A storm raged fiercely through the frightened hours, houses were shaken, chimney-pots torn down, large trees uprooted, as well as fragile flowers, e'en lives were lost in that storm-shaken town. And afterwards we saw a wondrous sight, walking beneath some trees still drenched with rain—a stretch of cobwebs silver in the light, unharmed, unconquered by the wrack and strain. Cobwebs that looked so frail a baby's breath could tear to bits their lacy filigree were quite unharmed by this attack of death beneath which fell both man and masonry. And thus it is in life; the storm-swept soul can still retain its web of lovely dreams though hostile winds deter us from the goal and oft we have to ford hate's swirling streams. Though merciless the tempests that have swept over a human life, frail as a wraith, still has the battered soul with honour kept its beauteous web of hope and love and faith.
A NICHT WI' BURNS
Oh, Robbie Burns, if I could find a golden phrase that sweetly sings, a silvern phrase of kingly mind, a magic phrase with fairy wings—I'd weave, I'd weave each precious phrase into a song for your delight; for we who love your tuneful lays are toasting you this very night. But, after all, why should I seek unusual, unfamiliar words? So freely does your own heart speak in songs that lilt and trill like birds. A simple phrase, then, be my choice for all who toast the Bard to-night: "We drink to that Immortal Voice whose simplest songs give most delight." Oh, Robbie Burns, your deathless lyre was strung by Pity, Love and Truth. Interpreter of Passion's fire, of Friendship, Loyalty and Youth, to you, the David of your time, the Bard who gives world-wide delight, I offer up this simple rhyme—just as a toast, to you, to-night.
MY GUY FAWKES
I made my Guy Fawkes yesternight. I'll burn him up some time to-day. He is an ugly-looking fright. I built him up in just this way: I took ten yards of witch-spun stuff, woven, you know, from threads of gloom, in colour dark, in texture rough, and hurried to my little room, and there I stitched it up one side and stitched it at the bottom, too. And then this bag I opened wide, and into it I swiftly threw a full-grown Temper, scowling thing; a cowardly Fear with pallid face, and cold starved Hope with broken wing, and Pride bedecked in silks and lace, and Moodiness and Discontent, and all the horrid things I own. Atop this Guy, a lemon went; and for its heart a dull grey stone. Ah! when the flames have eaten it, how very noble I will be. This thought, though, bothers me a bit—not one old friend will then know me!
CLIPPED WINGS
Clipped wings! But all the same, you've wings. You cannot fly away from duty, but you can rise above drab things. Oh, little, lovely flight to beauty. Clipped wings, indeed, can take you far; well, far enough to see the sun arise, the silver radiance of the evening star, the trustfulness within a baby's eye—lovely, indeed, these little journeys are. I know, dear soul, the cage at times seems small, and you are weary of the daily round. Better clipped wings than ne'er a wing at all—at least you rise with ease above the ground. You can poise level with a daisy's head, or with a nest within an old forked bough, and on towards a hollyhock bright red, and higher, higher still—as you are now, upon a fleecy cloud with crimson dyed. Swift flight of dreams! Are you not satisfied? Clipped wings are not spectacular, we know. They do not hold the centre of life's ring. But ah! how swiftly and how gaily they can go towards the commonplace, the homely, lowly thing. Be grateful for clipped wings that carry you out of the drab into your bit of blue.
EVEN AS YOU AND I
Two thousand million people inhabit this old earth. I saw these figures somewhere. I mused, "Just think of it. Two thousand million people—then what can be the worth of a single human being? A very little bit!" Two thousand million people, with troubles like my own, with work that bores them sometimes, with bills that must be paid, with longings for companionship, desire to be alone, and ghosts that stalk the future of which they are afraid. Two thousand million people, with burdens they must bear, with sorrows and with troubles and foes to put to rout. No wonder I, but one of these, am forced to take my share—and thinking of those millions, self-pity peters out.