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!"
"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.
BAGPIPES
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 EIGHT
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 FATHER
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.