floats on high, and joyous is the crew. 'Tis Captain Youth with dreams of yore, how gently he doth speak. Oh, gallant ship, pull into shore, my heart's the port you seek.

TO A PATCHWORK QUILT

Who made you? Was she old or young? Were her fingers white and soft and slim? And the song that was sung (as she worked) a love song or a hymn? You think, old quilt, in vain I probe and ask? But like a mirror you reflect it all. For I can see her at her homely task, sweet-faced and comely, fair and queenly tall. And there were toddlers pressed against her knee, their rosy fingers petting each bright hue. One trilled, "That pretty scarlet piece is meant for me." Another, "May I have this lovely blue?" How clear it is she loved all outdoor things. So many shades of sky she's brought together; touches of crimson seen on blackbirds' wings; the greens of trees; soft greys of rainy weather. And here is mauve, a wistful, gentle shade, when she felt weary and a little sad. Ah, me! This brown is serious and staid, but yellow smiles and proves that she grew glad. But when she reached the borders then, I think, she chose the blue to match a midnight sky, and silver snippets for the stars that wink; and, as she stitched, she sang a lullaby.

MY OLD DOLL

"Too old," they cried, "with dolls to play." And so I gently laid away the doll my father bought for me when I was only half past three. One day, I mused, my own wee girl may hug that doll and kiss each curl. How could I tell a roguish boy would treat with scorn my childhood's joy? One spring, when tidying things anew, my dolly came again to view. I hugged her and I smoothed her head. "You'll go to Barbara," I said. "My niece, my golden Babs, is four, she'll love you as I did of yore." But when it came to paper, string, I felt my eyes with salt tears sting. I put that dolly back again! Absurd? I know. But oh! the pain. Then later, when a year had passed, I took that doll, and held her fast. Said I, "To little Ruth you'll go, that niece of mine will love you so." I smoothed her dress and ironed her lace—then put her back in her old place. It's very, very clear to me, the little girl I used to be refuses to relinquish Moll, the first, and last, and best-loved Doll!

LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS

The little roads to happiness, they are not hard to find; they do not lead to great success—but to a quiet mind. They do not lead to mighty power nor to substantial wealth. They bring one to a book, a flower, a song of cheer and health. The little roads to happiness are free to everyone; they lead one to the wind's caress, to kiss of friendly sun. These little roads are shining white, for all the world to see; their sign-boards, pointing left and right, are love and sympathy. The little roads of happiness have this most charming way; no matter how they may digress throughout the busy day; no matter where they twist and wind through fields of rich delight, they're always of the self-same mind to lead us home at night.

FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION

Friendship and Suspicion cannot dwell together. Friendship loves the sun; Suspicion, cloudy weather. Friendship needs must trust; Suspicion has to doubt, and, seeking hidden faults, turn all things inside out. Friendship clings to Truth, which is Suspicion's foe. 'Tis Truth that feeds the wick for Friendship's steady glow. No matter what the problem, ah! Friendship understands. And proffers ready helpfulness with eager, outstretched hands. And never questions coldly, nor probes with bitter sneer, but eases every burden, dispels each chilly fear. Friendship seeks companions, Suspicion walks alone, eyelids drooping meanly, in his heart, a stone. Friendship's joy is service, fair or foul the weather. Suspicion turns from giving—so they cannot dwell together.

THE WORTHY CREW

Discontented? Job no good? Chief is never praising you? Going elsewhere? Wish you could? Feeling bitter, tired and blue? Sure you're meant for bigger things. Never get a chance, that's all. Long to use ambition's wings; feel you're up against a wall? Only just occurred to you—well, you scarcely like to ask—but, after all, what does he do, what is the Chief's important task? Quite convinced you do the most? Confident you should earn more? Of course, you do not like to boast—you've other chances, by the score! When this mood has you in grip (as some day it's bound to do), remember—a successful ship must carry, too, a worthy crew. When this mood nags at your heart, reflect—we can't all captains be; each must play his special part; ships need crews when off to sea.

THE POSTMAN

He is the aide-de-camp of merchandise. While thousands calmly lie a-bed and dream, he bears the seeds of some great enterprise from which springs forth a money-making scheme! Ambassador from Friendship's court is he, bearing those greetings that enrich the day with happy thoughts, and with sweet melody which, on the heart-strings, only friends can play. Life's messenger! And so he needs must bring echoes from Sorrow's Hall as well as Joy. We hold no grudge against him for the sting, knowing all happiness has its alloy. Greater than Mercury who served the gods, the sturdy Postman, of our busy days. Wingless, on patient feet, he daily plods, evoking from all hearts a word of praise. He is the very pulse of life for all; without his letters we would be as dumb. No interchange of thoughts, how life would pall. Oh, joyous sound, the Postman has just come!

"ANGELS IN THE SNOW"

I would go back to Canada, at this time of the year, for three things, just three things, my memory holds most dear. And this, I say, is one of them: a blanket of white snow, a-glistening with diamonds, and the breakfast sun aglow! A smooth, white blanket undisturbed except where Bunny's feet have pricked a pattern from a bush, right to a human street! And this, I say is two of them: to see bare branches dressed in fluffy, frozen, flakes of snow when pink clouds blush the west. And this, I say, is three of them, and this I long to see: the woolly-armoured toddlers, playing so merrily. With arms outstretched they fall down flat, and lie there, laughing so. And when they rise, each leaves behind "an angel in the snow"!

TO MONDAY MORNING

Good morning, Monday! Welcome, Sir! Indeed, I'm glad to see you here. They utter treason who aver you are devoid of joy and cheer. That Monday feeling—well, it's this: Hurrah! the week has now begun and who can say what luck and bliss will come our way e'er set of sun. A brand new week with work to do, and past mistakes all swept away; our energies strung up anew to meet and greet the unknown day. This morn when sleep dropped from my eyes, I felt a most delightful thrill. I saw, to my intense surprise—a guest upon my window-sill. He'd one leg out and one leg in (he'd opened up the window wide), I liked his merry, carefree grin, and so I begged him step inside. 'Twas you, oh, Monday. Welcome, Sir! Your presence fills me with great glee; my pulses with excitement stir—I wonder what you've brought for me.

SECURITIES

One thing there is more Greek than Greek to my bemused and puzzled brain. I read it daily, week by week, but never is its meaning plain. It is the column that one sees naming securities galore. There's oil and rubber—several teas—and gold in far-off Labrador. Those fractions! How they puzzle me. I must confess they make me laugh. How can there be security in what is listed minus half? You scorn my denseness, clever Sir? There's just this thing I have to say. The stocks I own, I much prefer—such splendid dividends they pay. I've many shares in mines of mirth, in sunshine, air and flowers and sky, in all the things of sterling worth, yes, very rich indeed am I. I've neither copper, tin, nor gold; nor platinum without alloy. I own what can't be bought or sold—for I have many shares in Joy.

WHEN DECEMBER COMES

December with her skirts a-blowing, frozen dew-drops in each ear; berries at her breast a-glowing, rosy-cheeked December's here. Hoar-frost to her garments clinging, prettier gems she could not find; merrily, December's singing songs best suited to her mind. Songs of mistletoe and holly; songs of labels, paper, string; loving thoughts and Gayhearts folly—and just a tiny hint of Spring! December bears herself right proudly, Amazonian Queen is she. Hear her laughing, long and loudly—boisterous winds her minstrelsy. December's crown is bright and gleaming, Jack Frost made it for a gift. Just like stars her eyes are beaming, mouth has such a happy lift! December knows that we adore her. Joyfully she goes her way; eleven sisters march before her—in her train comes Christmas Day.

THE LITTLE SHOPS

Oh, smiling god of Good Luck, now night has slipped away, look down upon the little shops, and help them through the day. The shutters have been taken down and polished are the window-panes; the brasses glow, the front is swept—smile, god of Luck, till daylight wanes. The little shops pull at one's heart, so simple is their merchandise. A little window beckons us through which we peer with misted eyes. For narrow shops are often kind to tiny folk scarce counter-high. Above a shop, behind a blind, I've heard a little baby cry. Above a shop, I've often seen a mother's anxious face appear. How many customers have been? The closing hour is drawing near. Great shops, like temples dedicate to merchandise from every mart, are over-lords of their own fate—but little shops tug at the heart!

SUMMER IN YOUR HEART

What's the sense of fretting because the sun's forgetting almost every day to play his part? What care you for the weather, let it rain and hail together, if there's summer time a-shining in your heart. No wonder you feel weary if you think that life is dreary just because a bitter wind decides to blow. What care you for the weather, come snow and fog together, if the heart of you with sunshine is aglow. What's the sense of sighing because Old Time is trying to turn your darksome hair to solemn grey? He can't rob you of your youth when your spirit is, forsooth, a shining, flaunting banner bright and gay. Let Father Time grow fleeter, the years will prove but sweeter, though youth—it is thus ordered—must depart. Life has no winter season, for this very sound good reason—one can always have the summer in one's heart!

APRIL, THE JESTER

Hark to April's merry laughter! Glad is she to reach this earth. Perhaps she'll weep a minute after—sorrow often follows mirth. Not to-day, though, will she sorrow; she's our Jester, queen of fun. Time enough to weep to-morrow, when her roguishness is done. Cap and bells is April wearing, Punchinello in her hand; jokes with Brother Wind she's sharing, mortals cannot understand. Oh! beware of April's laughter; trust her not, she is not true. First she laughs—a minute after, she will make a fool of you. Now I've warned you, you'll be clever, quite prepared for April's wit. Let her whisper "Perfect weather," you'll not be deceived by it! April her attire is flaunting, cap and bells and motley gay; and her smile is mocking, taunting—April's fools are we to-day. Play the Jester, little April, just for four and twenty hours. Then to duty, naughty April—earth awaits your smiles and show'rs.

THE SONG OF THE SOUL

"I have put on mine armour," sings the soul. "The flashing armour of will to do the Right. Thus I go forth, not blindly t'wards the goal, but guided safely, by the Light." "Righteousness for armour," cries the soul. "Beauty and Truth—the longed-for goal." "Beneath mine armour," chants the soul, "I've donned a scarlet tunic for my spirit's sake. In scarlet tunic, to the great Beyond, with courage flaming, to the road I take. Righteousness for armour, flashing bright; a scarlet tunic—for courage in the night." "I will go forth and in this armour clad to meet Temptation, that most subtle foe. Like David of Bethlehem, the shepherd lad, sure of my strength and power, I go. And in the stream of Truth I'll find missiles to fling against Goliath's mind. I have put on my armour: Truth my sword; Slave unto none, but Captained by the Lord."

A BED-TIME SONG

Sleepy shadows fear to fall, so they lean against the wall, while the tall dock in the hall sings: "'Tis time for bed." Wooden hills we now must climb. Up we go, two at a time, singing such a sleepy rhyme, little Curly Head. Wooden hills, clip-clop, clip-clop. First a jump, and then a hop. Now we've reached the very top, nursery fire glows red. Sleepy town we've reached at last, dreamland's ship is anchored fast, rosy fancies fly the mast, prayers must now be said. Weigh the anchor, off you go. Dreamland's miles away, you know. Little dreams as white as snow wait for Curly Head. Sleepy shadows fear to fall, lean against the nursery wall, and to one another call: "Sleepy Head's in bed!"

AN ANNIVERSARY

My House! I give you thanks tonight for one year's comfort and delight. I thank the sturdy walls and beams that have enclosed my quiet dreams. I thank the windows through which came pale shafts of light and sunset's flame. The dining-room I thank as well, where I my hunger did dispel! I thank my bedroom, papered blue, for when sore wearied through and through, it spoke to me: "O Sleepy Head, I bid you welcome to your bed." I give the floors a grateful glance for every joyous whirling dance. The fireplace owns my thankful heart—what comfort from its depths can dart! What dreams I've dreamt when near its blaze; what pictures seen as I would gaze within the birch-log's flames of gold that leapt like dragons fierce and bold. But most of all I thank the door—the thick front door, oak at its core, because for twelve months now on end it has let in some dear-loved friend!

TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW

How often have I paused to bless your vivid, glowing loveliness! Have paused to say a "Thank you, window-pane," because despite a sullen fog or driving rain, I still have had my glimpse of Paradise through your untroubled, bright, reflecting eyes. My heart was sad when vanished summer days. I came to you and stood a silent while, and felt uplifted on the wings of praise. Rich autumn tints, God bless your golden smile! Once when a blackish mood enveloped me, sprays of white lilac arched your shining pane; the beauty of their curves spoke tenderly; and I passed on, happy, revived again. And now 'tis glorious tulip time with you! Yesterday their happy colours beckoned me. Rose pink and mauve and sunlight's golden hue. Did you, quiet window-pane, not feel the ecstasy that flooded all my being while I stood to bless a florist's window—as all city pilgrims should?

TWO COINS

I had two coins offered me, they shone like gold, they shone like gold. I clutched at them so greedily, I clutched at them with fevered hold. I hid them quickly out of sight. They were for me alone to see. They gave delight, such keen delight; I hoarded them most miserly. One day, alack! and oh! alas! I took them from their secret place; a sorry thing had come to pass; my bright gold coins were dull of face. I tended them with loving hand. Oh! shine again, be bright again! This fact I could not understand: their gleam and sheen were on the wane. "I will not hoard you any more," to them I sighed, to them I cried. I shared with one, with two, with four; with all the friends whom I espied. Now this is strange but this is true. My wealth is more instead of less; I spent and spent—and still it grew. Those coins were Love and Happiness!

THE STREET SINGER

Truth went singing down the street; on his head a golden crown, broken sandals on his feet, shabby, too, his flowing gown. "Truth," I shouted, "wait for me. I desire to learn your song." Nought cared he for my poor plea; just went hurrying along. "Truth," I gasped, quite out of breath, "I can't hear the words you sing." "You will learn them ere your death," was the jibe he stopped to fling. "Truth," I prayed him, "wait awhile. I have followed you for years. Sometimes you have made me smile, sometimes caused me bitter tears. Do, I pray you, let me learn what it is you sing to-day." Then at last he deigned to turn, sang for me this roundelay: "Rich you are? And strong you are? Good indeed these things to be. Beloved by friends is better far. Take this living truth from me." Singing, down the street Truth went. Others now will follow fast. As for me, I am content—having learnt his song at last.

MERELY PARENTS

Lads and lassies, hear our plea—give us of your courtesy; we, not you, need sympathy, being parents. 'Tis a most exacting age, children are so very sage, the "complex" now is all the rage, we're but parents. Give us, do, a helping hand. We would like to understand, we are such a purblind band, merely parents. You are witty, clever, wise, source of all high enterprise, soon you'll be (for Old Time flies) like us, just parents. Then you'll know the self-same fears (aching heart and unshed tears), having travelled down the years, as we, your parents. Then you'll say, as now we do, "We but long to shelter you, make you love the good and true, as did our parents." Lads and lassies! Patience show! Perhaps we're difficult and slow, but it is harder than you know—being parents.

SONG OF THE GIVER

First there's the joy of choosing. Now then, what shall it be?—Useful? Pretty? Amusing? Love chooses thoughtfully. Then there's the joy of paper, green leaves with berries red; a card with a Christmas taper, tied with a golden thread. Then there's the joy of tying (not string of the common kind!) ribbons that we've been buying that glitter as they unwind. Then there's the joy of weighing, addressing the label, too; and, of course, there's the joy of saying, "With love from me, to you!" But nought like the joy of dreaming how happy that someone will be; how eyes will be brightly gleaming and mouth smile happily. Joy past the power of rhyming to follow that parcel in thought; to hear, with gay laughter chiming, "Look what the postman has brought!"

THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR

A steadying hand, a cheerful grin, "Hold tight," he cries, and helps us in. We pay the fare, whate'er it be, and dream of home and fire and tea. But not the conductor, no, not he. Cold or heat, wind or rain, up he goes and down again; ringing bells, cracking jokes, helping parcel-burdened folks, lifting babies with great care, "Where to, Mum? Hold tight there." Answering questions by the score: "Other way to Arthur's Store!" "Full inside, one on top." Conductor's duties never stop. "Hi! Miss, your purse is on the seat." Someone tramps on both his feet. Jerks a rope to let him out, then again his cheery shout, "Hold tight, there! Fares please, fares." Mounts again the winding stairs, whistling blithely, he runs down—cheeriest man in all the town!

A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP

When the sun is shining bright, when the sky is calm and blue, when the Port of Luck's in sight, then I turn to you. For I know you'll laugh with me, share in full my jollity, and the world will fairer be—'cause of you. When the sun is veiled from sight, when the clouds of grief hang low, when the day seems turned to night—then to you I go. For I know you'll comfort me with a tender sympathy, and the load will lighter be—'cause of you. Not alone for days serene, not for moments of success, but a friend you've ever been—in joy and in distress. When the road was rough and long, you have borne the journey, too. So I've made this little song—'cause of you.

Printed in Great Britain by
UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING

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Table of Contents

- SILKEN THREADS
- THE OLD SAMPLER
- EVERYDAY RELIGION
- THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL
- THE WEEK ROUND
- HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND
- THE STRING BAG
- LIFE GROWS FAIRER
- TO THE FIRST-BORN
- A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER
- THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME
- THE TEACHER
- PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN
- "BLESSED ARE THEY"
- A MOTHER SPEAKS
- THE BOY SAMUEL
- THE PERFECT FRIEND
- MAKING THE BEST OF IT
- A TOAST
- THE GARDENER'S PRAYER
- LEGS AND ARMS
- THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST
- THE FIRST BIRTHDAY
- FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON
- SPRING CLEANING
- A SPRINGTIME LULLABY
- UNTO THE DAY—
- AT THE DAY'S END
- THE FAMILY DOCTOR
- MEMORY'S GARDEN
- MY TRUANT SHADOW
- TO CAT PETER
- IN THE BEGINNING
- HAMMER AWAY
- WHITHER BOUND?
- LOOKING BACKWARD
- THE KITCHEN
- THE HARBOUR HEART
- TO A PATCHWORK QUILT
- MY OLD DOLL
- LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS
- FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION
- THE WORTHY CREW
- THE POSTMAN
- "ANGELS IN THE SNOW"
- TO MONDAY MORNING
- SECURITIES
- WHEN DECEMBER COMES
- THE LITTLE SHOPS
- SUMMER IN YOUR HEART
- APRIL, THE JESTER
- THE SONG OF THE SOUL
- A BED-TIME SONG
- AN ANNIVERSARY
- TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW
- TWO COINS
- THE STREET SINGER
- MERELY PARENTS
- SONG OF THE GIVER
- THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR
- A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE