Why is it, when you come with me, there's not a drop of rain to see? But should I leave you safe indoors; ah! then, invariably, it pours. You are a nuisance, without doubt. The wind blows high—you're inside out! And sometimes when you're opened wide, you slowly down the handle slide, until you close about my hat, pressing it almost pancake flat! You won't stand up, you won't sit down; you've often made a stranger frown. (Such ill behaviour in a train, you've made me blush, time and again!) And when I'm busy in a shop on to the floor you always flop. Your virtues? Well, they're really few. I like your cover's cheery hue; your handle, too, is rather gay. Now, where on earth are you to-day? Why do you always cause a fuss—you must have stayed atop that 'bus!
AN EASTER SONG
Easter is a gentle maiden, robed in white and meek is she; both her arms with lilies laden, all her movements graceful, free. At her breast are violets, fragrant. Stars adorn her silky hair. She is not, like Spring, a vagrant, wand'ring, care-free, here and there. Easter has a field for sowing, Easter has her goal in sight, Lenten lilies all ablowing, glorify her day and night. 'Tis the heart that Easter's seeking. There she'll sow her precious seed. Hark! 'tis Easter sweetly speaking, "I have come for your great need." Heart that is bowed down with sorrow, tree that is now bare of leaf, wait with patience; for the morrow brings an end to winter's grief. Easter's such a gentle maiden, trees for her will bud again. Hearts with sorrow, heavy laden, are, by Easter, healed of pain.
AT A PIANO RECITAL
To think those fingers, a little while ago, were busy with small tasks, friendly and intimate; fastening a buckle of a shoe, and smoothing out a bow, groping to find a watch, for fear the hour be late! To think those fingers coiled that blue-black hair and strayed among the folds of that gold dress; and then, like restless birds, fluttering here and there, brushed each arched eyebrow with a light caress. To think those fingers deigned to do such things—they that have power to weave a potent spell to bear the heart aloft on eagle's wings, or drown the soul beneath the music's swell. Fingers interpreting the mind in pain; or dance of fairies round a moonlit tree; quarrels and love; fierce sun and gentle rain; and then the spirit's shining ecstasy. The whole of life flowing through fingers white! To think those fingers will let loose black hair, fling off gold dress, and late, this very night, lie, like good children, wrapped in dreams most fair!
SPRING CLEANINGS
With brooms of every length and weight, of every style and varying price, from early morning until late she swept to make the house look nice. With powders, soaps, and elbow grease, she scoured each pot, she scraped each pan; she ironed away each curtain crease, and soon the house was spick and span. With sudden showers every day that spoilt our hats and damped our mirth, did April, in time-honoured way, begin to spring-clean mother Earth. She brightly smiled and then she cried and washed away the dust with rain; the trees and flowers we thought had died, awoke, and blossomed forth again. With thoughts of gladness and of cheer, with thankfulness and heartfelt praise for this renascence of the year, I let my eyes on nature gaze. And while I looked at sky and earth, I had an impulse to be kind, to do some service of real worth—spring-cleaning thus my heart and mind!
DEER IN AUTUMN
If you would see great beauty, watch the deer, that look their loveliest when Autumn's here against a background of the deep-toned year. The distance shows a veil of misty blue, the ferns are richly-clad, a russet hue, the deer seem garbed in velvet soft and new. They are fastidious creatures when they eat, turning from verdure trampled by man's feet and seeking pastures that look fresh and sweet. They are, indeed, embodiment of grace, moving with dignity from place to place, impossible to think a deer's heart base! How eloquent and friendly are their eyes. They couch upon a bed of ferns and look so wise. Hark! What was that? The falling leaves' faint sighs. So faint a sound and yet the shy beasts hear, rise to their feet in agony of fear—to think that man would ever hurt a deer!