Part 2

Ah, Failure is a curious thing! It helps to mend the broken wing and then inspires a longer flight and whispers, "Look, the goal's in sight!" And Failure is a stringent spur, pricking Ambition till it stir, a strong incentive to proud Pride o'er every obstacle to ride. Where'er we stumble, Failure stands and stretches forth strong, helpful hands, and bids us rise and try again, ignore the set-back and the pain. 'Tis Failure makes us scorn defeat and turn the bitter into sweet, and seek, yes, on the darkest day, for one bright scintillating ray. If Fate should bring a nasty shock, if Life should give the real hard knock, if everything should go awry--it's Failure urges us to try. 'Tis Failure says, "I won't give in. I have a second chance to win." Ah, Failure, you're a little word so to inspire the undeterred!

_HIS 21ST BIRTHDAY_

He looks the same, he feels the same, exactly as the day before. He hasn't changed his home or name, nor has he grown one hair's breadth more. The suit he wore but yesterday he's wearing at this minute, and who is there who'd dare to say the same boy isn't in it? And yet he's changed, we must confess, for since the clock struck twelve last night (we wish him health and happiness!) he has attained to manhood's height. And Life grips fast his eager hand and says, "The midnight bell has tolled and you're a man, this understand, for you are twenty-one years old." And here's our wish and here's our hope, Oh, bold adventurer and gay! May you have courage as you grope through unlit paths along life's way. There is so much for man to do; and brains may plot and brains may plan; but this our golden hope for you, may you have strength to play the man!

_FELLOWSHIP_

I love to walk on cool, ribbed sands with never a soul by my side; for then my spirit understands the murmur of the tide. But not for long does Neptune's voice engross my soul and mind. It wearies me; I would rejoice--to hear Mankind. I love to climb to some high peak and watch the stars at night. I hear the voice of Silence speak; it fills me with delight. Of this my soul soon weary grows, for always do I find the current of my being flows--towards Mankind. I'd love a house well tucked away among tall trees, wide-spreading trees; and there I'd write a song each day with no one near to talk or tease! I would not stay there very long; a crowded place I'd have to find. My heart would barren be of song--without Mankind.

_IN A LITTLE ROOM_

O silly, box-like, little room, I'm very tired of you to-day. Four silent walls enclosing gloom. I charge you, what have you to say? But stop a minute! I admit I like your carpet's soft design; and from this angle, as I sit, the sideboard has a gracious line. 'Tis strange I did not note till now the depth of blue on this old plate, the lovely curve of leafy bough, the lovers standing near a gate. I wonder, was I very young--perhaps I was not even born--when first this dinner bell was rung, and now its brass is thin and worn. A lovely thing--this antique bowl; its beauty urges me to sing. I think the craftsman's very soul was melted for its fashioning. O silly, little, box-like room! Your pardon, please, you humble me. You have no space for scowls and gloom, with so much charm for all to see.

_DO IT NOW_

'Twas yesterday we thought we'd write that letter which would give delight. 'Twas yesterday we thought we'd send some money to a needy friend. 'Twas yesterday we meant to cheer; we meant to wipe away a tear; we meant to help a weaker man achieve his good, but half-formed plan. 'Twas yesterday we made it plain we'd help a failure start again; 'twas yesterday we wished to praise, commend a brother for his ways; some seeds of love we meant to sow, some kindliness we meant to show. But yesterday, alas! has fled. Not one act done, not one word said. Now, when we feel that inner urge, when o'er the soul kind feelings surge, when we are suddenly aware that we have more than just our share; when words of praise invade the heart, and when we see grief's tears upstart--oh! let us do the kindly thing before To-day is on the wing.

_ON ST. CRISPIN'S DAY_

I'd love to be a shoemaker on this Saint Crispin's Day. I'd pray him for some leather that the angels gave away. (For they used to give him leather, so all the legends say.) Softest leather from the angels! Each piece of finest grain, well tanned by golden sunbeams, kept moist by sister rain. The loveliest bits of leather, ne'er bought nor sold for gain. Bright bits supplied by angels! And some would be sky-blue and some of pearly greyness with dawn's pinkness blushing through. And some would be rich crimson, like a sunset bold and new. And I'd take Saint Crispin's leather that the angels had let fall and fashion shoes a-plenty for dimpled feet and small, whilst Saint Crispin stood beside me and blessed my last and awl!

_THE EVER YOUNG_

There is a path called Never-Old, a most entrancing, smiling road; and only those with spirits bold, who, laughing, shoulder life's big load, who value Beauty more than gold, who faithful are to Love's high code, can find this road to walk along. And as they walk, they sing a song, oh, buoyantly the words are sung, "We are the old, for ever young!" There is a path called Never-Old, and only certain feet may tread this smiling road, so I've been told. Those who fared forth with high-held head, whose hearts have warmed some hearts grown cold, whose hands have helped the frail and weak, whose lips the gentlest words do speak, they'll find this smiling road I know. And as along this path they go, this is the song that will be sung, "We are the old, for ever young!" All those who've laughed at hostile fate, who can a tale of Love unfold, who live for others, early, late--have found the road of Never-Old.

_BROADCAST FRIENDS_

The bogy of loneliness has gone for ever. She now has friends that visit by the score. And all of them are pleasant and so clever, coming when she desires, at noon or four, and no one waits to knock upon the door! They slip into the room on magic wings borne by the ether for her keen delight. One gives her household hints, another sings, one speaks of theatres or of those who write, and she sees much that once was out of sight. For now she travels as she sits and sews, and solitude no longer hurts or palls. With world-explorers gallantly she goes, far, far beyond her four confining walls--whene'er the announcer's voice through ether calls. The world is hers and she can walk abroad; listen to music, look upon great art. The many things she could not once afford she now enjoys, in them she has a part--and thanks the wireless from a woman's house-bound heart!

_SEEKING HAPPINESS_

Someone said (it might have been you or I), "I vow to find happiness e'er I die." So he sought for it high and he sought for it low; by the glare of the sun, by the moonbeam's pale glow. He sought for it far, and sought for it near. He sought for a day, and he sought for a year, but Happiness ever eluded his hand; 'twas the same on high seas as it was on the land. Back to the everyday things of life, to the turn of Fate's wheel with its love and strife; back to engrossing work he went. Laboured hard, and was well content. Gave of his brain, his hands and his heart, fulfilling with zest his destined part. Took delight in the new-born day; gloried in work and deemed it play. Found his pleasures in simple things; in a book, a tree, and a bird that sings. In a gracious curve of a leafy bough--and he quite forgot his former vow. Then suddenly someone, running fast, exclaimed, "Oh! brother! We've met at last." The sound of this voice was a soft caress. And the face--was the face of Happiness!

_THOUGHTS WHEN BULB-PLANTING_

I have a rendezvous with Spring--she'll keep her word and so will I. I took a bulb, a small brown thing, and said, "'Tis here I bid you lie." A brick-red pot, some sandy soil. Now, little bulb, lie warm, I pray. A pleasant task--so little toil, all on a sweet, Autumnal day. Now let Jack Frost come back again and scatter snowflakes everywhere, and let him star the window pane with frosty breath--I will not care. For I've a precious rendezvous with one in green and gold attire and with another robed in blue--this thought sets all my heart afire. Some magic pots, bulbs buried deep, all in the sweet autumnal hours. My little bulbs now fall asleep, but soon they will bring forth spring flow'rs. With Spring I have a rendezvous, we'll meet upon my window-sill when in one pot are scillas blue and in the next, a daffodil!

_TO EACH HIS GIFT_

I am so glad to be awake. So glad to feel my pulses leap freed from the servitude of sleep. So glad a deep-drawn breath to take; O heart of mine, we are awake! Hear now the vow I wish to make. Before the coming of night's sable wing I will create at least one lovely thing in gratitude for life and for life's sake. O heart of mine, what shall we try to make? These hands, you say, are dull at fashioning. Then find them service, there is much to do; some task that destiny has planned for you. O heart of mine, the morning's praises sing. "This brain," you say, "cannot create a song, nor can it weave imagination's tale." Yet in your spoken vow, you need not fail--one lovely thing--the righting of some wrong. O heart of mine, I pray you keep me strong. "These hands," you say, "have not the power to make; nor has this brain the great creative gift." But two soft lips you have through which may drift a stream of beauty, thirsty souls to slake. O heart of mine, rejoice! We are awake.

_IN AN APRIL GARDEN_

There's the daffodil, the primrose, and the small forget-me-not; the ruddy, flaming, fragrant, rich, velvety wallflower; anemones and pansies, and aubrietia's purple plot; forsythia grows more golden with the passing of each hour. There's the yellow-blossomed berberis with promise of blue fruit; japonica the lovely, coral-tinted fragile stars. And a blackbird, with the sweetness of an ancient, mellow flute, is trilling thrilling quavers, and ecstatic little bars! But the glory of the garden is a stately, queenly tree, magnolia the beautiful, in robes of dazzling white. The sun into her goblets pours his golden ecstasy, and moonbeams turn them silver with their kisses in the night. Yea, lovely is the garden, beyond the power of words. But lovelier is the promise of the beauty yet to come. O sound the garden's praises, you happy, singing birds! For we, poor tongue-tied mortals, by such beauty are struck dumb.

_THE QUIET HEART_

Her heart is such a fragrant room, with daffodils and bright blue squills bedecking all the window-sills, defying entry to Sir Gloom--her heart is such a sunny room. Her heart has windows east and west, and windows south and north as well; and thus she always can foretell if one in need would be her guest--her heart has windows east and west. And through these shining window-panes, the eyes of little children peer. And those in quest of warmth and cheer, stand there until the daylight wanes--and bless her heart's bright window-panes. Her heart has such a charming door. The knocker shows the face of Love; forget-me-nots trail high above; one gentle knock, no need for more--then opens wide her heart's white door. Her heart is such a sunny room, and oh! she offers all such fare, they love to go and linger there, and touch the petals of each bloom within this fragrant, quiet room.

_DREAM-STREET CRIES_

In the land of dreams I heard him call upon a bright, warm summer's day. "All broken hearts, big breaks and small, will be repaired that come my way! Torn hearts to mend, torn hearts to mend," he cried while coming round the bend. "Torn hearts repaired, torn hearts repaired"--I stood quite still and stared and stared. And then he spoke and then I heard, "Good-day to you, give me your heart." "Indeed, I won't, you're quite absurd, how could I from my heart now part?" "Torn hearts to mend, torn hearts to mend----" "Oh, very well, here's mine, good friend." I gave him mine, almost in two; he made it look as good as new. And then I woke and heard quite clear, all down the street from end to end, the same old voice I yearly hear, "Old chairs to mend, old chairs to mend."

_SPRING IS COMING_

Expectancy is in the air; we seem to live with greater zest; there's hushed excitement everywhere. With leaves the Honeysuckle's dressed. The hazel catkins are in flow'r; they patiently await the bees. I hear, well, almost any hour, a secret whispered by the breeze. The sun's more generous with his gold; he spilt it at my feet to-day. A happy wren was very bold and carolled forth a roundelay. The sturdy tit with sable breast, the blue tit, lovely little thing, are pecking with the greatest zest at fat a-dangling from a string! On every slender willow bough (with ecstasy this news I write) the Persian Kittens frolic now; the boisterous wind gives them delight. They jump about like anything; and how their silver fur coats gleam! They prove that it is really Spring--and not a tantalizing dream!

_SALUTE TO THE BRAVE_

She'd been the live-long day in one drab room. An illness kept her chained. I never saw a more depressing gloom. And it had rained and rained. No flowers were there, no books for her to read, nothing for her caress. No heart so stony that it would not bleed to see such loneliness. Then, while I sought for words not out of tune, a fitting phrase to cheer, she told me how, each night, the friendly moon was wont to float quite near. "It came so near last night," she, laughing, said--"I really thought it meant to visit me in bed." A star had tapped upon her window-pane, and talked awhile. That day she'd watched the merry dancing rain. The raindrops made her smile. And through her window (oh! such beauty there) she'd seen, she said, a gleam of sunlight on a baby's hair, a sparrow with some bread. And thus to others often do we go through kindliest desires. And stay to warm our spirits by the glow from braver, finer fires!

_MY VISITORS_

At Dawn a little rhyme appeared and whispered: "Take me, pray." "Oh, little rhyme," I softly jeered, "I bid you run away. You've sleepy eyes and child-like grace. I want a rhyme with thoughtful face." At Noon there came a little rhyme, and lisped: "Do listen, please!" Said I "Not now. I have no time. Now, little rhyme, don't tease. At Twelve-Hours-Old you are not strong to bear the burden of a song." Three little rhymes arrived at night, and sat beside my fire. I welcomed them with great delight, and asked them their desire. "We're knocking at your heart," they cried. "Oh, won't you let us slip inside?" In turn I looked at each small face. I recognized each one. For here was Dawn of child-like grace, and Noon of work half-done, and weary Night. I bid them stay, for they made up the Song of Day.

_THIS WAY BUT ONCE_

Above, a very lovely bit of sky, a rosy edging to a fluffy cloud. You did not stop, but swiftly hurried by, your mind engrossed with thought, your head low bowed. Oh! raise your eyes before these glories wane--perhaps you will not pass this way again. A brother on life's lonely, stone-strewn road is standing in your sight as you advance. 'Tis clear he faints beneath his heavy load. You are so busy, you can barely glance. Oh! lend a helping hand, assuage his pain--maybe you'll never pass this way again. It would be well as we go on our way to speak the helpful words that spring to mind; to do whate'er we can each fresh-born day, and ne'er defer the action just and kind. Nor hold between our teeth the words of praise, the words a hungry heart desires to hear. A blossom at your feet? Then stoop to gaze. A soul distressed? Go forth at once to cheer. A chance to help? Then use that chance to-day--perhaps no more you'll pass along this way.

_WANDERING THOUGHTS_

With thoughts for sheep, I am a shepherdess. And I must homeward bring my flock each night. For some have ranged to hills of happiness, and some in sorrow's vale are out of sight. And some have wandered far upon the road that leads to memories of long ago, and when they reached my childhood's dear abode, they frolicked with a dream-child that I know. My thoughts are sheep and pitifully stray, some here, some there, some eastward, and some west; whilst I, the shepherdess, at close of day, must bring them to the fold for warmth and rest. But some I will not call again to me--the thoughts that travel to a distant friend. They, shepherded by Love most carefully, upon their pleasant journey swiftly wend. Friend! Gather in these loving thoughts of mine; and let your heart, I pray you, be their fold; and you, the shepherd, with a magic sign, encircle them and keep them from the cold!

_ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH_

There'll be a band, I know there will, just at the incline of the hill; and many folk will loiter there and clap, and stamp, and shout and stare. But little children will stand dumb, so fascinated by the drum. Ah! now guitar and flute are still--and crowds begin to climb the hill. What fun it is! Here, stalls begin. Bright paper hats and masks that grin. "Fevvers and ticklers. Buy them, boys. And golliwogs, and jumping toys." Up, up, it goes, this noisy stream of merrymakers. "Best ice-cream!" The sun's so hot, and there's no shade. "Your fortune, lady! Lemonade!" Up, up, they go. The noises swell, but why all laugh no one can tell. The roundabout begins to play and every heart keeps holiday. And as these folk swarm up the hill, it's "Two a penny, try your skill. Such handsome prizes. Come on, try. Fine fevvers, ticklers. Buy, boys, buy!" I vowed I'd never go again, but in this reminiscent strain, I see it all--and I just long to mingle with that happy throng!

_THE SEA OF LIFE_

"He was the first that ever burst into that silent sea." I read this phrase in childhood's days--that poet wrote for me. For now I know we all do go like mariners in life, on seas unknown and all alone 'mid rocks of fear and strife. We bend our sails to meet Life's gales. O untried is the breeze. Our boat is slight and dark the night, uncharted are Life's seas. And it's the truth, we all, forsooth, have little ships to sail. And oft we think we'll surely sink beneath the furious gale. For each one knows as on he goes the way is rough and dim. To left or right, no help in sight, except it come from Him. Sailors are we and look to Thee, O Captain of Life's crew, for guidance kind, though strong the wind, for guidance safe and true. Then without fear; with right good cheer, although the skies be dark, harbour in sight, towards the light, we'll steer Life's sea-tossed bark.

THE CARAVAN SETS FORTH

Motor-cars and one-horsed carts, omnibuses, heavy vans--one expects such vehicles, they fit a city's plans. On a throbbing city street, who on earth would think to see a caravan in brave attire? I did--ah, lucky me! Purring down the street it came, newly painted, wheels and all; window-sashes ivory white, red the roof and green each wall. Seemed to me it laughed with joy, window-eyes were shining bright. Shouted at me as it passed, "I'll sleep 'neath stars to-night." "City streets I'll leave behind, country lanes are calling now. Blackbird's song is luring me to an apple bough. I'm a happy caravan, all my curtains have fresh frills. I'm going where the cool green grass is starred with daffodils."

_MARCH, THE LION_

When Nursie used to say to me, "The month of March comes roaringly, just like a lion, seeking prey, but like a lamb it skips away"; when Nursie said this frightful thing, then I to her would tightly cling, and hold my breath and shut my eyes. Oh! fearsome March in lion's guise. I'd put my head upon her lap, my heart would go thud-thud, trip-trap, because I heard upon the stair a stealthy pit-a-pat. Beware! Between my fingers I would peep, just as a tawny tail would sweep around the nursery's white door. Oh! listen, how March Lions roar. But soon I overcame my fear--I longed to see the lamb appear. I left her lap, I stood upright, I watched that beast with all my might; and, sure enough, as Nurse had said, it changed its skin and changed its head, and went away, squeezed through the jamb--a little, gentle, snowy lamb!

_PLAY THE GAME_

These are the cards Life dealt to you, and you must play the game. The cards are weak, that may be true, but who is there to blame? You cannot say "a mis-deal, Life!" The game you have to play. 'Tis uphill work; you're tired of strife; yet play the game, I say. Just play the game, don't fume nor fret; play each card one by one. You never know, perhaps you'll get a trick by set of sun. No matter what the game may be, if bridge or just bezique, whoever heard such futile plea: "My cards are far too weak." The other folk would scoff and jeer, and cry out: "Play the game." And from these facts you'll see quite clear that life is much the same. For Fate, the dealer, does not care what cards you get, or I. The poorest ones may be our share; to play the game, let's try. And though we lose, we still can smile--just to have played has been worth while.

_A PIECE OF PAPER_