[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!