Title: Silver linings
Author: Wilhelmina Stitch
Release date: January 20, 2025 [eBook #75155]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Methuen & Co. Ltd, 1928
Credits: Al Haines
BY
WILHELMINA STITCH
AUTHOR OF
"THE FRAGRANT MINUTE," "SILKEN THREADS"
"THE GOLDEN WEB," "JOY'S LOOM"
"WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS," ETC.
FOURTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published ... February 23d 1928
Second Edition ... April 1928
Third Edition ... January 1929
Fourth Edition ... 1929
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
SONG OF LOVELY THINGS
TO ONE WHO SIGHED
LOOK FORWARD
THE WORLD'S BEAUTY
TO FATHER TIME
MIRACLE OF SPRING
EASTER THOUGHTS
SENSE OF HUMOUR
TO A PETULANT HEART
NEIGHBOUR JANE
DIMINISHING EVILS
THE DEATHLESS RAY
LITTLE HEARTBREAK
THIS WAY PASSED HEROES
JUST AS EASY
TO AN ALMOND TREE
MICHAEL INSISTS
RAINY DAY
BEGONE, DULL CARE!
IN A ROCKING-CHAIR
AT A RAILWAY STATION
IN PRAISE OF A WHOLE WEEK
A PRAYER IN ADVERSITY
THE WATCHFUL TONGUE
PETITION
A LITTLE THOUGHTLESSNESS
MAKE ME NORMAL
LIFE, THE TEACHER
THE SINGING KETTLE
HARVESTING
A PAEAN TO WORK
THE PRAYER OF THE HOME
THE MILLINER
IN CONVALESCENCE
A QUEER PHYSICIAN
THE ENVIABLE GREENGROCER
MOVING IN
GOOD MONTH OF AUGUST
TO A BOY OF SEVENTEEN
FOR THOSE IN CITY LODGINGS
THE PERFECT GUEST
JUST GROWING-PAINS
A MAN
TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES
THE ANTIQUE SHOP
TIME'S SACK
THE HUMDRUM WAY
GIFT OF GLOVES
DOGGIE—IN MEMORIAM
WHEN IN THE DUMPS
"FETCH THE FITTER!"
BAGPIPES
WHEN I WAS EIGHT
MY FATHER
THE HEART'S WAY
LIFE IS TOO SHORT
POINT OF VIEW
LIFE'S A.B.C
NURSE
FOUR WALLS
How many lovely things there be! The ever-changing, restless sea; the gracious, friendly, shady tree; and children laughing in their glee. How many lovely things there are! The glowing, beaming, friendly star, the garden gate that stands ajar, the sound of Church bells from afar. How many lovely things I know! Stories of lovers long ago, and places where the lilies blow, and children's voices sweet and low. What lovely things have touched my heart—see how the waves caress and part, and watch pale Dawn from Night upstart and slip into her mystic mart. What lovely things my ears have heard: the thrilling song of happy bird, a horse by anxious lover spurred, a toddler's sweetly lisped first word. What lovely things my eyes have seen: snow-covered hills and fields of green, and silks of wondrous weave and sheen—and Baby's toothless smile serene!
You cannot sing? Well, others can. You do not dance? but others do. And ever since the world began there have been certain folk like you who cannot dance, and cannot sing, nor weave a play nor write a book. But you can sew? Most anything? And are quite expert as a cook? And you can draw a little bit, amuse your friends with pen and ink? You make folk laugh—this you admit. You have a lot of gifts, I think. Oh, foolish one, to sigh and fret because you're not as some folk are. Suppose a plant of mignonette withered because 'twas not a star! Be what you are, dear girl, with pride. Accept your limits with good grace; the world is varied, very wide; for each of us there is a place. Within your sphere be quite content, be proud of work that is your own, and to life's complex instrument with sweetness add your mite of tone.
What a mess I made of things! That was yesterday. Yesterday has taken wings—hide mistakes away. Things I did can't be undone. Silly then to sorrow. Better is the task begun on a bright new morrow. If I hadn't acted thus! Silence, puling heart. Useless now to fume and fuss, make a brand new start. All the energy that goes into senseless fretting would rebuild, if you so chose, your plan in some new setting. What a blow! Fate is unkind. Grit your teeth, don't murmur. Smile as if you didn't mind, stand a little firmer. Here is solace for your grief, nothing's done beyond recall. Smudged a page? Well, turn a leaf. Begin again. That's all. Failed to-day? To-day is past. To-morrow's peeping round the door. Never doubt you'll win at last. That is what to-morrow's for.
Not in seclusion is true beauty seen, not in a fragrant, silent country lane, nor in a daisy field all white and green, nor in a golden meadow washed with rain. But in a smoky, noisy, busy street, whose only colours through shop-windows show; where there is constant march of human feet that bravely journey daily to and fro; where cripples play a gay and daring air; and blind folk stand and dream that it is light; where passers-by who haven't much to spare yet stop to give ungrudgingly their mite. And where small houses nestle close together, beneath whose roofs hard-working people live, who help each other in the stormy weather, who have so little yet can always give. O beauty of the world, you are seen best where the soul's banner floats courageously above the turmoil of the day's high-fevered quest—in ugly places beautified by Love!
Whene'er you care to turn my hair from brown to grey or white; whene'er you line this face of mine with wrinkles left and right, I shall not mind nor call unkind these changes that you bring; nor shall I pray for you to stay your swift, relentless sting. But Father Time, please read this rhyme and grant me this request. Take not from me the power to see a joke and merry jest. Let me not tire of my desire to try adventures new, nor e'er destroy my deep keen joy in flowers of vivid hue. Though eyes grow dim and stiff each limb, please leave untouched my heart. So I will heed another's need and act a friendly part. Pile on the years, give cause for tears, but keep my courage strong. Then come what may, I'll ease the day with laughter and with song. Do what you will, you cannot kill my dreams, for ever fair. For they are mine, old Father Time. In them you have no share!
Were I to live a thousand years I still would know that flaming thrill, that rush of joy when first appears—the golden daffodil. A thousand times my heart would sing when purple irises unfold; or when forsythia's branches bring their dazzling showers of gold. I could not see an almond tree with branches all a rosy glow but that a tide of ecstasy would through my being flow. Were I to see, a thousand times, blue scilla bells amid green grass, I know I'd hear their fairy chimes as I would pass. Were I to live a thousand years I'd never watch the nesting birds except through eyes bedimmed with tears, my tongue bereft of words. Were I to weave ten thousand lays, knew I a thousand songs to sing, I still would lack the power to praise—the miracle of Spring.
Little growing things, pushing through the earth, petals for soft wings, bells to echo mirth. Little bud and leaf, spite of winter's pain, spite of nature's grief, they are here again. Little growing things, roots are in my heart. Hark! the robin sings. Sorrow must depart. Doubts and chilly fears! winter now is o'er, wipe away your tears. Courage! rise once more. Courage has not fled, simply slept awhile. Hope, that you deemed dead, revived beneath a smile. Good cannot be slain, beauty never dies, spring has come again, soul of man, arise. Arise and go forth now, Easter calls to you. Blossoms on the bough, spirit burgeons, too. The Lenten lilies sing "From dead self, arise," while every growing thing says, "Beauty never dies."
What it is, can't just say, only know it saved the day, drove the gathering clouds away. Just a twinkle in the eye, just a smile instead of sigh; Lo! the storm soon passed right by—all through a sense of humour. What it is, don't just know, but it made rich laughter flow, life took on a rosy glow: troubles shrank to half their size; sorrow wore a cheerful guise; work appeared to be the prize—all through a sense of humour. Things were going very wrong, flowers no colour, birds no song; weakness ousted courage strong—stepped in a sense of humour: put the balance right again, saved two people lots of pain, brought the sunshine after rain—and that's a sense of humour.
Such a resentful voice—"I didn't ask to be born," it said. But being here, 'tis fitting to rejoice. In gratitude lift up your voice. "What for?" it said. For these and many things. For the flowers' gay hue; the bird that sweetly sings, for grass bedecked with sparkling dew, for being born an heir to all the beauty that the world enfolds. Come! have you not your share in sea and sky, in hills and vales and wolds? But more for this, oh, petulant heart. That for your strength there is provided toil. And for your soul's sake, the chance to do your part in planting fruitful seeds in barren soil. Oh, lad, oh, petulant lad, cast off the foolish mood; be glad. Be glad that there are battles you must fight; and hills to climb; defeats to suffer; goals to keep in sight. Be glad, yea, all the time.
Every morning, when she woke, quaint and short the prayer she spoke. "Make me easy, Lord, I pray, to live with—easy through the day." Nothing more did Jane e'er ask. But straightway faced the first hour's task. Neighbours said it was a fact, Jane had charm and Jane had tact. She didn't hurt nor irritate; she didn't prick, she didn't grate. Gentle, courteous, kindly Jane, neighbours called and called again! Found her presence like sweet balm, sympathetic, soothing, calm. "Jane," said one, "sweet oil has found to make the wheels of life go round. Bumpy places disappear just as soon as Jane draws near." Every evening, e'er she slept, to the window this Jane crept; worshipped there the starry crowd. "Who am I?" she cried aloud, "to make a fussy, wordy riot when such nobility is quiet! Make me easy, Lord, I pray, to live with—easy through the day."
How high those hills, how far away. Menacing hills at break of day. Friend, keep going; there's no knowing when you will come to the end of the way. Be not alarmed, fear not at all; at the foot of the slope the hill looks small. Journey along, hearty and strong, the summit is reached e'er the shadows fall. How great those ills, grim foes they seem. Swift and swollen life's angry stream. Friend, keep going, there's no knowing when troubles will vanish as if in a dream. Be not alarmed, have no fear; the further away the worse they appear. Journey along, hearty and strong; troubles are bubbles when Courage is near.
Oh! Happiness, that bright, winged ray, went darting blithely on its way. It made a little baby smile, and then it skipped another mile, and made a busy mother sing; and then again it took to wing and darted swiftly to a boy, filling his heart with youthful joy. From thence, a weary man it found. To sorrow he'd been straitly bound; but suddenly his heart felt light and all the world was fair and bright. It darted further; here and there—around the world—just everywhere! Right through a thousand hearts it went, and yet its strength was never spent. This is a truth we should remember, through all the months, right to December, and then the cycle round again: a ray of joy need never wane. Our happiness we need not save; the store will last us to the grave. Give joy away; it will return. A lovely lesson this to learn.
A little Heartbreak, wan and sore, was sitting by herself. A sunbeam slipped around the door and danced upon a shelf. Though little Heartbreak knew not why, she ceased, quite suddenly, to cry. Still little Heartbreak sat alone. "I never will be whole again," thus said she in her saddest tone, "I never will be healed of pain." Then, unannounced, a little breeze that had been playing in the trees, passed softly over Heartbreak's face, and, lo! of tears there was no trace. Then when a bird began to sing, and Heartbreak couldn't help but hear, there happened such a curious thing—a silvern echo did appear, enthroned itself in Heartbreak's breast and, like the bird, sang with sweet zest! So little Heartbreak tossed her head and laughed to find the world so fair. "It's true," she cried, "my heart has bled, and I have lived with black despair. But I can't be quite broken, long—with sunbeams, zephyrs, and birds' song!"
They passed but once this way, but they have left a flowered trail behind. Surprising how in life's brief day they found so many chances to be kind. They passed but once—this way they went, and with them joy and grief, and work and play. There is no need to raise a monument to heroes such as they. They once were found in simple homes and small, in offices and shops, engaged in work. They heard quite clearly Duty's trumpet call, and forth they marched with no attempt to shirk. Soldiers were they, no medals on their breast, a broom for weapon, or an office pen; and victory oft crowned the spirit's quest. All honour to these womenfolk and men. They were so gentle journeying the road, they scattered little acts of kindness here and there. They had their burdens, but a brother's load was also one in which they wished to share. No wonder we can see the path they chose, for flowers have blossomed everywhere they trod. They passed, and now through them there grows a lasting symbol of the living God.
No harder to praise than to scorn, no harder to love than to hate; no harder to sing than to mourn, as easy to act as to wait. No harder to smile than to frown. It's as easy to stand as to lean, as easy to lift as pull down, to be generous rather than mean. It's not very hard to be glad, it's not very hard to rejoice, it's harder indeed to be sad. Let happiness then be our choice. No harder to trust than to doubt, and courage is easy as fear, and foes are quite easy to rout with weapons of Good Sense and Cheer. No harder to sing than to cry, as easy to do as to plan; no harder to laugh than to sigh, and gulfs aren't to dread but to span. And giving is easier, too, than withholding your hand from a friend; no harder to aid than to rue—and sweeter the day at the end.
Oh, little wakeful tree, how beautiful art thou, curving so gracefully each pink blossomed bough. Thou child, in dainty party dress, to think that thou wouldst brave—to give us mortals happiness—a wind-blown, frost-lined grave! Oh, little wakeful one, why didst thou stir so soon? The Spring has scarce begun, thou wouldst have graced fair June. Thy blossoms will ne'er see thy prophecies come true, nor summer's pageantry with happy blushes view. Pink petals soon will fall (oh, little tree, be still); soon will the thrushes call and Spring trip o'er the hill. Bare will thy branches be, thy day of beauty o'er, but little wakeful tree, we will but love thee more—that thou didst dare to sing: "Oh, heart, prepare for Spring!"
On the grass the sunlight falls, near at hand a blackbird calls; a squirrel races up a tree. All this, and more, engrosses me. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Such a gentle breeze now passes; how graceful are the bending grasses. Here and there the children play; I could sit and dream all day. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Peace and quiet and sweet repose; someone has a cold, wet nose; something scratches at my knees (lovely sun and gentle breeze). "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Michael's head is on one side, Michael's mouth is opened wide; brown eyes look beseechingly. Michael! take your eyes from me. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Who can sit in selfish ease, just admiring grass and trees, deeming life most kind and sweet, when a branch lies at one's feet—"Throw a stick," pants Michael.
"Rainy day," said Mother Dawn, "rise from out your cloud-lined bed. Look upon each field and lawn, a coverlet of mist I've spread." Rainy Day slipped from her cloud, shook bright rain-drops from her hair. As they fell, she laughed aloud, "Mother Dawn, what shall I wear?" "Take, my child, this dress of grey, fashioned from a frowning sky. Rainy Day, now run away, the patient, panting earth is dry." Rainy Day played hide-and-seek, in and out among the flowers. Cooled a hollyhock's hot cheek with her gift of gentle showers. Red roofs shone with great delight when she touched them for a space. Dry leaves trembled with delight, pressed against her loving face. Suddenly, a flashing gem, heralded from mighty sun, settled on the grey gown's hem—Rainy Day her work had done.
No! little, whining, fretting care, you cannot come a walk with me. So lovely is the morning air I do not want your company. Oh! little, whining, fretting care, you have no part in graceful trees; in waving grass you have no share; you have no kinship with a breeze. I'm going to a shady place where little children laugh and play. You'd cast a shadow on each face if you came out with me to-day. I'm going where a little stream bears lovely lilies on its breast. I could not sit awhile to dream if you're to be my morning guest. I'm going where the poppies blow among the friendly golden corn. No little care would dare to go and show its face this sunny morn. I'm going where sweet peace is found within a fern-grown fragrant dell, where silence wraps the spirit round—so carking care farewell!
Back and forth; one and two; a needle flashing, bright as mirth. Filmy stuff of palest blue, bit of heaven come to earth! Anyone can visit Spain, Holland, France, or Italy, if she cares to go by train, if she cares to go by sea. Back and forth; soft and slow, needle dancing merrily. Always thought I'd like to go where grows the giant banyan tree. Needle's speeding down one side, India's moon is very bright. How delightful thus to glide across a pool of silver light. Scented is the midnight air, romance grows on every stem! Jungle beasts for fights prepare—finished is the wee skirt's hem. Back and forth; not too fast, on the way to Fancy's land. Here we are, on shore at last, fairies take me by the hand. Back and forth, one and two, anyone can fly by air. Cleverer, I think, don't you, to travel in a rocking-chair!
Proud trunk indeed! It looked at me with ill-disguised antipathy. It seemed to know I'd never been to all the places it had seen. I circled it with humble tread and, filled with awe, its labels read. One year, I saw, it went to Spain; and liked it, for it went again. And once to Venice, once to Rome. I wondered if it longed for home. I must admit it travelled far; for there were labels "C.P.R." This trunk showed such a haughty face. I hastened to another place, and soon a battered box I spied that did not look so dignified, and on its shabby lid there sat a whistling boy with ball and bat. Said I (my manners are so bad), "Where are you going, whistling lad?" His smile was wonderful to see. "To jolly Margate sands," cried he. Back to the haughty trunk I went. "Each one," I bowed, "to his own bent. Though you prefer some far-off land, had I the choice, please understand, a shabby box I'd rather be, with whistling lad for company!"
Poor old Robinson Crusoe, a lonely man was he, with not a soul but Friday to keep him company. So when I'm feeling lonely, humble, sad and meek, I just remember that for friends I have a whole good week! Six days as well as Friday, companions brave and strong; it really seems they all deserve a tribute and a song. So here's to good Man Friday, and to his brothers six. There's always one to help me should I be in a fix. Suppose that Monday's greyish—there's Tuesday coming soon, and if the morning's boresome—there is the afternoon! A toast, then, to "a whole week" which has such friendly ways, for should one Friday disappear—it sends six other days.
"Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Thus I used to hear her say as she trod life's lonely way, faced so often by defeat. "Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Phrase of wisdom! How it clings. Troubles now I never meet, but within my heart there rings, "Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Sullen is the storm-swept sky. Everything is going wrong. That's no reason you or I should broadcast a bitter song. The world has quite enough to bear; we at least might try to smile. Adding grief would be unfair, things will brighten in a while. Though despair is looming near, let not bitterness hold sway; now's the time to conquer fear, to-morrow brings a happy day. Sulk not with life when things go wrong. What though you met grim defeat! Chant this helpful little song: "Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet."
The "watchful" tongue I do despise, the tongue that always waits to learn what words would be accounted wise. 'Tis such a tongue I spurn. The tongue that plays the suavest airs upon the most expedient string; that echoes much, but never dares to be the leader in the ring; that always drops a pleasing word because it's easiest so to do; when drums of argument are heard, by silence, sees the matter through. Oh! I dislike the trembling tongue that is afraid of words sincere. I do detest the song that's sung to the accompaniment of fear. And there's a silence I abhor; a silence meant to lead astray; a silence like a heavy door denying Truth the right of way. I'd rather hear quick hammer blows, words edged with steel, perhaps unkind; a muffled tongue, it never shows the true complexion of the mind.
O Lord, I pray that I may e'er delight in springtime's fairy blossoms pink and white, in green and lacy leaves; may never lose the joy that always springs at sight of all the little daily things—of brightly-patterned weaves; of gaily-coloured china; rich, dark grains that glow long after daylight wanes, wood of time-burnished hue. And joy in sounds—the blackbird's thrilling call, the human voice letting rich phrases fall, all precious gifts from You. O Lord, I pray that I may face each task and rise to its demands, nor ever ask that others bear my load; that I may prove a loyal and helpful friend before I reach the journey's quiet end along the winding road.
A little thoughtlessness, so very slight—but someone's sunny day was turned to night. Someone was caused unnecessary pain, and it takes time e'er wounds are healed again. A little thoughtless phrase dropped like a leaf—yet someone heard and, through it, suffered grief. A little thoughtlessness; the mere not doing of some small act we might have done so well. Perhaps e'er long we shall be sorely ruing this slight omission more than words can tell. The things we do not do! Ah, this is true, they often hurt far more than what we do. A little thoughtlessness, or little thought; between these two what differences are wrought! A little thought for others, word or act—a cheery smile or letter writ with tact, a putting of ourselves where others stand, the understanding heart, the helping hand. The "I remember," not, "Oh, I forgot"—a little thoughtfulness has helped a lot.
Make me normal, I would pray. Keep me normal, day by day. Strong, I pray Thee, balanced, sane; normal body, normal brain. I would be, if I might choose, somewhat witty to amuse; somewhat clever to achieve; somewhat capable to grieve; somewhat kind to offer balm; somewhat like a quiet psalm; somewhat fiery when need be; ever quick with sympathy; not too good, nor yet too bad; often happy, sometimes sad; just a normal, decent friend, courage-girt unto the end! Not a genius hard to please; rather one who can with ease, find, wherever she may go, people she is glad to know. Merely normal, every way—for this blessing I would pray.
Here is a truth the years have slowly taught me. There's not an effort ever made in vain; though fate within its painful clutch has caught me, farther along the road I've gone—through pain. Here is a lesson life has slowly taught me: to chase good Fortune is young folly's way. Always I've found that she herself has sought me when love of work alone has filled my day. There's not a fault that I have e'er committed, there's no mistake that I have ever made, that has not into life's mosaic fitted; this is a law that ever is obeyed. There's not a thread I've used, though it be knotted, but has in my life's pattern found its place. There's not a page, though with mistakes it's blotted, that does not show of destiny some trace. Here is a truth that I have grown to cherish: no righteous battle's ever fought in vain; nor does a thought or deed of goodness perish, but, like a tree, brings forth its fruit again.
Up to its neck in water, boiling water, too. Yet the kettle keeps on singing—that's what we ought to do! Next time we're in some trouble, almost up to the chin, we'll think of the cheerful kettle, and a little song begin. It helps, when feelings are boiling, to let off lots of steam. Whistle and sing with courage; things aren't as black as they seem. Kettle, you merry creature, scorched by the callous fire, teach us your power of moulding the will to the day's desire. Up to your neck in troubles? They haven't swept over your head! Sing like the steaming kettle, till all your troubles have fled. Singing will sound so pleasant to any who chance to hear. The kettle does naught by its duty—but doesn't its singing cheer!
Now when I went a-harvesting across a golden field, "Turn back," they said, "this wheat and rye is not for you," I did not sigh. I did not flinch, I did but sing, when I went forth a-harvesting! Within this golden field (sang I) I've come by right a-harvesting. And from (cried I) this fruitful field, I'll take my proper share of yield. I will not sleep until I reap a goodly harvest that will last until the winter's come and passed. I snapped my fingers while they frowned. I then began to bind up sheaves of sunlight poured upon the ground; of shadows made by dancing leaves. I took a blackbird's sweetest trill; I gathered in a thrush's song; where'er I went I gleaned at will; this harvest does to me belong. They had no power to say me nay; the beauty of the earth I own; a harvest song I'll sing to-day in praise of fields that Joy has sown.
To work! Hour by hour, day by day; to employ one's hands and brain. To strive; to win an inch along the way; to lose; to start again. Oh! it is joy to work unceasingly with might and main. Hard work is not a burden, ever. The busy ones are enviable indeed. They have no time for petty ills that sever the power to do, from the insistent need. That little leisure snatched for a respite, how packed it is with joy and keen delight. Gold cannot buy it. 'Tis reserved for those who labour through the day until its close. Work does not irk. It brings relief; assuages grief; increases pleasure; adds to the measure of any happiness we find; and brings to the mind a peaceful satisfaction; to the heart, a glow. Oh! work! You are the kindest friend we know.
May sunbeams kiss my window-panes and dance inside to pet each wall; and when the happy daylight wanes, may gracious shadows come to call. May winds speak low to me in love; may I have friendship with the skies; and may the stars that shine above sing me their silvern lullabies. May books abide with me alway, and flowers on every window-sill; may joyous Laughter come to stay, and Kindliness and Right Good-Will. Oh! may I be a haven fair for those with whom I daily live; and may the lonely stranger share in joy that I, a Home, can give. A steadfast storehouse I would be for tender dreams and ideals true; and, oh! I pray you, think of me as loving arms enfolding You. May Passers-by glance up and see my smiling curtains, blossoms bright, and with a rush of sympathy—ask God to bless me day and night!
Nice work, a milliner's, I think. Always intent upon a crown of silk or velvet, blue or pink; of felt or straw, of red or brown; nice work, a milliner's, I think. What dreams a milliner must dream, stitching a bow or velvet band, or finishing the lining's seam, creating beauty all by hand. What dreams a milliner must dream! For as she works at this or that she'll see a smiling, winsome face beneath the nearly-finished hat, that soon will have such style and grace—an unknown girl's delighted face. Nice work a milliner's must be, to make a jaunty little crown, and trim it very prettily to match a new and saucy gown. For as the hat takes shape and form, then one could whisper tenderly, "Now, gallant hat, defy Life's storm and give a moment's ecstasy." Nice work a milliner's must be.
The joy of coming down the stairs, seeing loved faces once again; familiar objects, pictures, chairs, a tree that taps the window-pane; and books that say, "We've missed the touch of one who always loved us much." The childish, secret, but keen pride that hands have grown so thin and white. They look so pale, so dignified; 'tis strange, but true, this gives delight! Then languor and the wish to sleep. Absurd, but one would like to weep. The lack of power to concentrate, the feeling there's no soul to care how hard the blow, how ill the fate that one is called upon to bear. The weariness when friends forget one doesn't wish for chatter yet. The question, "Will I e'er get well?" that's like a thumb-screw and a rack; a deep depression for a spell; then lo! the tide of health flows back. These feelings come to everyone when convalescence has begun.
Such a queer physician, didn't sound my heart, neither did he feel my pulse nor read the nurse's chart; didn't take my temperature, didn't seem to care, didn't talk of diet; just gave a searching stare. Asked me, "Do you worry?" "Are you filled with dread?" "Are there fears that haunt you?" this is what he said. "Do you cherish hatred? Of whom? and tell me why. You alone can cure yourself if you really try." "Are the thoughts you entertain happy ones and bright, or are they fraught with bitterness and malice, envy, spite?" Such a queer physician, but his questions made me think, and ever since his visit I've been feeling "in the pink."
See him every morning (through my window-pane), his little shop adorning, sun, or fog, or rain. He dresses up the front of it (a nice, wide, sloping stall) with market garden produce, imported fruits and all. Suppose he sold but hardware; a blackish pot and pan. He really is, you must admit, a very lucky man. For he has flaming oranges, and apples shining red; he doesn't deal in tin-tacks, but smooth green beans instead. The friendly brown of walnuts and cauliflowers so white, pale honey-hued bananas—the nursery folks' delight. With these he decks his window, and makes his stall so gay, so passers-by must stop to look—no matter what the day.
Yes, they have a piano—very glad of that. Hope the men won't bump it going through the door. Looks as if that basket contains a pussy-cat. Roll of blue linoleum to grace the kitchen floor. Love to stand upon the kerb and watch a "Moving-in," makes the blood run warmly, gives the heart-strings such a tug. Don't know the people, but all the world's akin (that's a comfy-looking chair and that's a cheerful rug). Don't know the people, matters not a bit, all the dreams they're dreaming are trooping from the van. Look at that large roll of blinds, oh, I hope they'll fit! There's a garden roller and a bright red watering-can. Yes, they have a baby—had to wait to see. High chair is coming, it's new and shiny white, and there's a pale blue wardrobe and a little wooden tree on which to hang small garments whilst Baby sleeps at night. Love to stand upon the kerb and watch a "Moving-in"—tables, chairs, and curtain-rods, make all the world akin.
They're pouring out of offices, from shops and schoolrooms, too. And so, good month of August, please see what you can do. They're leaving tapes and scissors, the inkpot and the pen, and books with tiresome figures—they're seeking hill or glen. They'll wake, just when they wish to; go out or sit at home. Oh! August, you were lucky for that Emperor of Rome. So please bring luck, I pray you, for the youngsters and the old who are having days of leisure—be not tearful, dull, or cold. Smile on them, month of August, let them see the world is fair; let them feel the world is kindly, in its beauty let them share. Be it seaside, be it country, wherever be their goal, kind August, act benignly, refresh them heart and soul. So fill their eyes with beauty, they never will forget the August sun's great glory when it begins to set.
Oh! boy, how fortunate you are. Ahead of you the long, long trail; above ambition's shining star to beckon over hill and dale. Oh! boy, how fortunate you are that you have still to travel far. Before you lies the unknown road, a great adventure to begin. Up, lad, fling shoulder-high the load; stride forth, my son, intent to win. Be deaf to all but honour's code, and loiter not in sloth's abode. I do believe I envy you. Such wide horizons for your eyes, so many things to learn and do. Dear lad, grow not so over-wise; you will not note the sunset's hue; nor marvel at the dawn's bright dew. Just seventeen! Oh, lucky boy, to have so many hours to spend in which to learn life's greatest joy springs from the struggle as we wend towards the goal that marks the end.
Let them have windows high above the street, and let them see at least one city tree; windows high-flung so that their eyes may greet the sky and night-time's noble pageantry. Then sister moon can be a precious friend, and stars companions when the shadows fall, and through these lodging-windows prithee send a scented breeze, a blackbird's cheery call. And let them find companionship in stairs that creak a welcome when they mount at night, and in the friendliness of well-used chairs, and all small things, through time, made dear to sight. And let there be a child who'll shyly peep at lonely lodgers as they come and go—a laughing child who nightly falls asleep while mother sings in accents sweet and low. And give them this and this and then still more—a neighbour's friendly word at start of day, a cheery greeting floating through the door, so that they go not lonely on their way.
The perfect guest has named the day when she'll arrive, and by what train. Nor did she then forget to say when she will travel home again; and having named the hour and date she doesn't, whim swayed, change her mind and come too early or too late, for that indeed would be unkind. She doesn't need a lot of aid, nor ask for service that will irk, nor by her presence give the maid unnecessary, increased work. She keeps her room quite spick and span, is always punctual, talks with ease, falls in with every household plan, and does her very best to please. She can amuse herself quite well, she writes her letters, sews or reads, and leaves her hostess for a spell to give her time for her own needs. And at the pleasant visit's end, her host and hostess both agree when speaking of their absent friend, a very perfect guest was she.
Just growing-pains that made him say that hurtful, bitter thing to-day. He didn't mean to give you pain. 'Twas just a storm that swept his brain and made him argue black was white; and bad was good, and wrong was right, and made him scoff and made him sneer at all the things you hold most dear. He isn't bad, that boy of yours, but just like others, scores and scores. First babyhood, then childhood wanes, and then, there come those growing-pains! Oh! Foolish parents to believe he likes to make you fret and grieve. The minute that the word had leapt from his hot tongue he could have wept, he felt ashamed, too proud, alack! to take the silly statement back. He is a man (and you should know it!) and loves you much, but cannot show it. He has to quote from Bernard Shaw, and rant about life's highest law, and say religion's out of date, and reconstruct the Church and State. Soon will this phase grow weak and wane—it's nothing but a growing-pain.
Successful? Yes, through honest work, not through some happy turn of fate. Never has he been known to shirk since he attained to man's estate. Approached each task with buoyant zest, of all life's gifts deemed work the best. But this alone does not portray the man that I would have you see. A zest for work, I hear you say, is not a claim on sympathy. So other virtues I'll outline which well describe this friend of mine. He has that questing type of mind that one associates with youth. T'wards fulsomeness he's deaf and blind; abhors a lie, respects the truth; and honesty is part of him, as much a part as any limb. Quite perfect, then? Oh! no, indeed. Did I not say he was a man? But turn to him when you're in need and he will help you all he can. A loyal, sincere, and upright friend, whom one can trust right to the end.
Just with a little pipe of clay, a bowl of water and some soap, you find your happiness to-day, releasing fairy worlds of hope. Now watch these iridescent balls sailing so lightly and so high, and some collide with chairs and walls, and then to beauty it's "Good-bye!" You do not weep, but blow and blow until another doth appear, then wave your small hand to and fro—it floats towards the chandelier. I watch your velvet cheeks puff out, your lovely eyes are shining bright. I thrill to hear your happy shout, "This one will reach a star to-night." Dear little child, in later years may you make beauty with such ease; and fashion, out of smiles and tears, rainbows of glowing hope like these. And should one bubble's fate be ill, then, from your pipe of dreams, I pray you'll blow another, laughing still, as you are doing, dear, to-day.
There is a little antique store, just round the corner on Life's road; and paved with tear-drops is its floor, and smiles light up this small abode. And Memory sits there every day; she is the guardian of these wares. My heart, it often wends that way, to see this shop and how it fares. My heart peers through the window-pane with eyes like pools of smiles and tears, so glad and sad to see again the curios of bygone years. Says Memory, "O heart, draw near! Here is a little shining dream, and here a rippling song of cheer; and here, your childhood's fairy stream." An antique shop this Past of mine; its gems kept safe by Memory; each kind word heard, how they do shine, set in rare Fancy's filigree. Just round the corner, on Life's street, a little Antique Shop I know. My heart fares forth with quickened beat to view the gems of Long Ago.
"OH, Father Time! what have you there? What's in your bag? Now, prithee, say. How do you know which is my share of all those things you hide away? And are there pleasant things for me? Please, Father Time, just one quick peep. To-morrow's share do let me see, before I wrap myself in sleep." Old Father Time said not one word, just went a-walking down Life's street. It's very strange he never heard my eager, chasing, racing feet. And yet next day, without a doubt, I find a dozen things to do. From Time's big sack they've fallen out. He might have told—of course, he knew! I'm wiser now, I do not ask what Father Time will bring to-morrow; for each day has its play and task; its joy and e'en its sorrow. And each awakening has this thrill: I wonder what To-day will bring? Perhaps a golden daffodil a-trumpeting, "It's Spring!" "It's Spring!"
When something unusual has to be done, a perilous hill to be scaled, a bridge to be crossed, a venture begun, we think not of those who have failed, but we tackle the job with courage and zest, for really and truly it's fun to feel that our strength is standing the test when there's something of worth to be done. When we feel we are watched by critical eyes, when we know there's reward if we win, it's neither a matter for praise nor surprise that we're only too glad to begin; for it's human to like the cheers and applause that follow spectacular feats, but save a few cheers for this other cause—for the heroes in quiet little streets. When the same old thing has got to be done—a drab little, quiet little, everyday task, a floor to be swept, a ledger begun, then this is the boon we justly may ask—that we may be given the strength, day by day, to walk with sweet grace the dull, Humdrum Way.
A gift of gloves! I must confess no other gift can quite express, so clearly yet so silently, a friend's most loving thought of me (he knew my size, how did he guess?). It exercises thoughtfulness, a knowledge of my style of dress, to choose with perspicacity—a gift of gloves! For they must fit precisely, yes, if they'd achieve a huge success. The texture, colour, must agree with other garments worn by me, must harmonize; well, more or less. But here's the point I wish to stress: it is a gift that comes to bless, for when one dons them carefully, a loving thought springs up, you see, responsive to the gloves' caress. One's hands are clothed in friendliness and space is bridged by gloves that press with human warmth and gentleness. One feels a sweet cam'raderie, if one is wearing happily—a gift of gloves!
This doggie was young when I was young. We understood each other's tongue; we understood each other's ways, together we spent our childhood's days. Later, 'twas he who understood each change of temper and of mood. He lived to give and I to take; he changed his ways just for my sake. If rest I wished, then so did he; he gave me love and sympathy; he liked my silence, liked my talk; was ever glad to race or walk; to wait for me, to sit quite still, happy and proud to do my will. Now that he's travelled on alone, there's naught to do but set this stone, then try to reach my journey's end as nobly as this canine friend. Oh, little pal of childhood's days, I ought to have such decent ways. You did your best to teach me, pet—and doggie, dear, I shan't forget.
Don't be sorry for yourself—better smile. Worst of troubles will disperse—in a while. If self-pity mounts up high, you are bound to mope or cry, bound to amplify your trouble, make it grow in size, quite double, being sorry for oneself is out of style! Don't be sorry for yourself—better smile; blackest clouds will pass away—in a while. 'Tis true, you've been hard hit, not a friend but would admit you have cause to lose some sleep, quite a lot to make you weep. Don't you do it, though, for pity's out of style! Don't be sorry for yourself—better smile. Sun and moon and stars will shine—in a while, and self-pity doesn't pay, for it has a nasty way of turning courage pale, and then we're bound to fail. So let's toss our heads and laugh; lo! the troubles fade to half. Just keep smiling—for self-pity's out of style!
"Fetch the fitter, frock's all wrong; sleeves too tight and waist too low; neck line ugly; skirt too long, worn so very short, you know. Fetch the fitter, please." Fitter comes and eyes the dress, fills her mouth with shining pins, shows no signs of deep distress, but her fearful task begins, flopping on her knees. Snips and pins and pins and snips, stands upright and snips some more; mutters through her pin-filled lips: "Just twelve inches from the floor." Now she measures it. Here some gathers, here a pleat; lifts a bit and snips a bit; dress is looking now quite neat, just a perfect fit. Wouldn't it be luck, indeed, when life's pattern goes awry, when it doesn't fit the need, we had only just to cry: "Fetch the fitter, pray"? Swiftly she would come and smile (fitters always are so nice), cut the day to beauty's style, without grumbling, in a trice, perfect fitting day.
Since I have heard the great pipes playing, not on the stage nor crowded street, but out on a moorland with heather swaying to the pibroch's rhythm about our feet. Since I have heard the pipes thus playing—for aye in my blood is their throb and beat. Since I have heard the great pipes wailing, lamenting the death of a gallant chief and the strength of his clan that was slowly failing (perish the fruit and fall the leaf). Since I have heard the pipes thus wailing—for aye in my heart is the pibroch's grief. Since I have seen a calm loch sleeping, with starshine and moonshine upon its breast, and heard the pipes with sorrow weeping lamenting a chieftain gone to his rest. Since I have heard the great pipes playing a summons to war that the clans must obey, whilst over the moorland the heather was swaying—their throb and their beat in my blood lives for aye.
When I was only eight years old, I longed to be twice ten, and wear a frock of lace and gold to dazzle princely men. To marry was my great desire, because it seemed to me, once married I could then aspire to drink the strongest tea! At every meal I then would eat, thus to myself I said, a mustard pickle for a treat (one could when one was wed!). My skirts would trail along the floor, my hair I'd pin up high and stick in pins, at least a score; an ostrich ruff I'd buy. Ah, me! How quickly years do pass; how quickly youth has fled. I stand before the looking-glass—no hair-pins in my head! No fan-shaped combs like Mother wore, my hair is short, you see; my skirts refuse to sweep the floor, and I dislike strong tea! But yet I love to bring to mind these dreams I had of yore. The future looms both bright and kind when one is two times four.
My recollections are of little things! How his two hands would flap and soar like wings above my curly head. Then suddenly, oh magic, great and strange, my curls to coloured sugar-sticks would change—at least, so Father said. And it was true! I'd see them tumble out. And only stupid grown-ups then could doubt that Father worked a spell. Sometimes he'd make a pistol of his hand. One shot, and lo! there'd fall, at his command (this I remember well), a thrilling secret parcelled up so tight, right on my plate—and this in broad daylight! A mother's songs, and care and romping fun, we do accept as we accept the sun and lovely flowers that blow. But magic fathers! Those who cure all ills by hourly doses of some spongecake pills, are marvellous to know! There was a father much beloved by all. To him the shy birds came; and babies small gurgled and cooed love's sign. These memories are now as fragrance blown across the fields of life which he has sown—this Father who was mine.
'Tis strange—but what I love the best is not the garden at its height, when fragrant flowers, in masses bright, are rioting for my delight, the blue, the red, the yellow, white—not then I love the garden best! But when I make a humble quest around each pregnant garden bed, and look for bits of blue and red or marguerite with golden head, just shortly after winter's sped—'tis then I love the garden best. For then one greets with joyous zest a little spray of Columbine, some Bleeding Heart to intertwine, one Iris dressed in purple fine; a small bouquet, but Spring's sweet sign. 'Tis then I love the garden best. Or when the leaves in brown are dressed, when many blossoms faint with cold; but here a saffron Snap stands bold; and here a Pansy splashed with gold; Tobacco flowers at night unfold—'tis then I love the garden best.
Life is too short for sighing and regretting. That which is done, we cannot now undo. Before the sun completes another setting, Life may have changed its aspect and its hue. Blunders are never mended by mere fretting; better to start afresh, mistakes forgetting. Life is too short a single thing to rue. Life is too short for bitterness and hating. Nothing is gained by venom and despair. 'Tis not a virtue to be ever prating that worms abide within the blossom fair. Goodness, forsooth, is not one whit abating, though Cynics give a jaundiced, twisted rating. Life is too short to entertain dull care. Life is just long enough for you and me to do our work with energy and zest. Just long enough for each of us to try to make of it a helpful, joyous quest; to brighten up, perchance, a neighbour's sky. Too short for hate; too short for futile sigh. Just long enough to learn that Love is best.
If only I could prove to you—so much depends on point of view. If only I could make it clear that you are worried by a fear! If only I could make you see that we are what we wish to be. If only I could give you cause to put aside your grief, and pause, and look within your own sad heart—'tis there you'd find the poisoned dart. If only I could make it plain that sun no better is than rain; that there's no riches just like health; that happiness comes not from wealth. If only I could make you try to view the world with smiling eye, to look not down but up instead; for thus one sees the sunset red, for thus one sees the rosy dawn, and gleaming glory of the morn. If only I could prove to you that all depends on point of view—I think you'd find life quite worth while, deserving of your praise and smile.
Do you remember how we used to say the A.B.C. when we were very young? We stood in semi-circular array, and proved a nimbleness of brain and tongue! 'Twas "A.B.C." right to the final "Z," we chanted in a wailing minor key. One little blue-eyed girl with curly head always stopped short each time she reached the "D." But patient teacher, smiling, put her right. Then on she'd go quite blithely to the end. And some who were exceptionally bright, from "Z" to "A" the backward trail could wend! But now, we often find Life goes awry. Its "A.B.C." is very hard to learn. Letters refuse, no matter how we try, to follow smoothly, each in proper turn. 'Tis then, like children of the long-ago, we ask the Teacher, watching patiently, if He will help us so that we may know the way to read Life's puzzling A.B.C.
Her modulated voice is sweet, she ne'er looks tired, she's never late. She's neat and trim from head to feet; she does not gossip, does not prate, and always she is most discreet. She never wears harsh, squeaky shoes, nor aprons with a rustling noise. She never shows she has the blues; she is a model of calm poise; she never angers nor annoys. She's temperate always, in all things. She's sympathetic, strong in mind. A ray of hope her presence brings. Her counsel's wise, she's always kind, and yet she has not angel's wings! And from her very soul there flows a vital current that inspires, as through the anxious house she goes rekindling Hope's extinguished fires. She serves with love, with courage glows—this Nurse whom all the world admires.
What precious things four walls enclose: a glowing fire, deep chairs for rest, a slender vase to hold one rose. What precious things four walls enclose when there is present some loved guest. What charming things four walls embrace: a paper of entrancing hues, and shadows like spell-woven lace. What charming things four walls embrace: loved books to guide us and amuse. Four walls enclose the best of life, its meaning and its very core; a happy husband, happy wife. Four walls enclose the best of life where baby crawls along the floor. Four walls enclose such magic things, the sound of laughter, joyous, free; and peace that spreads its gleaming wings. Four walls enclose such magic things where there is love and sympathy.
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