Part 3

Since I have heard the great pipes playing, not on the stage nor crowded street, but out on a moorland with heather swaying to the pibroch's rhythm about our feet. Since I have heard the pipes thus playing--for aye in my blood is their throb and beat. Since I have heard the great pipes wailing, lamenting the death of a gallant chief and the strength of his clan that was slowly failing (perish the fruit and fall the leaf). Since I have heard the pipes thus wailing--for aye in my heart is the pibroch's grief. Since I have seen a calm loch sleeping, with starshine and moonshine upon its breast, and heard the pipes with sorrow weeping lamenting a chieftain gone to his rest. Since I have heard the great pipes playing a summons to war that the clans must obey, whilst over the moorland the heather was swaying--their throb and their beat in my blood lives for aye.

_WHEN I WAS EIGHT_

When I was only eight years old, I longed to be twice ten, and wear a frock of lace and gold to dazzle princely men. To marry was my great desire, because it seemed to me, once married I could then aspire to drink the strongest tea! At every meal I then would eat, thus to myself I said, a mustard pickle for a treat (one could when one was wed!). My skirts would trail along the floor, my hair I'd pin up high and stick in pins, at least a score; an ostrich ruff I'd buy. Ah, me! How quickly years do pass; how quickly youth has fled. I stand before the looking-glass--no hair-pins in my head! No fan-shaped combs like Mother wore, my hair is short, you see; my skirts refuse to sweep the floor, and I dislike strong tea! But yet I love to bring to mind these dreams I had of yore. The future looms both bright and kind when one is two times four.

_MY FATHER_

My recollections are of little things! How his two hands would flap and soar like wings above my curly head. Then suddenly, oh magic, great and strange, my curls to coloured sugar-sticks would change--at least, so Father said. And it was true! I'd see them tumble out. And only stupid grown-ups then could doubt that Father worked a spell. Sometimes he'd make a pistol of his hand. One shot, and lo! there'd fall, at his command (this I remember well), a thrilling secret parcelled up so tight, right on my plate--and this in broad daylight! A mother's songs, and care and romping fun, we do accept as we accept the sun and lovely flowers that blow. But magic fathers! Those who cure all ills by hourly doses of some spongecake pills, are marvellous to know! There was a father much beloved by all. To him the shy birds came; and babies small gurgled and cooed love's sign. These memories are now as fragrance blown across the fields of life which he has sown--this Father who was mine.

_THE HEART'S WAY_

'Tis strange--but what I love the best is not the garden at its height, when fragrant flowers, in masses bright, are rioting for my delight, the blue, the red, the yellow, white--not then I love the garden best! But when I make a humble quest around each pregnant garden bed, and look for bits of blue and red or marguerite with golden head, just shortly after winter's sped--'tis then I love the garden best. For then one greets with joyous zest a little spray of Columbine, some Bleeding Heart to intertwine, one Iris dressed in purple fine; a small bouquet, but Spring's sweet sign. 'Tis then I love the garden best. Or when the leaves in brown are dressed, when many blossoms faint with cold; but here a saffron Snap stands bold; and here a Pansy splashed with gold; Tobacco flowers at night unfold--'tis then I love the garden best.

_LIFE IS TOO SHORT_

Life is too short for sighing and regretting. That which is done, we cannot now undo. Before the sun completes another setting, Life may have changed its aspect and its hue. Blunders are never mended by mere fretting; better to start afresh, mistakes forgetting. Life is too short a single thing to rue. Life is too short for bitterness and hating. Nothing is gained by venom and despair. 'Tis not a virtue to be ever prating that worms abide within the blossom fair. Goodness, forsooth, is not one whit abating, though Cynics give a jaundiced, twisted rating. Life is too short to entertain dull care. Life is just long enough for you and me to do our work with energy and zest. Just long enough for each of us to try to make of it a helpful, joyous quest; to brighten up, perchance, a neighbour's sky. Too short for hate; too short for futile sigh. Just long enough to learn that Love is best.

_POINT OF VIEW_

If only I could prove to you--so much depends on point of view. If only I could make it clear that you are worried by a fear! If only I could make you see that we are what we wish to be. If only I could give you cause to put aside your grief, and pause, and look within your own sad heart--'tis there you'd find the poisoned dart. If only I could make it plain that sun no better is than rain; that there's no riches just like health; that happiness comes not from wealth. If only I could make you try to view the world with smiling eye, to look not down but up instead; for thus one sees the sunset red, for thus one sees the rosy dawn, and gleaming glory of the morn. If only I could prove to you that all depends on point of view--I think you'd find life quite worth while, deserving of your praise and smile.

_LIFE'S A.B.C._

Do you remember how we used to say the A.B.C. when we were very young? We stood in semi-circular array, and proved a nimbleness of brain and tongue! 'Twas "A.B.C." right to the final "Z," we chanted in a wailing minor key. One little blue-eyed girl with curly head always stopped short each time she reached the "D." But patient teacher, smiling, put her right. Then on she'd go quite blithely to the end. And some who were exceptionally bright, from "Z" to "A" the backward trail could wend! But now, we often find Life goes awry. Its "A.B.C." is very hard to learn. Letters refuse, no matter how we try, to follow smoothly, each in proper turn. 'Tis then, like children of the long-ago, we ask the Teacher, watching patiently, if He will help us so that we may know the way to read Life's puzzling A.B.C.

_NURSE_

Her modulated voice is sweet, she ne'er looks tired, she's never late. She's neat and trim from head to feet; she does not gossip, does not prate, and always she is most discreet. She never wears harsh, squeaky shoes, nor aprons with a rustling noise. She never shows she has the blues; she is a model of calm poise; she never angers nor annoys. She's temperate always, in all things. She's sympathetic, strong in mind. A ray of hope her presence brings. Her counsel's wise, she's always kind, and yet she has not angel's wings! And from her very soul there flows a vital current that inspires, as through the anxious house she goes rekindling Hope's extinguished fires. She serves with love, with courage glows--this Nurse whom all the world admires.

_FOUR WALLS_

What precious things four walls enclose: a glowing fire, deep chairs for rest, a slender vase to hold one rose. What precious things four walls enclose when there is present some loved guest. What charming things four walls embrace: a paper of entrancing hues, and shadows like spell-woven lace. What charming things four walls embrace: loved books to guide us and amuse. Four walls enclose the best of life, its meaning and its very core; a happy husband, happy wife. Four walls enclose the best of life where baby crawls along the floor. Four walls enclose such magic things, the sound of laughter, joyous, free; and peace that spreads its gleaming wings. Four walls enclose such magic things where there is love and sympathy.

_Printed in Great Britain by_ UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING