It skipped and fluttered down the street. It tripped and swirled and whirled about. It hurried past the swiftest feet—that it felt pleased I had no doubt. The panting wind was just behind; it was a very merry race. The sun peeped through a cloudy blind and smiled to see so brisk a chase. I knew for certain who would win; I backed the paper without fear! It was so light and white and thin; I watched it gaily disappear. Since then I've wondered time again: whence came that paper, whither went? Did it some secret code contain, or sharp command to pay the rent? Perhaps a gentle lover wrote a tender, throbbing, pleading rhyme to one to whom he would devote each moment of his mortal time. I hope the wind kept up the race and drove along that message sweet, until it reached its destined place, and fluttered, humbly, at her feet.
AFRAID, BUT UNDETERRED
It's not exactly courage if you aren't a bit afraid to climb a fearsome mountain, descend into a glade, or make a swimming record or some titanic flight, or drive a racing motor-car, or jump an unknown height. But this is really courage—at least, I call it so—to say, I fear that mountain, but all the same, I'll go. And this is truly courage, to lift one's daily load, to smile though skies are gloomy and difficult the road, to view an angry river and beyond a sloping hill, to say, "That is my journey and I'll take it with good will." To cry, "I'll grant I'm fearful, a little bit afraid, but naught will stop my progress until the journey's made."
TO SOME DAHLIAS
I have seen Beauty time again; in clouds by day, in stars by night, in trees refreshed by gentle rain, in sunbeams dancing with delight. But you, gay Dahlias, I love best. I count each one a precious friend. You seem to live with such a zest. And oh! your colours, how they blend! White, pink, and red, and saffron, too, and vibrant hues that glow like flames. Each day I pass, I nod to you. I can't remember all your names! One day (now this should make you proud) I saw a girl, too young for grief, walk down the path with head low-bowed; she's like, thought I, a wind-tossed leaf. Then suddenly you flashed a smile. I watched her stop and stand so still and gaze at you for quite a while, and of your Beauty drink her fill. I think the girl, that very night, discovered Life was not so grey—for in her room were Dahlias bright that memory had brought away!
STEADFASTNESS
A difficult task to be done, an arduous course to be run, a dream to be shaped, a pattern spun. 'Tis steadfast does it. Rare is the genius who can leap whilst others plod and slowly creep along the stony path and steep, yet also reach the goal. Though genius is a precious thing so brightly hued, so swift of wing, yet lacking it, there is no sting, if we keep faith with our own soul. We can persist in doing, doing; preserving faith and never ruing; the hill-top light for aye pursuing—'Tis steadfast does it. When with sincerity we say, "New hope, new courage, each new day," though obstacles impede the way—'Tis steadfast does it!
CANDLEMAS
I think to-day of candle-light, of soft and soothing candle-light, that beckons souls to come and pray on Candlemas, a saintly day. I think of golden flames so bright, of blue-gold flames so very bright, of candles standing slim and white in solemn, silent, sweet array. I thought: our spirits are like flames, like steadfast, strong and striving flames; though all around be grim and dark, they shed a penetrating spark. I mused: if all our hearts would be, if all our hearts (both you and me) could be like candle-sticks to hold a candle for a world grown cold; then as we went about the world, with shining hearts about the world, we'd bring soft light to some dark place, and there we'd see a sister's face! And thus I think of Candlemas, the ancient, honoured Candlemas, a day on which to light this earth with acts of kindliness and worth.