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!