Part 1

[Illustration: Cover art]

SILVER LININGS

BY

WILHELMINA STITCH

AUTHOR OF "THE FRAGRANT MINUTE," "SILKEN THREADS" "THE GOLDEN WEB," "JOY'S LOOM" "WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS," ETC.

FOURTH EDITION

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

First Published ... February 23d 1928 Second Edition ... April 1928 Third Edition ... January 1929 Fourth Edition ... 1929

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

SONG OF LOVELY THINGS TO ONE WHO SIGHED LOOK FORWARD THE WORLD'S BEAUTY TO FATHER TIME MIRACLE OF SPRING EASTER THOUGHTS SENSE OF HUMOUR TO A PETULANT HEART NEIGHBOUR JANE DIMINISHING EVILS THE DEATHLESS RAY LITTLE HEARTBREAK THIS WAY PASSED HEROES JUST AS EASY TO AN ALMOND TREE MICHAEL INSISTS RAINY DAY BEGONE, DULL CARE! IN A ROCKING-CHAIR AT A RAILWAY STATION IN PRAISE OF A WHOLE WEEK A PRAYER IN ADVERSITY THE WATCHFUL TONGUE PETITION A LITTLE THOUGHTLESSNESS MAKE ME NORMAL LIFE, THE TEACHER THE SINGING KETTLE HARVESTING A PAEAN TO WORK THE PRAYER OF THE HOME THE MILLINER IN CONVALESCENCE A QUEER PHYSICIAN THE ENVIABLE GREENGROCER MOVING IN GOOD MONTH OF AUGUST TO A BOY OF SEVENTEEN FOR THOSE IN CITY LODGINGS THE PERFECT GUEST JUST GROWING-PAINS A MAN TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES THE ANTIQUE SHOP TIME'S SACK THE HUMDRUM WAY GIFT OF GLOVES DOGGIE--IN MEMORIAM WHEN IN THE DUMPS "FETCH THE FITTER!" BAGPIPES WHEN I WAS EIGHT MY FATHER THE HEART'S WAY LIFE IS TOO SHORT POINT OF VIEW LIFE'S A.B.C NURSE FOUR WALLS

_SONG OF LOVELY THINGS_

How many lovely things there be! The ever-changing, restless sea; the gracious, friendly, shady tree; and children laughing in their glee. How many lovely things there are! The glowing, beaming, friendly star, the garden gate that stands ajar, the sound of Church bells from afar. How many lovely things I know! Stories of lovers long ago, and places where the lilies blow, and children's voices sweet and low. What lovely things have touched my heart--see how the waves caress and part, and watch pale Dawn from Night upstart and slip into her mystic mart. What lovely things my ears have heard: the thrilling song of happy bird, a horse by anxious lover spurred, a toddler's sweetly lisped first word. What lovely things my eyes have seen: snow-covered hills and fields of green, and silks of wondrous weave and sheen--and Baby's toothless smile serene!

_TO ONE WHO SIGHED_

You cannot sing? Well, others can. You do not dance? but others do. And ever since the world began there have been certain folk like you who cannot dance, and cannot sing, nor weave a play nor write a book. But you can sew? Most anything? And are quite expert as a cook? And you can draw a little bit, amuse your friends with pen and ink? You make folk laugh--this you admit. You have a lot of gifts, I think. Oh, foolish one, to sigh and fret because you're not as some folk are. Suppose a plant of mignonette withered because 'twas not a star! Be what you are, dear girl, with pride. Accept your limits with good grace; the world is varied, very wide; for each of us there is a place. Within your sphere be quite content, be proud of work that is your own, and to life's complex instrument with sweetness add your mite of tone.

_LOOK FORWARD_

What a mess I made of things! That was yesterday. Yesterday has taken wings--hide mistakes away. Things I did can't be undone. Silly then to sorrow. Better is the task begun on a bright new morrow. If I hadn't acted thus! Silence, puling heart. Useless now to fume and fuss, make a brand new start. All the energy that goes into senseless fretting would rebuild, if you so chose, your plan in some new setting. What a blow! Fate is unkind. Grit your teeth, don't murmur. Smile as if you didn't mind, stand a little firmer. Here is solace for your grief, nothing's done beyond recall. Smudged a page? Well, turn a leaf. Begin again. That's all. Failed to-day? To-day is past. To-morrow's peeping round the door. Never doubt you'll win at last. That is what to-morrow's for.

_THE WORLD'S BEAUTY_

Not in seclusion is true beauty seen, not in a fragrant, silent country lane, nor in a daisy field all white and green, nor in a golden meadow washed with rain. But in a smoky, noisy, busy street, whose only colours through shop-windows show; where there is constant march of human feet that bravely journey daily to and fro; where cripples play a gay and daring air; and blind folk stand and dream that it is light; where passers-by who haven't much to spare yet stop to give ungrudgingly their mite. And where small houses nestle close together, beneath whose roofs hard-working people live, who help each other in the stormy weather, who have so little yet can always give. O beauty of the world, you are seen best where the soul's banner floats courageously above the turmoil of the day's high-fevered quest--in ugly places beautified by Love!

_TO FATHER TIME_

Whene'er you care to turn my hair from brown to grey or white; whene'er you line this face of mine with wrinkles left and right, I shall not mind nor call unkind these changes that you bring; nor shall I pray for you to stay your swift, relentless sting. But Father Time, please read this rhyme and grant me this request. Take not from me the power to see a joke and merry jest. Let me not tire of my desire to try adventures new, nor e'er destroy my deep keen joy in flowers of vivid hue. Though eyes grow dim and stiff each limb, please leave untouched my heart. So I will heed another's need and act a friendly part. Pile on the years, give cause for tears, but keep my courage strong. Then come what may, I'll ease the day with laughter and with song. Do what you will, you cannot kill my dreams, for ever fair. For they are mine, old Father Time. In them you have no share!

_MIRACLE OF SPRING_

Were I to live a thousand years I still would know that flaming thrill, that rush of joy when first appears--the golden daffodil. A thousand times my heart would sing when purple irises unfold; or when forsythia's branches bring their dazzling showers of gold. I could not see an almond tree with branches all a rosy glow but that a tide of ecstasy would through my being flow. Were I to see, a thousand times, blue scilla bells amid green grass, I know I'd hear their fairy chimes as I would pass. Were I to live a thousand years I'd never watch the nesting birds except through eyes bedimmed with tears, my tongue bereft of words. Were I to weave ten thousand lays, knew I a thousand songs to sing, I still would lack the power to praise--the miracle of Spring.

_EASTER THOUGHTS_

Little growing things, pushing through the earth, petals for soft wings, bells to echo mirth. Little bud and leaf, spite of winter's pain, spite of nature's grief, they are here again. Little growing things, roots are in my heart. Hark! the robin sings. Sorrow must depart. Doubts and chilly fears! winter now is o'er, wipe away your tears. Courage! rise once more. Courage has not fled, simply slept awhile. Hope, that you deemed dead, revived beneath a smile. Good cannot be slain, beauty never dies, spring has come again, soul of man, arise. Arise and go forth now, Easter calls to you. Blossoms on the bough, spirit burgeons, too. The Lenten lilies sing "From dead self, arise," while every growing thing says, "Beauty never dies."

_SENSE OF HUMOUR_

What it is, can't just say, only know it saved the day, drove the gathering clouds away. Just a twinkle in the eye, just a smile instead of sigh; Lo! the storm soon passed right by--all through a sense of humour. What it is, don't just know, but it made rich laughter flow, life took on a rosy glow: troubles shrank to half their size; sorrow wore a cheerful guise; work appeared to be the prize--all through a sense of humour. Things were going very wrong, flowers no colour, birds no song; weakness ousted courage strong--stepped in a sense of humour: put the balance right again, saved two people lots of pain, brought the sunshine after rain--and that's a sense of humour.

_TO A PETULANT HEART_

Such a resentful voice--"I didn't ask to be born," it said. But being here, 'tis fitting to rejoice. In gratitude lift up your voice. "What for?" it said. For these and many things. For the flowers' gay hue; the bird that sweetly sings, for grass bedecked with sparkling dew, for being born an heir to all the beauty that the world enfolds. Come! have you not your share in sea and sky, in hills and vales and wolds? But more for this, oh, petulant heart. That for your strength there is provided toil. And for your soul's sake, the chance to do your part in planting fruitful seeds in barren soil. Oh, lad, oh, petulant lad, cast off the foolish mood; be glad. Be glad that there are battles you must fight; and hills to climb; defeats to suffer; goals to keep in sight. Be glad, yea, all the time.

_NEIGHBOUR JANE_

Every morning, when she woke, quaint and short the prayer she spoke. "Make me easy, Lord, I pray, to live with--easy through the day." Nothing more did Jane e'er ask. But straightway faced the first hour's task. Neighbours said it was a fact, Jane had charm and Jane had tact. She didn't hurt nor irritate; she didn't prick, she didn't grate. Gentle, courteous, kindly Jane, neighbours called and called again! Found her presence like sweet balm, sympathetic, soothing, calm. "Jane," said one, "sweet oil has found to make the wheels of life go round. Bumpy places disappear just as soon as Jane draws near." Every evening, e'er she slept, to the window this Jane crept; worshipped there the starry crowd. "Who am I?" she cried aloud, "to make a fussy, wordy riot when such nobility is quiet! Make me easy, Lord, I pray, to live with--easy through the day."

_DIMINISHING EVILS_

How high those hills, how far away. Menacing hills at break of day. Friend, keep going; there's no knowing when you will come to the end of the way. Be not alarmed, fear not at all; at the foot of the slope the hill looks small. Journey along, hearty and strong, the summit is reached e'er the shadows fall. How great those ills, grim foes they seem. Swift and swollen life's angry stream. Friend, keep going, there's no knowing when troubles will vanish as if in a dream. Be not alarmed, have no fear; the further away the worse they appear. Journey along, hearty and strong; troubles are bubbles when Courage is near.

_THE DEATHLESS RAY_

Oh! Happiness, that bright, winged ray, went darting blithely on its way. It made a little baby smile, and then it skipped another mile, and made a busy mother sing; and then again it took to wing and darted swiftly to a boy, filling his heart with youthful joy. From thence, a weary man it found. To sorrow he'd been straitly bound; but suddenly his heart felt light and all the world was fair and bright. It darted further; here and there--around the world--just everywhere! Right through a thousand hearts it went, and yet its strength was never spent. This is a truth we should remember, through all the months, right to December, and then the cycle round again: a ray of joy need never wane. Our happiness we need not save; the store will last us to the grave. Give joy away; it will return. A lovely lesson this to learn.

_LITTLE HEARTBREAK_

A little Heartbreak, wan and sore, was sitting by herself. A sunbeam slipped around the door and danced upon a shelf. Though little Heartbreak knew not why, she ceased, quite suddenly, to cry. Still little Heartbreak sat alone. "I never will be whole again," thus said she in her saddest tone, "I never will be healed of pain." Then, unannounced, a little breeze that had been playing in the trees, passed softly over Heartbreak's face, and, lo! of tears there was no trace. Then when a bird began to sing, and Heartbreak couldn't help but hear, there happened such a curious thing--a silvern echo did appear, enthroned itself in Heartbreak's breast and, like the bird, sang with sweet zest! So little Heartbreak tossed her head and laughed to find the world so fair. "It's true," she cried, "my heart has bled, and I have lived with black despair. But I can't be quite broken, long--with sunbeams, zephyrs, and birds' song!"

_THIS WAY PASSED HEROES_

They passed but once this way, but they have left a flowered trail behind. Surprising how in life's brief day they found so many chances to be kind. They passed but once--this way they went, and with them joy and grief, and work and play. There is no need to raise a monument to heroes such as they. They once were found in simple homes and small, in offices and shops, engaged in work. They heard quite clearly Duty's trumpet call, and forth they marched with no attempt to shirk. Soldiers were they, no medals on their breast, a broom for weapon, or an office pen; and victory oft crowned the spirit's quest. All honour to these womenfolk and men. They were so gentle journeying the road, they scattered little acts of kindness here and there. They had their burdens, but a brother's load was also one in which they wished to share. No wonder we can see the path they chose, for flowers have blossomed everywhere they trod. They passed, and now through them there grows a lasting symbol of the living God.

_JUST AS EASY_

No harder to praise than to scorn, no harder to love than to hate; no harder to sing than to mourn, as easy to act as to wait. No harder to smile than to frown. It's as easy to stand as to lean, as easy to lift as pull down, to be generous rather than mean. It's not very hard to be glad, it's not very hard to rejoice, it's harder indeed to be sad. Let happiness then be our choice. No harder to trust than to doubt, and courage is easy as fear, and foes are quite easy to rout with weapons of Good Sense and Cheer. No harder to sing than to cry, as easy to do as to plan; no harder to laugh than to sigh, and gulfs aren't to dread but to span. And giving is easier, too, than withholding your hand from a friend; no harder to aid than to rue--and sweeter the day at the end.

_TO AN ALMOND TREE_

Oh, little wakeful tree, how beautiful art thou, curving so gracefully each pink blossomed bough. Thou child, in dainty party dress, to think that thou wouldst brave--to give us mortals happiness--a wind-blown, frost-lined grave! Oh, little wakeful one, why didst thou stir so soon? The Spring has scarce begun, thou wouldst have graced fair June. Thy blossoms will ne'er see thy prophecies come true, nor summer's pageantry with happy blushes view. Pink petals soon will fall (oh, little tree, be still); soon will the thrushes call and Spring trip o'er the hill. Bare will thy branches be, thy day of beauty o'er, but little wakeful tree, we will but love thee more--that thou didst dare to sing: "Oh, heart, prepare for Spring!"

_MICHAEL INSISTS_

On the grass the sunlight falls, near at hand a blackbird calls; a squirrel races up a tree. All this, and more, engrosses me. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Such a gentle breeze now passes; how graceful are the bending grasses. Here and there the children play; I could sit and dream all day. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Peace and quiet and sweet repose; someone has a cold, wet nose; something scratches at my knees (lovely sun and gentle breeze). "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Michael's head is on one side, Michael's mouth is opened wide; brown eyes look beseechingly. Michael! take your eyes from me. "Throw a stick," pants Michael. Who can sit in selfish ease, just admiring grass and trees, deeming life most kind and sweet, when a branch lies at one's feet--"Throw a stick," pants Michael.

_RAINY DAY_

"Rainy day," said Mother Dawn, "rise from out your cloud-lined bed. Look upon each field and lawn, a coverlet of mist I've spread." Rainy Day slipped from her cloud, shook bright rain-drops from her hair. As they fell, she laughed aloud, "Mother Dawn, what shall I wear?" "Take, my child, this dress of grey, fashioned from a frowning sky. Rainy Day, now run away, the patient, panting earth is dry." Rainy Day played hide-and-seek, in and out among the flowers. Cooled a hollyhock's hot cheek with her gift of gentle showers. Red roofs shone with great delight when she touched them for a space. Dry leaves trembled with delight, pressed against her loving face. Suddenly, a flashing gem, heralded from mighty sun, settled on the grey gown's hem--Rainy Day her work had done.

_BEGONE, DULL CARE!_

No! little, whining, fretting care, you cannot come a walk with me. So lovely is the morning air I do not want your company. Oh! little, whining, fretting care, you have no part in graceful trees; in waving grass you have no share; you have no kinship with a breeze. I'm going to a shady place where little children laugh and play. You'd cast a shadow on each face if you came out with me to-day. I'm going where a little stream bears lovely lilies on its breast. I could not sit awhile to dream if you're to be my morning guest. I'm going where the poppies blow among the friendly golden corn. No little care would dare to go and show its face this sunny morn. I'm going where sweet peace is found within a fern-grown fragrant dell, where silence wraps the spirit round--so carking care farewell!

_IN A ROCKING-CHAIR_

Back and forth; one and two; a needle flashing, bright as mirth. Filmy stuff of palest blue, bit of heaven come to earth! Anyone can visit Spain, Holland, France, or Italy, if she cares to go by train, if she cares to go by sea. Back and forth; soft and slow, needle dancing merrily. Always thought I'd like to go where grows the giant banyan tree. Needle's speeding down one side, India's moon is very bright. How delightful thus to glide across a pool of silver light. Scented is the midnight air, romance grows on every stem! Jungle beasts for fights prepare--finished is the wee skirt's hem. Back and forth; not too fast, on the way to Fancy's land. Here we are, on shore at last, fairies take me by the hand. Back and forth, one and two, anyone can fly by air. Cleverer, I think, don't you, to travel in a rocking-chair!

_AT A RAILWAY STATION_

Proud trunk indeed! It looked at me with ill-disguised antipathy. It seemed to know I'd never been to all the places it had seen. I circled it with humble tread and, filled with awe, its labels read. One year, I saw, it went to Spain; and liked it, for it went again. And once to Venice, once to Rome. I wondered if it longed for home. I must admit it travelled far; for there were labels "C.P.R." This trunk showed such a haughty face. I hastened to another place, and soon a battered box I spied that did not look so dignified, and on its shabby lid there sat a whistling boy with ball and bat. Said I (my manners are so bad), "Where are you going, whistling lad?" His smile was wonderful to see. "To jolly Margate sands," cried he. Back to the haughty trunk I went. "Each one," I bowed, "to his own bent. Though you prefer some far-off land, had I the choice, please understand, a shabby box I'd rather be, with whistling lad for company!"

_IN PRAISE OF A WHOLE WEEK_

Poor old Robinson Crusoe, a lonely man was he, with not a soul but Friday to keep him company. So when I'm feeling lonely, humble, sad and meek, I just remember that for friends I have a whole good week! Six days as well as Friday, companions brave and strong; it really seems they all deserve a tribute and a song. So here's to good Man Friday, and to his brothers six. There's always one to help me should I be in a fix. Suppose that Monday's greyish--there's Tuesday coming soon, and if the morning's boresome--there is the afternoon! A toast, then, to "a whole week" which has such friendly ways, for should one Friday disappear--it sends six other days.

_A PRAYER IN ADVERSITY_

"Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Thus I used to hear her say as she trod life's lonely way, faced so often by defeat. "Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Phrase of wisdom! How it clings. Troubles now I never meet, but within my heart there rings, "Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet." Sullen is the storm-swept sky. Everything is going wrong. That's no reason you or I should broadcast a bitter song. The world has quite enough to bear; we at least might try to smile. Adding grief would be unfair, things will brighten in a while. Though despair is looming near, let not bitterness hold sway; now's the time to conquer fear, to-morrow brings a happy day. Sulk not with life when things go wrong. What though you met grim defeat! Chant this helpful little song: "Lord, keep Thou my temper sweet."

_THE WATCHFUL TONGUE_

The "watchful" tongue I do despise, the tongue that always waits to learn what words would be accounted wise. 'Tis such a tongue I spurn. The tongue that plays the suavest airs upon the most expedient string; that echoes much, but never dares to be the leader in the ring; that always drops a pleasing word because it's easiest so to do; when drums of argument are heard, by silence, sees the matter through. Oh! I dislike the trembling tongue that is afraid of words sincere. I do detest the song that's sung to the accompaniment of fear. And there's a silence I abhor; a silence meant to lead astray; a silence like a heavy door denying Truth the right of way. I'd rather hear quick hammer blows, words edged with steel, perhaps unkind; a muffled tongue, it never shows the true complexion of the mind.

_PETITION_

O Lord, I pray that I may e'er delight in springtime's fairy blossoms pink and white, in green and lacy leaves; may never lose the joy that always springs at sight of all the little daily things--of brightly-patterned weaves; of gaily-coloured china; rich, dark grains that glow long after daylight wanes, wood of time-burnished hue. And joy in sounds--the blackbird's thrilling call, the human voice letting rich phrases fall, all precious gifts from You. O Lord, I pray that I may face each task and rise to its demands, nor ever ask that others bear my load; that I may prove a loyal and helpful friend before I reach the journey's quiet end along the winding road.

_A LITTLE THOUGHTLESSNESS_