Part 1

[Illustration: Cover art]

WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS

BY

WILHELMINA STITCH

AUTHOR OF "SILKEN THREADS," "SILVER LININGS," "THE GOLDEN WEB," "VERSES FOR CHILDREN," ETC.

SECOND EDITION

METHUEN & CO. LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON

_First Published ... March 21st 1929 Second Edition ... 1929_

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

A SONG TO CHEER AT A DOG'S HOME THE WAYSIDE PULPIT SPOONS ABOVE DEFEAT COURTESY BUILDING PALACES PRESERVES WHEN FRIENDSHIP DIES THE HARPIST THE STRONG WILL CONKERS THE BEAUTY-REAPER REMEMBER MAY TO MY UMBRELLA AN EASTER SONG AT A PIANO RECITAL SPRING CLEANINGS DEER IN AUTUMN COMPENSATIONS LONDON TO GREENHITHE THE LITTLE CANDLE TO A CHILD LIFE'S SONG HOLIDAY MEMORIES FAILURE HIS 21ST BIRTHDAY FELLOWSHIP IN A LITTLE ROOM DO IT NOW ON ST. CRISPIN'S DAY THE EVER YOUNG BROADCAST FRIENDS SEEKING HAPPINESS THOUGHTS WHEN BULB-PLANTING TO EACH HIS GIFT IN AN APRIL GARDEN THE QUIET HEART DREAM-STREET CRIES SPRING IS COMING SALUTE TO THE BRAVE MY VISITORS THIS WAY BUT ONCE WANDERING THOUGHTS ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH THE SEA OF LIFE THE CARAVAN SETS FORTH MARCH, THE LION PLAY THE GAME A PIECE OF PAPER AFRAID, BUT UNDETERRED TO SOME DAHLIAS STEADFASTNESS CANDLEMAS THE COBWEB'S STRENGTH A NICHT WI' BURNS MY GUY FAWKES CUPPED WINGS EVEN AS YOU AND I TROUBLE, THE TUNNEL

_A SONG TO CHEER_

Here's a song to cheer us, when worry creeps too near us and burdens seem too heavy for our strength. Endurance oft grows double to match the large-sized trouble, and shorten by its presence the weary journey's length. And this there's no denying, when hearts are faint with sighing and all the future's given o'er to dread; the tiniest little ills, no bigger than mere pills, begin to swell and thicken and to spread! This thought is truly cheerful--whenever we are fearful of troubles we believe are coming fast--if they ever come at all, they prove so very small, before the day is ended they have passed.

_AT A DOG'S HOME_

Said a Cocker to a Pekinese, swinging his silky ears, "What is the date, oh, tell me, please, for each week seems like years!" And his mournful eyes looked misty with a doggy's unshed tears. The Peke replied, "I understand. Your family's away. And so is mine--a foreign land!" His nose expressed dismay. "But they're coming back, I know they are, in one more night and day." A gallant bulldog sniffed the air and spoke with British pride to that depressed and homesick pair, "I let my folks decide. This is a very kindly place and here I will abide...." He sniffs, he trembles. Can it be? He wags his tail, pricks up his ears, runs back and forth--(oh, were he free!) and through the kennel bars he peers, gives two sharp yaps of glad surprise and meets his master's loving eyes.

_THE WAYSIDE PULPIT_

Banks and hedgerows, woods and downs, all have felt the mystic Breath. Trees are donning lacy gowns, vanished winter's vaunt of death. The primrose lines the mossy banks; in the woods dance daffodils. Hearts are brimming o'er with thanks whilst the happy blackbird trills. Everywhere fresh signs of life; birds so busy with their nests. Shall we harbour thoughts of strife? Peace and Love would be our guests. Hum of insects fills the air, blackthorn robes the hedge in white; rosy is the flow'ring pear; daisies twinkle with delight. Bursting buds and leafing trees, catkins on the oak like lace. Voice of God on every breeze, in every little flow'r--His Face. Wayside Pulpits for His Voice! Oh, the comfort that they bring. Soul of Man, awake, rejoice! Blossom forth--for it is Spring.

_SPOONS_

there ought to be a tinkling rhyme for spoons we're using all the time, for special spoons with dainty faces that live in velvet-padded cases and only see the light of day when visitors have come to stay! For spoons we use at every meal that have a homey, friendly "feel"; for wooden spoons and spoons of tin and spoons by age worn sharp and thin. Long-handled spoons, and curved and short, and those that by-gone goldsmiths wrought. Big spoons for soup and small for tea and those that serve cook's artistry and spoons we've bought on holiday to prove we've really been away! Of all the spoons I've ever seen in any place that I have been, the one I like the best of all is specially made and neat and small, its handle looped that it can fit the dimpled hand that clutches it--the spoon that makes a dozen trips to Baby's laughing, rosy lips!

_ABOVE DEFEAT_

What is the grandest sight beneath the sun? To see--and this at times we all have done--a body smiling though there be no cause; fighting against great odds without a pause; fighting and smiling, knowing grim defeat, yet keeping breath enough to call life sweet! To see a body carrying his load as if it were a joy and not fate's goad, no thought of giving in, nor turning back, although the path be rough and skies grow black. Stumbling, yet singing, the while the race is run--this is indeed a grand sight 'neath the sun. Does it not make one yearn to cheer aloud, feeling most humble, yet exceeding proud, to watch a fellow-being lose a race, sore handicapped, but with a gallant grace? Indeed, it is a grand sight 'neath the sun to see defeat so very nobly won!

_COURTESY_

A little poor man attired in brown (shabby the hood, shabby the gown), around his waist a piece of cord, entered the woods to praise the Lord. The feathered choir was singing loudly, above their boughs the sun shone proudly. He's coming, he's coming, into the wood, a little poor man 'neath a shabby brown hood. "Good-morrow, brother!" he bowed to the sun, "accept my thanks for the good you have done. I slept on the ground you warmed at noon. To-night I shall greet my Sister Moon." Then he turned to the birds in the leafy trees, "Good little sisters, if you please, since you have sung your merry lay, may I, your brother, have my say?" The singing ceased, and each small bird opened her heart to receive the word of gentle Saint Francis praising the Lord in a shabby tunic tied with a cord!

_BUILDING PALACES_

A prison or a palace? Will you choose? For one or other is your dwelling-place, and this is regulated by your views which have the power to make a thing of grace out of a seeming dull, confined and ugly space. Don't scorn the town or village where you dwell, deeming yourself too fine a soul for it. The smallest place has magic things to tell to those who have an understanding wit, a lamp of friendliness that is forever lit. Often we hear a foolish person say, "How you can live in this place, I don't know!" And yet the sun gives of his golden ray; nor do the stars withhold their silver glow; flourish the trees, birds sing and blossoms grow. 'Tis not the place, but quality of mind that builds a palace or a prison bare. With ears and eyes we may be deaf and blind to harmony and beauty passing fair. There is no spot but Friendship blossoms there.

_PRESERVES_

The pantry shelves are cool and wide, their paper covers crisp and clean. The housewife gazes with just pride--the finest jams she's ever seen! Jellies and jams; like gems they shine! Like garnet, ruby, amethyst, topaz and jade and almandine--produced by her, the Alchemist! Gold bottled sunshine in those jars, the fragrant essence of the Spring, the radiant gleam of watchful stars that shone above each growing thing. The hearty breakfast's marmalade, the strawberry jam to tempt a guest, while that from gooseberry was made--some think her cherry jam is best. All neatly labelled, row on row, and high upon the topmost shelf are placed preserves that gleam and glow and are entirely for herself. For these are Memory's preserves of beauty garnered with delight, when branches hid their gracious curves beneath spring blossoms, pink and white.

_WHEN FRIENDSHIP DIES_

Nothing so sad in all the year, nothing so sad on land or sea, as friendship that we once held dear, becoming but a memory. Not e'en a memory to hold, as one will clasp a precious thing; for once a friendship has grown cold, no comfort can remembrance bring. The pleasant interchange of thought, the rush of feeling warm and true, the proffered aid, the comfort sought, and hope through laughter born anew. Ah! that desire to please a friend, how it inspires and nurtures strength, but should the friendship sadly end, its very shadow dies at length. Then there is naught so sad to see, where'er we roam beneath the sky, two who were friends but now agree to pass each other coldly by. Too sad for tears, too sad for sighs, when Memory herself seems dead and gazes with unseeing eyes at all the gentle words once said.

_THE HARPIST_

Her hands! Two blossoms white that, sleeping, float like water-lilies on the harp's still breast. One petal quivers, lo! a liquid note persuades the lilies they must wake from rest. Ah, see! her hands are birds with flutt'ring wings, strong, graceful birds, circling the Ship of Gold, sweeping with passion the responsive strings that calmed a king's tempestuous heart of old. I cannot watch these birds, for I am blind; blinded with ecstasy. But I can hear the rhythmic beat of drums upon the wind, and Arabs o'er the desert drawing near. Into the room they come, loose garments flowing, and all the magic of the East comes, too. And now the Harp is sighing, "They are going, and with them goes the spellbound heart of you!" The scene is changed. The blazing East gives way to some cool spot, with trees outspread and tall. A most exquisite peace holds us in sway; parched souls revive beneath "The Waterfall."

_THE STRONG WILL_

Strong of will? That's good, indeed. Nice, of course, to get one's way. Sometimes, though, one has to heed a brother's still more urgent need, allow his will to have full sway. Stout-of-will sometimes works ill for those he forces to obey. You always reach the topmost peak? Very nice indeed for you. But did you hurt the shy and meek, the inexperienced and the weak, in doing what you had to do? Did you step upon another, a weaker and a slower brother? There are many ways to gain all the things that seem most sweet, but if the getting might cause pain, better then to meet defeat. To renounce is not so ill as ruthless arrogance of will.

_CONKERS_

Not in a dictionary? How absurd! Conker is such a stalwart, English word. You do not know it? Well, it is a shame to think you never played that Autumn game, beginning with the cry of "Oblionker." (Oh, magic word preceding "My first conker!") First the attack upon the Chestnut tree; the fruits fall down 'mid noisy shouts of glee. Pockets are stuffed, the robbers homeward go to polish these large seeds to ruddy glow. Then each is pierced with nicety and care and strung in readiness to cleave the air and hit a conker-foe held at arm's length, and shatter it by virtue of one's strength. Oh, joy it is to tramp the woods again and smell the earth fresh washed by Autumn rain, and hear the thrilling, fascinating sound of Chestnuts plopping on the leaf-strewn ground and cry aloud unthinking, "Oblionker," as in the long-ago, "'tis my first conker."

THE BEAUTY-REAPER

Rich fields of beauty 'neath the sun are yours and mine, our heritage. And there is work for every one; and lasting joy's the living wage. There is a field of lovely sights, where eyes may glean, if they but go; may garner such intense delights as only Beauty-lovers know. There is a field of haunting sounds for ears to glean if they desire: some simple phrases which may yield the music of a heart-strung lyre. There is a field of precious thought where eager minds may daily stray; where blossoms rare are never bought, but grow for all to bear away. And there is yet another field, the field of Service, far-flung, wide; the beauty that this land can yield, above all else is glorified. To be a reaper, I must try, in fields that Life has sown for me. My sheaves of beauty will I tie with silken threads of memory.

_REMEMBER MAY_

Who watched May slip away last night? Only the stars with eyes grown bright with unshed tears. Only the moon, as thin and white as some young girl assailed by fright of unnamed fears. A bride May looked! Golden her hair; and fragile blossoms nestled there, fallen from chestnut trees. Golden Laburnum circled each slim wrist; her snow-white cheeks to blushing pink were kissed by tender midnight breeze. Eastward she gazed towards the dawnlit sky, and saw Queen Juno's chariot drawing nigh. Then breathed "farewell." Westward she turned, and, like a bird in flight, white arms outstretched, she vanished out of sight. Where? Who can tell? Only this song comes wafted on the breeze: "Behold the Iris and the blossomed trees, and tulips tall and gay. And when you praise the loveliness of these, though June be here and strives her best to please--you will remember May!"

_TO MY UMBRELLA_

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!

_COMPENSATIONS_

Sad Heart says, "It's easy talking, but she doesn't understand. Luck with her is ever walking. Sorrow has me by the hand." Don't I understand, Sad Heart? Seems to me it's very plain. Life has cast you for a part; Sorrow you must entertain. But the beauty of the Dawn is for you, for your sad eyes. Dew-drops, diamonds on the lawn fill you with a glad surprise. Stars at night in vault of blue; moon, a floating daffodil--these are joys bestowed on you, yours to cherish at your will. Music is a precious gift; it is yours if you will hear. Watch the gruesome shadows lift, chased away by Laughter's cheer. Books you love? Oh! fortunate! And there's work for you to do? Cease, then, railing at your fate--Joy will find its way to you.

_LONDON TO GREENHITHE_

I wish that you had been with me to Greenhithe just the other day. Enjoyed myself? Tremendously! Such lovely sights along the way. Oh! fairy pink, the almond trees; the Prunus trees were dazzling white. And every little teasing breeze was whispering of Spring's delight. But lovelier far than bud or tree were toddlers clad in woolly things. One roguish elf, he smiled at me. Strange how that memory still clings! We passed a market all ablaze with fruits and flowers of springtime's best. I dote on Nature's lavish ways--she uses colours with such zest. Then London River--misty, grey. And ghost-like steamers, doubtful, slow; and rooks a screaming "go away!" "It's time," said I, "we homeward go." But what I liked the most of all, throughout this drive of many miles, were letterboxes, scarlet, small, set in grey walls, like cheery smiles. Like laughing scarlet lips they seemed. And as we passed, oh! how they beamed.

_THE LITTLE CANDLE_

Your room, you say, is very dark to-night! A little candle--and you've lots of light! Your baby pleads, "Don't leave me by myself." You place a night-light on a little shelf, and baby smiles and feels quite comforted, and thus companioned, snuggles into bed. The road seems very dark and long to you; the hand-clasp of a friend, a smile that's true, and that grim darkness is dispersed by love and brightly shines the sun or moon above. The mind that gropes in darkness for the truth, and sees a little light is rich, forsooth. A little light is what we all desire, a tiny candle for our spirit's fire. Here is a helpful thought I read to-day for us who grope and stumble on our way; there's not enough of darkness round about to put the smallest waxen candle out! So hold aloft your candle, shine or rain, that those in darkness may take heart again.

_TO A CHILD_

Such a beautiful gift has this world been. Lovely the Springtime's pink and white and green, and then the summer's richer, warmer glow, followed by Autumn's tints--and then the snow. Each season brings such gifts for joyous hearts, there is no sorrow when the Spring departs. And when late summer slowly drops her leaves, signals to Autumn, there is none who grieves, knowing the beauty that will softly fall upon the earth whene'er Jack Frost may call. And there are books, dear child, such constant friends that serve with joy until the journey ends. And friends more precious still than books who give us clasp of hand and tender looks, tears for our sorrow, laughter for our joy, the golden element in life's alloy. As I do now, dear child, may you one day--review the years that seem so far away, and standing on Time's lichen-covered hill have cause to claim that life is lovely still.

_LIFE'S SONG_

I bring joy, but also sorrow, all my children must know grief. Buoyant spring, then on the morrow Autumn's dried and falling leaf. Success I bring and golden laughter; Man I help to high estate. Disappointments follow after--this my way with small or great. Work I give as well as pleasure; sunshine--then the clouds and rain! No one can escape a measure of my bitterness and pain. Cause for singing, cause for weeping, rough and smooth and dark and bright. Time for work and hours for sleeping, calm and noise and day and night. Lovely gardens, barren places, stumbling-blocks and paths of ease; bread and honey, rags and laces, these I offer where I please. Joy I bring and also sorrow, light and shade and hills and vales and this gift for each new morrow--courage to the one who fails.

_HOLIDAY MEMORIES_

Now, hold your breath; oh, do not talk, for Baby has begun to walk! Travel all the world with me, no greater sight we'll ever see than Baby, fat legs wide apart, smiling, gurgling, bless his heart! Left foot, right foot--well, I never, isn't he extremely clever! Yes, of course, I liked the Rhine. The castles were extremely fine. Cologne Cathedral robs one quite of the power to speak or write. Hans Sachs' house and Dürer's, too, these were sights indeed to view. A Market Place with many treasures added much to Nurnberg's pleasures. But none of this thrilled me so much as just this little human touch--a quaint Dutch house, an open door, a mother sitting on the floor with hands outstretched and eyes aflame, whilst t'ward her, swaying, Baby came. Left foot, right foot--please don't talk, for Baby has begun to walk!

_FAILURE_