Part 2

A little thoughtlessness, so very slight--but someone's sunny day was turned to night. Someone was caused unnecessary pain, and it takes time e'er wounds are healed again. A little thoughtless phrase dropped like a leaf--yet someone heard and, through it, suffered grief. A little thoughtlessness; the mere not doing of some small act we might have done so well. Perhaps e'er long we shall be sorely ruing this slight omission more than words can tell. The things we do not do! Ah, this is true, they often hurt far more than what we do. A little thoughtlessness, or little thought; between these two what differences are wrought! A little thought for others, word or act--a cheery smile or letter writ with tact, a putting of ourselves where others stand, the understanding heart, the helping hand. The "I remember," not, "Oh, I forgot"--a little thoughtfulness has helped a lot.

_MAKE ME NORMAL_

Make me normal, I would pray. Keep me normal, day by day. Strong, I pray Thee, balanced, sane; normal body, normal brain. I would be, if I might choose, somewhat witty to amuse; somewhat clever to achieve; somewhat capable to grieve; somewhat kind to offer balm; somewhat like a quiet psalm; somewhat fiery when need be; ever quick with sympathy; not too good, nor yet too bad; often happy, sometimes sad; just a normal, decent friend, courage-girt unto the end! Not a genius hard to please; rather one who can with ease, find, wherever she may go, people she is glad to know. Merely normal, every way--for this blessing I would pray.

_LIFE, THE TEACHER_

Here is a truth the years have slowly taught me. There's not an effort ever made in vain; though fate within its painful clutch has caught me, farther along the road I've gone--through pain. Here is a lesson life has slowly taught me: to chase good Fortune is young folly's way. Always I've found that she herself has sought me when love of work alone has filled my day. There's not a fault that I have e'er committed, there's no mistake that I have ever made, that has not into life's mosaic fitted; this is a law that ever is obeyed. There's not a thread I've used, though it be knotted, but has in my life's pattern found its place. There's not a page, though with mistakes it's blotted, that does not show of destiny some trace. Here is a truth that I have grown to cherish: no righteous battle's ever fought in vain; nor does a thought or deed of goodness perish, but, like a tree, brings forth its fruit again.

_THE SINGING KETTLE_

Up to its neck in water, boiling water, too. Yet the kettle keeps on singing--that's what we ought to do! Next time we're in some trouble, almost up to the chin, we'll think of the cheerful kettle, and a little song begin. It helps, when feelings are boiling, to let off lots of steam. Whistle and sing with courage; things aren't as black as they seem. Kettle, you merry creature, scorched by the callous fire, teach us your power of moulding the will to the day's desire. Up to your neck in troubles? They haven't swept over your head! Sing like the steaming kettle, till all your troubles have fled. Singing will sound so pleasant to any who chance to hear. The kettle does naught by its duty--but doesn't its singing cheer!

_HARVESTING_

Now when I went a-harvesting across a golden field, "Turn back," they said, "this wheat and rye is not for you," I did not sigh. I did not flinch, I did but sing, when I went forth a-harvesting! Within this golden field (sang I) I've come by right a-harvesting. And from (cried I) this fruitful field, I'll take my proper share of yield. I will not sleep until I reap a goodly harvest that will last until the winter's come and passed. I snapped my fingers while they frowned. I then began to bind up sheaves of sunlight poured upon the ground; of shadows made by dancing leaves. I took a blackbird's sweetest trill; I gathered in a thrush's song; where'er I went I gleaned at will; this harvest does to me belong. They had no power to say me nay; the beauty of the earth I own; a harvest song I'll sing to-day in praise of fields that Joy has sown.

_A PAEAN TO WORK_

To work! Hour by hour, day by day; to employ one's hands and brain. To strive; to win an inch along the way; to lose; to start again. Oh! it is joy to work unceasingly with might and main. Hard work is not a burden, ever. The busy ones are enviable indeed. They have no time for petty ills that sever the power to do, from the insistent need. That little leisure snatched for a respite, how packed it is with joy and keen delight. Gold cannot buy it. 'Tis reserved for those who labour through the day until its close. Work does not irk. It brings relief; assuages grief; increases pleasure; adds to the measure of any happiness we find; and brings to the mind a peaceful satisfaction; to the heart, a glow. Oh! work! You are the kindest friend we know.

_THE PRAYER OF THE HOME_

May sunbeams kiss my window-panes and dance inside to pet each wall; and when the happy daylight wanes, may gracious shadows come to call. May winds speak low to me in love; may I have friendship with the skies; and may the stars that shine above sing me their silvern lullabies. May books abide with me alway, and flowers on every window-sill; may joyous Laughter come to stay, and Kindliness and Right Good-Will. Oh! may I be a haven fair for those with whom I daily live; and may the lonely stranger share in joy that I, a Home, can give. A steadfast storehouse I would be for tender dreams and ideals true; and, oh! I pray you, think of me as loving arms enfolding You. May Passers-by glance up and see my smiling curtains, blossoms bright, and with a rush of sympathy--ask God to bless me day and night!

_THE MILLINER_

Nice work, a milliner's, I think. Always intent upon a crown of silk or velvet, blue or pink; of felt or straw, of red or brown; nice work, a milliner's, I think. What dreams a milliner must dream, stitching a bow or velvet band, or finishing the lining's seam, creating beauty all by hand. What dreams a milliner must dream! For as she works at this or that she'll see a smiling, winsome face beneath the nearly-finished hat, that soon will have such style and grace--an unknown girl's delighted face. Nice work a milliner's must be, to make a jaunty little crown, and trim it very prettily to match a new and saucy gown. For as the hat takes shape and form, then one could whisper tenderly, "Now, gallant hat, defy Life's storm and give a moment's ecstasy." Nice work a milliner's must be.

_IN CONVALESCENCE_

The joy of coming down the stairs, seeing loved faces once again; familiar objects, pictures, chairs, a tree that taps the window-pane; and books that say, "We've missed the touch of one who always loved us much." The childish, secret, but keen pride that hands have grown so thin and white. They look so pale, so dignified; 'tis strange, but true, this gives delight! Then languor and the wish to sleep. Absurd, but one would like to weep. The lack of power to concentrate, the feeling there's no soul to care how hard the blow, how ill the fate that one is called upon to bear. The weariness when friends forget one doesn't wish for chatter yet. The question, "Will I e'er get well?" that's like a thumb-screw and a rack; a deep depression for a spell; then lo! the tide of health flows back. These feelings come to everyone when convalescence has begun.

_A QUEER PHYSICIAN_

Such a queer physician, didn't sound my heart, neither did he feel my pulse nor read the nurse's chart; didn't take my temperature, didn't seem to care, didn't talk of diet; just gave a searching stare. Asked me, "Do you worry?" "Are you filled with dread?" "Are there fears that haunt you?" this is what he said. "Do you cherish hatred? Of whom? and tell me why. You alone can cure yourself if you really try." "Are the thoughts you entertain happy ones and bright, or are they fraught with bitterness and malice, envy, spite?" Such a queer physician, but his questions made me think, and ever since his visit I've been feeling "in the pink."

_THE ENVIABLE GREENGROCER_

See him every morning (through my window-pane), his little shop adorning, sun, or fog, or rain. He dresses up the front of it (a nice, wide, sloping stall) with market garden produce, imported fruits and all. Suppose he sold but hardware; a blackish pot and pan. He really is, you must admit, a very lucky man. For he has flaming oranges, and apples shining red; he doesn't deal in tin-tacks, but smooth green beans instead. The friendly brown of walnuts and cauliflowers so white, pale honey-hued bananas--the nursery folks' delight. With these he decks his window, and makes his stall so gay, so passers-by must stop to look--no matter what the day.

_MOVING IN_

Yes, they have a piano--very glad of that. Hope the men won't bump it going through the door. Looks as if that basket contains a pussy-cat. Roll of blue linoleum to grace the kitchen floor. Love to stand upon the kerb and watch a "Moving-in," makes the blood run warmly, gives the heart-strings such a tug. Don't know the people, but all the world's akin (that's a comfy-looking chair and that's a cheerful rug). Don't know the people, matters not a bit, all the dreams they're dreaming are trooping from the van. Look at that large roll of blinds, oh, I hope they'll fit! There's a garden roller and a bright red watering-can. Yes, they have a baby--had to wait to see. High chair is coming, it's new and shiny white, and there's a pale blue wardrobe and a little wooden tree on which to hang small garments whilst Baby sleeps at night. Love to stand upon the kerb and watch a "Moving-in"--tables, chairs, and curtain-rods, make all the world akin.

_GOOD MONTH OF AUGUST_

They're pouring out of offices, from shops and schoolrooms, too. And so, good month of August, please see what you can do. They're leaving tapes and scissors, the inkpot and the pen, and books with tiresome figures--they're seeking hill or glen. They'll wake, just when they wish to; go out or sit at home. Oh! August, you were lucky for that Emperor of Rome. So please bring luck, I pray you, for the youngsters and the old who are having days of leisure--be not tearful, dull, or cold. Smile on them, month of August, let them see the world is fair; let them feel the world is kindly, in its beauty let them share. Be it seaside, be it country, wherever be their goal, kind August, act benignly, refresh them heart and soul. So fill their eyes with beauty, they never will forget the August sun's great glory when it begins to set.

_TO A BOY OF SEVENTEEN_

Oh! boy, how fortunate you are. Ahead of you the long, long trail; above ambition's shining star to beckon over hill and dale. Oh! boy, how fortunate you are that you have still to travel far. Before you lies the unknown road, a great adventure to begin. Up, lad, fling shoulder-high the load; stride forth, my son, intent to win. Be deaf to all but honour's code, and loiter not in sloth's abode. I do believe I envy you. Such wide horizons for your eyes, so many things to learn and do. Dear lad, grow not so over-wise; you will not note the sunset's hue; nor marvel at the dawn's bright dew. Just seventeen! Oh, lucky boy, to have so many hours to spend in which to learn life's greatest joy springs from the struggle as we wend towards the goal that marks the end.

_FOR THOSE IN CITY LODGINGS_

Let them have windows high above the street, and let them see at least one city tree; windows high-flung so that their eyes may greet the sky and night-time's noble pageantry. Then sister moon can be a precious friend, and stars companions when the shadows fall, and through these lodging-windows prithee send a scented breeze, a blackbird's cheery call. And let them find companionship in stairs that creak a welcome when they mount at night, and in the friendliness of well-used chairs, and all small things, through time, made dear to sight. And let there be a child who'll shyly peep at lonely lodgers as they come and go--a laughing child who nightly falls asleep while mother sings in accents sweet and low. And give them this and this and then still more--a neighbour's friendly word at start of day, a cheery greeting floating through the door, so that they go not lonely on their way.

_THE PERFECT GUEST_

The perfect guest has named the day when she'll arrive, and by what train. Nor did she then forget to say when she will travel home again; and having named the hour and date she doesn't, whim swayed, change her mind and come too early or too late, for that indeed would be unkind. She doesn't need a lot of aid, nor ask for service that will irk, nor by her presence give the maid unnecessary, increased work. She keeps her room quite spick and span, is always punctual, talks with ease, falls in with every household plan, and does her very best to please. She can amuse herself quite well, she writes her letters, sews or reads, and leaves her hostess for a spell to give her time for her own needs. And at the pleasant visit's end, her host and hostess both agree when speaking of their absent friend, a very perfect guest was she.

_JUST GROWING-PAINS_

Just growing-pains that made him say that hurtful, bitter thing to-day. He didn't mean to give you pain. 'Twas just a storm that swept his brain and made him argue black was white; and bad was good, and wrong was right, and made him scoff and made him sneer at all the things you hold most dear. He isn't bad, that boy of yours, but just like others, scores and scores. First babyhood, then childhood wanes, and then, there come those growing-pains! Oh! Foolish parents to believe he likes to make you fret and grieve. The minute that the word had leapt from his hot tongue he could have wept, he felt ashamed, too proud, alack! to take the silly statement back. He is a man (and you should know it!) and loves you much, but cannot show it. He has to quote from Bernard Shaw, and rant about life's highest law, and say religion's out of date, and reconstruct the Church and State. Soon will this phase grow weak and wane--it's nothing but a growing-pain.

_A MAN_

Successful? Yes, through honest work, not through some happy turn of fate. Never has he been known to shirk since he attained to man's estate. Approached each task with buoyant zest, of all life's gifts deemed work the best. But this alone does not portray the man that I would have you see. A zest for work, I hear you say, is not a claim on sympathy. So other virtues I'll outline which well describe this friend of mine. He has that questing type of mind that one associates with youth. T'wards fulsomeness he's deaf and blind; abhors a lie, respects the truth; and honesty is part of him, as much a part as any limb. Quite perfect, then? Oh! no, indeed. Did I not say he was a man? But turn to him when you're in need and he will help you all he can. A loyal, sincere, and upright friend, whom one can trust right to the end.

_TO A CHILD BLOWING BUBBLES_

Just with a little pipe of clay, a bowl of water and some soap, you find your happiness to-day, releasing fairy worlds of hope. Now watch these iridescent balls sailing so lightly and so high, and some collide with chairs and walls, and then to beauty it's "Good-bye!" You do not weep, but blow and blow until another doth appear, then wave your small hand to and fro--it floats towards the chandelier. I watch your velvet cheeks puff out, your lovely eyes are shining bright. I thrill to hear your happy shout, "This one will reach a star to-night." Dear little child, in later years may you make beauty with such ease; and fashion, out of smiles and tears, rainbows of glowing hope like these. And should one bubble's fate be ill, then, from your pipe of dreams, I pray you'll blow another, laughing still, as you are doing, dear, to-day.

_THE ANTIQUE SHOP_

There is a little antique store, just round the corner on Life's road; and paved with tear-drops is its floor, and smiles light up this small abode. And Memory sits there every day; she is the guardian of these wares. My heart, it often wends that way, to see this shop and how it fares. My heart peers through the window-pane with eyes like pools of smiles and tears, so glad and sad to see again the curios of bygone years. Says Memory, "O heart, draw near! Here is a little shining dream, and here a rippling song of cheer; and here, your childhood's fairy stream." An antique shop this Past of mine; its gems kept safe by Memory; each kind word heard, how they do shine, set in rare Fancy's filigree. Just round the corner, on Life's street, a little Antique Shop I know. My heart fares forth with quickened beat to view the gems of Long Ago.

_TIME'S SACK_

"OH, Father Time! what have you there? What's in your bag? Now, prithee, say. How do you know which is my share of all those things you hide away? And are there pleasant things for me? Please, Father Time, just one quick peep. To-morrow's share do let me see, before I wrap myself in sleep." Old Father Time said not one word, just went a-walking down Life's street. It's very strange he never heard my eager, chasing, racing feet. And yet next day, without a doubt, I find a dozen things to do. From Time's big sack they've fallen out. He might have told--of course, he knew! I'm wiser now, I do not ask what Father Time will bring to-morrow; for each day has its play and task; its joy and e'en its sorrow. And each awakening has this thrill: I wonder what To-day will bring? Perhaps a golden daffodil a-trumpeting, "It's Spring!" "It's Spring!"

THE HUMDRUM WAY

When something unusual has to be done, a perilous hill to be scaled, a bridge to be crossed, a venture begun, we think not of those who have failed, but we tackle the job with courage and zest, for really and truly it's fun to feel that our strength is standing the test when there's something of worth to be done. When we feel we are watched by critical eyes, when we know there's reward if we win, it's neither a matter for praise nor surprise that we're only too glad to begin; for it's human to like the cheers and applause that follow spectacular feats, but save a few cheers for this other cause--for the heroes in quiet little streets. When the same old thing has got to be done--a drab little, quiet little, everyday task, a floor to be swept, a ledger begun, then this is the boon we justly may ask--that we may be given the strength, day by day, to walk with sweet grace the dull, Humdrum Way.

_GIFT OF GLOVES_

A gift of gloves! I must confess no other gift can quite express, so clearly yet so silently, a friend's most loving thought of me (he knew my size, how did he guess?). It exercises thoughtfulness, a knowledge of my style of dress, to choose with perspicacity--a gift of gloves! For they must fit precisely, yes, if they'd achieve a huge success. The texture, colour, must agree with other garments worn by me, must harmonize; well, more or less. But here's the point I wish to stress: it is a gift that comes to bless, for when one dons them carefully, a loving thought springs up, you see, responsive to the gloves' caress. One's hands are clothed in friendliness and space is bridged by gloves that press with human warmth and gentleness. One feels a sweet cam'raderie, if one is wearing happily--a gift of gloves!

_DOGGIE--IN MEMORIAM_

This doggie was young when I was young. We understood each other's tongue; we understood each other's ways, together we spent our childhood's days. Later, 'twas he who understood each change of temper and of mood. He lived to give and I to take; he changed his ways just for my sake. If rest I wished, then so did he; he gave me love and sympathy; he liked my silence, liked my talk; was ever glad to race or walk; to wait for me, to sit quite still, happy and proud to do my will. Now that he's travelled on alone, there's naught to do but set this stone, then try to reach my journey's end as nobly as this canine friend. Oh, little pal of childhood's days, I ought to have such decent ways. You did your best to teach me, pet--and doggie, dear, I shan't forget.

_WHEN IN THE DUMPS_

Don't be sorry for yourself--better smile. Worst of troubles will disperse--in a while. If self-pity mounts up high, you are bound to mope or cry, bound to amplify your trouble, make it grow in size, quite double, being sorry for oneself is out of style! Don't be sorry for yourself--better smile; blackest clouds will pass away--in a while. 'Tis true, you've been hard hit, not a friend but would admit you have cause to lose some sleep, quite a lot to make you weep. Don't you do it, though, for pity's out of style! Don't be sorry for yourself--better smile. Sun and moon and stars will shine--in a while, and self-pity doesn't pay, for it has a nasty way of turning courage pale, and then we're bound to fail. So let's toss our heads and laugh; lo! the troubles fade to half. Just keep smiling--for self-pity's out of style!

"_FETCH THE FITTER!_"

"Fetch the fitter, frock's all wrong; sleeves too tight and waist too low; neck line ugly; skirt too long, worn so very short, you know. Fetch the fitter, please." Fitter comes and eyes the dress, fills her mouth with shining pins, shows no signs of deep distress, but her fearful task begins, flopping on her knees. Snips and pins and pins and snips, stands upright and snips some more; mutters through her pin-filled lips: "Just twelve inches from the floor." Now she measures it. Here some gathers, here a pleat; lifts a bit and snips a bit; dress is looking now quite neat, just a perfect fit. Wouldn't it be luck, indeed, when life's pattern goes awry, when it doesn't fit the need, we had only just to cry: "Fetch the fitter, pray"? Swiftly she would come and smile (fitters always are so nice), cut the day to beauty's style, without grumbling, in a trice, perfect fitting day.

_BAGPIPES_