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!