Part 3

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.

_THE COBWEB'S STRENGTH_

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.

_TROUBLE, THE TUNNEL_

Wouldn't it be awful if troubles were like caves? Like dark and gloomy hollows where daylight never follows, and no sound ever enters but the echoes of the waves? If troubles were like caverns--ah! woe betide us all. Forever groping, groping, till fear prevents us hoping, and the journey's end is nothing but a grim and silent wall. But troubles aren't like caverns, take heart again and smile. They're tunnels, dark enough, 'tis true; but I know well, and so do you, there's always daylight coming, though the tunnel be a mile. Then let us, when in trouble, repeat this happy truth, "We're passing through a sorrow, but we'll emerge to-morrow into the sun of happiness, for tunnels end, forsooth!"

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