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."
THE ENVIABLE GREENGROCER
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.
MOVING IN
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.
GOOD MONTH OF AUGUST
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.
TO A BOY OF SEVENTEEN
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.