Part 1

[Illustration: Cover art]

SILKEN THREADS

BY

WILHELMINA STITCH

AUTHOR OF "THE FRAGRANT MINUTE FOR EVERY DAY" "SILVER LININGS," "THE GOLDEN WEB" "WHERE SUNLIGHT FALLS", ETC.

EIGHTH EDITION

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

_First Published ... October 20th 1927 Second Edition ... November 1927 Third Edition ... December 1927 Fourth Edition ... January 1928 Fifth Edition ... April 1928 Sixth Edition ... December 1928 Seventh Edition ... March 1929 Eighth Edition ... 1929_

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

CONTENTS

THE OLD SAMPLER EVERYDAY RELIGION THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL THE WEEK ROUND HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND THE STRING BAG LIFE GROWS FAIRER TO THE FIRST-BORN A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME THE TEACHER PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN "BLESSED ARE THEY" A MOTHER SPEAKS THE BOY SAMUEL THE PERFECT FRIEND MAKING THE BEST OF IT A TOAST THE GARDENER'S PRAYER LEGS AND ARMS THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST THE FIRST BIRTHDAY FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON SPRING CLEANING A SPRINGTIME LULLABY UNTO THE DAY-- AT THE DAY'S END THE FAMILY DOCTOR MEMORY'S GARDEN MY TRUANT SHADOW TO CAT PETER IN THE BEGINNING HAMMER AWAY WHITHER BOUND? LOOKING BACKWARD THE KITCHEN THE HARBOUR HEART TO A PATCHWORK QUILT MY OLD DOLL LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION THE WORTHY CREW THE POSTMAN "ANGELS IN THE SNOW" TO MONDAY MORNING SECURITIES WHEN DECEMBER COMES THE LITTLE SHOPS SUMMER IN YOUR HEART APRIL, THE JESTER THE SONG OF THE SOUL A BED-TIME SONG AN ANNIVERSARY TO A FLORIST'S WINDOW TWO COINS THE STREET SINGER MERELY PARENTS SONG OF THE GIVER THE 'BUS CONDUCTOR A LITTLE SONG OF FRIENDSHIP

_THE OLD SAMPLER_

Dear little girl of Long Ago, so sweetly docile, quiet and prim, making, laboriously and slow, your silken prayer to Him--did your child-heart beat eager wings beneath the bones of your stiff dress, like some caged bird that sweetly sings, longing for freedom's happiness? It must have been a day in June when with a gleaming, scarlet thread, you worked the livelong afternoon, "Give us this day our daily bread." For look! Just where a line begins your needle strayed a square too high; quite crooked are the words "our sins." Oh! were you gazing at the sky? Or did the daisies on your lawn begin to wink and blink at you? Perhaps you spied a leprechaun just where your mother's roses grew? I think God smiled at that mistake, dear little girl so fair and prim, and blessed those hands that failed to make--a perfect gift for Him.

_EVERYDAY RELIGION_

How far you seek, poor soul, to find your God, through such a maze of noisy, foolish words, and yet they speak of Him--each silent sod, each crooning breeze, and all the singing birds. He dwells not in a tenet or a creed, no roof can compass Him, nor walls enclose, but you will find Him in the humblest weed and in the beauty of a budding rose. Think you He cares for some high-sounding phrase, the gift from lips that serve a subtle mind? Some homely household sounds best sing His praise, and deeds that spring from hearts sincere and kind. Why travel such a devious path and long, when sun and moon and stars proclaim Him near? Hark to His voice, a throbbing, pleading song, bidding us slay Intolerance and Fear. Return, oh soul, from journeying afar; there is a quiet road, straight to your breast. Travel this path, at rise of evening star, you'll find that He has come to be your guest.

_THE THOROUGHBRED MONGREL_

Your tail's absurdly long for a doggie of your size. Your ears, well they look wrong, but the love-light in your eyes, ah! makes one quite forget you've won no prize as yet. You're a mongrel, little chap, just a mongrel, nothing more. Take your paws off from my lap. Oh! you silly little bore, must you make this awful fuss just to show your love for us? Your hair is such a length! You're clumsy with your feet; you've tenacity and strength, you're a ruffian on the street, and you wriggle like an eel just to show the love you feel. Mongrel, with no hope of fame, who's your father? You don't know? Ought to slink away in shame, but the children love you so, and despite your tail and head--you're at heart, a thoroughbred!

_THE WEEK ROUND_

Idleness we now must shun, another week of work begun, another hill that must be won, for 'tis Monday morning. Clear in brain and strong in limb, now we're in good fighting trim, Sunday's joys are growing dim, for 'tis Tuesday morning. Energies have reached the crest, we've ambition, hope and zest, work, of all life's gifts the best, on this Wednesday morning. Duties pile up thick and fast, the middle of the week is past, now our goal's in sight at last, for 'tis Thursday morning. Smiling, singing, lift the load, do not let the burden goad, look ahead--there ends the road, for 'tis Friday morning. Soon we'll fold our tasks away. A few more hours and then to play, to-morrow is a precious day--blithe Saturday, good morning!

_HER TROUBLESOME HUSBAND_

"If only," she said (and wistful her eyes), "my husband would take a pride in his ties; but somehow he makes them look like a string. I've pleaded, I've bullied, I can't do a thing. He'll never look smart or stylish, I fear--and yet, all the same, he's really a dear!" "Now why should he wear, year in and year out, his hat of grey felt the wrong way about? And why, when he fastens his cardigan vest, he should miss the first buttonhole, I've never guessed. And then he's surprised there's one button to spare! I plead or I lecture, but he doesn't care. He'll never look smart or stylish, I fear--and yet, all the same, he's really a dear!" "If all his pockets were merely for looks, and not for his scissors and pencils and books; for matches, for pouch, for pipe and for knife--he'd not look a lumpy disgrace to his wife. If he'd brush his clothes sometimes, use hangers at night, he'd look like our neighbour, so smart--a delight! He'll never improve, not the slightest, I fear; but yet, I assure you, he's really a dear."

_THE STRING BAG_

A task to irritate a saint--unravelling string of every length! Before all's done, perhaps I'll faint; it's such a tax upon one's strength. This piece seems boastful of its knot, as if it knows it hurt my nails. Dear me! This bag does hold a lot; my courage flags and fails. But, after all--it's rather fun. Suppose this string is but a street. Ah! now my journey's well begun; each knot a mountain at my feet. Till these be scaled, I can't progress. I clench my teeth and work away, beyond this knot lies happiness, and I must pass while yet 'tis day. Another piece leads to a hill where fairy folk in tree trunks dwell. I'll blaze this trail with right good will, and live among them for a spell. So swift my fingers work, and fast (imagination's on the wing!) and all my troubles fade at last--for life is like a knotted string!

_LIFE GROWS FAIRER_

As life goes by it fairer grows. Oh, yes, it fairer grows to me. And may it be so at the close when Death advances lovingly. It is not greater pomp nor state, nor high ambitions well attained, nor any stroke of lucky fate, nor wealth that Midas-like I've gained. Material gains I have not known (my bank account's about the same!) and yet the world has fairer grown; with certainty I make this claim. In love and tenderness and grace, the world grows fairer day by day. What joy to see a friendly face as we go bravely on our way. Not cleverness, nor knowledge, wit, do much enhance this life of ours (of course I know they help a bit), but God be thanked for sun and flow'rs; for peace beneath the star-strewn skies; for friends who sit around one's fire; for books, amusing, helpful, wise; for Love that crowns the heart's desire.

_TO THE FIRST-BORN_

Lovely was life, and seemingly complete! Such happiness was ours and deep content. The days flew by like buoyant birds and fleet: Joy was the urge to every fresh intent. No hours to waste, we had so much to do; Life was our teacher and we loved her well; loved every sound and every shade and hue; always she wove some new and potent spell. And then the blinding miracle--you came. A crumpled rose leaf, funny little thing, no teeth, no hair, no words, not e'en a name, and yet our hearts with ecstasy did sing. A tiny bundle. Eight pounds in a shawl! And yet you caused so swift and great a change, became the pulse of life, our joy, our all. We lived without you once, how very strange! Then was all beauty symbolised by you. Then did we find all joys on earth, above, wrapped in a shawl; and then at last we knew the meaning of that phrase, "Lo! God is Love."

_A LITTLE CHILD'S PRAYER_

My prayer is such a little thing, it might get lost and go astray. Are you, dear God, now listening to what I say? I wish to thank You for the sun that kissed, this morn, my sleeping eyes; for all the happy things I've done since I did rise. For gift of sound and gift of sight; for feet that skip so merrily; for food and warmth, and each delight You gave to me. I thank You for my mother dear; I thank You for my father kind; and for the star that watches near--behind the blind. So many Grown-ups show me love, though I'm a child and still quite small. Look down upon them from above and, please God, bless them all. And now, dear God, I'll say "Good-night," and may Your angels guard my bed until You send Your morning light to wake this Sleepy Head.

_THE BEDROOM'S WELCOME_

I bid you welcome, Friend! This thought is joy to me: that you should seek my sympathy, at the day's end. My walls--they will enfold you with tenderness and grace. Maternal arms are they to hold you in warm and safe embrace. Here you may cast aside the cares you had; discard them like old garments, drab and worn. In robes of peace, until to-morrow morn, now be you clad! See what sweet dreams I have called forth for you. They are the lovely shadows in the room; and on the walls, like fairy flowers they'll bloom, the whole night through. And some will hover gently o'er your head; and some press softly 'gainst your sleeping heart; and you will travel to a magic mart--a Dreamship is your bed. I bid you welcome, Guest! Hold out your hands to me, a loving friend. For now, Tired Soul, the day is at an end--and I will give you rest.

_THE TEACHER_

There's Amy, Daphne, Pam, and Rose; Elizabeth and Lucille fair; and Jellis with tip-tilted nose; Amanda with rich auburn hair. And other blossoms, row on row, standing so primly in their places. It sets the teacher's heart aglow to see their morning-glory faces. Now like a mother she must be--a loving mother wise and kind--clothing each tender memory in prettiest garments she can find. As mothers joy in dainty frills, so will she trim each baby heart with melodies and lilting trills, borrowed for them, from Beauty's mart. For ribbons--phrases gleaming bright, most beautiful to hear and say; each one a streamer of delight with which a little soul can play! For food--she proffers Truth's white bread. For drink--the Spirit's sparkling stream. With fairy-lore is Fancy fed, that they, her bairns, may sweetly dream.

_PATRICIA ANN'S GARDEN_

Lupins from Patricia Ann! She, though barely seven, has a garden of her own, a little bit of heaven. Blossoms that she grew for me--so her little letter ran--what gift could more lovely be. Lupins from Patricia Ann! Purple, pink and ivory white, here is one with tint of rose; did they, Pat, o'er-top your height, though you stood on tippy-toes? Thoughts are wandering for a span round about a vase of blue. Lupins from Patricia Ann--can I help but think of you. Patricia Ann! Throughout your days you a gardener must be. Gardeners have gentle ways, all their thoughts make melody. As your destined path you take, and places you must scan; there, sow seeds for love's own sake, blossoms from Patricia Ann!

"_BLESSED ARE THEY_"

"Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they who sing in the morning, whose faces have smiles for their early adorning, who come down to breakfast companioned by Cheer, who won't dwell on trouble, nor entertain fear, whose eyes smile forth bravely, whose lips curve to say, "Life! I salute you. Good-morrow, New Day!" "Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they who treat one another, though merely a sister, a father, a brother, with the very same courtesy they would extend to a casual acquaintance, or dearly-loved friend; who choose for the telling encouraging things, and choke back the bitter, the sharp word that stings. "Blessed are they who are pleasant to live with." Blessed are they who give of their best, who bring to the home bright laughter, gay jest, who make themselves charming for no other reason than charm is a blossom for homes, every season! Who bestow love on others throughout the long day--pleasant to live with and blessed are they!

_A MOTHER SPEAKS_

A lovely photograph? Ah, yes! But still it does not show the sun turning to copper each brown tress--but I have seen this done. You cannot see how in each cheek a laughing dimple comes and goes and plays a game of hide-and-seek in petals of a rose. You cannot see the bright star-shine within her beaming hazel eyes; nor see the colour, like red wine, denote a glad surprise. You have not watched her body's grace, its perfect, joyous symmetry; nor have you glimpsed her sleeping face, turned happily to me. My baby's photograph. Ah, yes! But you should hear her lilting voice with tones that break with happiness and make the birds rejoice. You have not felt her tiny hand caress your cheek; nor known her kiss. But if you had, you'd understand--she's lovelier, far, than this!

_THE BOY SAMUEL_

He must have been a lonely little boy. The cold stone Temple for a nursery floor, and the Sanctuary Lamp for a glittering toy, and a Tamarix tree by the Temple door. (A Tamarix tree with scarcely a leaf to comfort a homesick child in his grief.) No woman's lips on his baby face; no woman's arms to hug him tight. Who put his sandals, each night, in place, and hung up his ephod, small and white? (Sometimes, I fear, when the old priest slept, the little child Samuel wept and wept.) What did he think, when once a year, Hannah, the mother, with love-lit eyes, held him close and whispered, "Dear! See, I have brought my babe a prize," and gave him a coat that she had made (I hope it was cut of rich brocade!) I hope it had friendly birds and flow'rs, embroidered in threads of blue and gold, playmates for his long, lonely hours in the silent Temple dim and cold. With such a coat to wear and touch--he might not miss his mother much.

_THE PERFECT FRIEND_

Shabby and down at heel? What does he care, so long as he can steal next to my chair? Sombre and dull of wit; feeling morose? He doesn't mind a bit, snuggles up close. Silence I may require. He's quite content. Silence is his desire, till my mood's spent. Ready to run a race, swim, fetch a stone. Yet will, with perfect grace, leave me alone. Some folks oft misconstrue words we let fall. Alter the shade and hue, turn sweet to gall. Not so this friend of mine; he understands. Gives me his secret sign, licks both my hands! Never misjudges, trusts to the end, pattern of loyalty--Doggie, the Friend.

_MAKING THE BEST OF IT_

The day was like a garment that I perforce must wear. I didn't like its colour much, it didn't suit my hair. I didn't like its line or cut, it didn't please my eye. "You look so very drab and mean," said I with heavy sigh. But since I had to wear it, this garment made for me, I said: I will embellish it and trim it prettily. Around its neck I stitched some smiles, a frill of them, all gold. And at the wrists, bright fancy's braid, quite lovely to behold. I girdled it with rosy dreams ('tis wrong to look a dowd!) and for a little 'kerchief, I chose a snow-white cloud. I gathered shining, gleaming thoughts and looped them here and there. The day it was a garment that I just loved to wear.

_A TOAST_

Here's to the days that are yet to be, to the life we're going to lead, to the aim achieved successfully, to the prisoned hope that's freed. Here's to the strength we're going to find, here's to the work we'll soon begin, strength of body and strength of mind and the hill we're going to win. Here's to the El Dorado, friends, the land of dreams we're soon to sight. Here's to the hour the striving ends and we stake our claim to the heart's delight. Here's to the road that winds afar, here's to the courage we'll never lack, to the dauntless will, the beckoning star, to the eyes that look not back. Here's to the days that are yet to be, here's to the work that lies ahead, to the joy in striving constantly--till the last mile's paced, and the last word's said.

_THE GARDENER'S PRAYER_

I pray You, let this garden be a gentle advocate for me before Your throne. Lord, it is fair and orderly and through its sweet serenity, my faults I own. My life at times has gone awry, but here beneath Your arch of sky, the pattern's true. The wind that softly passes by; tall trees, bright blossoms, grass, all try to pleasure You. With zest I've weeded day by day. Judge that my sins I cast away and am now shriven. And here Your sunbeams come to play, and moonbeams on this path do stray. Your stars look down from heaven. Will You not take this pattern bright as handiwork for Your delight and bless this little garden? See how the lilies tall and white stand unafraid within Your sight, and ask, for me, Your pardon.

_LEGS AND ARMS_

A curious thing, but a fact all the same, some friends of mine (never mind what name) thought of nothing and talked of naught but a William and Mary chair they'd bought. And also a table, a tallboy, a chest, with which they had furnished the room for a guest. Whenever I visited just for a span, 'twas "William and Mary" or good "Queen Anne." 'Twas "Heppelwhite" this and "Chippendale" that. I soon had the periods learnt off pat. They looked at a leg, "Cup-turned," they said, and bade me observe their Sheraton bed. But now all's changed, and the reason's this. There's a little curved leg they love to kiss; there's a dimpled arm so smooth and white, its graceful contour gives delight. And as for the chest, it gives much joy. Says Daddy, "Just look at this fine tall boy!" Of Seventeenth Century they don't speak. Everything dates from just last week. For period furniture lost its hold--since they have acquired a One-Week-Old.

_THE BEAUTY SPECIALIST_

A lotion, madam, for your eyes? Oh, certainly, come this way, please. You'll use this one if you are wise. Its chief ingredients are these: Ten drops of rain, ten drops of dew, a most refreshing, cooling brew, mixed by a scented breeze. And next? A face cream? Come this way. Now, here is one I recommend. It can work wonders in a day, yet quite an inexpensive blend. One ounce of laughter, smiles and twinkles. 'Tis guaranteed to smooth out wrinkles. I thank you, madam. Take or send? For jaded nerves? A recipe? I've this that all my clients heed. A draught of wholesome sympathy for someone else's urgent need; forgetfulness of your own cares by thinking of world brotherhood--though you may find a few grey hairs you'll also find that life is good. Good morning, madam. This way, please. No, naught to pay for things like these.

_THE FIRST BIRTHDAY_

It's all as strange as it can be, and Baby wonders, silently. Mother hugs him even more than she ever did before. Father has such boisterous ways, bellows words of petting praise, flings him high into the air. "Oh!" shrieks mother, "do take care." 'Tis four o'clock, he's been to sleep and yet he's not allowed to creep; not allowed the happiness of sucking bits of his clean dress. He has to sit in his high chair and let a lot of people stare. They bring him things to touch and squeeze, and sister plagues him to say "please." Then someone cries, "Now, Baby, look! Here is a lovely picture book." And someone else says, "Here's a bunny, a soft, white woolly one, for Sonny." He's feeling bored. He thinks he'll cry. Just then he catches mother's eye. She lifts him up, oh! pretty sight, a little candle burning bright! And Mummie whispers in his ear, "It's your first birthday, precious dear."

_FOR THAT WHICH IS COMMON_

"For that which is common, be praised, O Lord!" For sun and the tang in the morning air. For mist and the grey of a soothing sky. For night and the stars within her hair. For work and the joy in the will to try. For love and its binding silken cord--for that which is common, be praised, O Lord! For hands and their clasp of friend with friend. For clever fingers that mould and make; for home and its rest at the day's long end, for Peace that the thirsty soul doth slake, for china and flowers and homely board--for that which is common, be praised, O Lord. For laughter of children absorbed in play, for laughter of adults whose hearts are young, for the hillocks and valleys of life's short day, for gift of speech and the gentle tongue, for love of service, its own reward--for that which is common, be praised, O Lord.

_SPRING CLEANING_

Sing a song of Spring-cleaning! Polish up the mind, open all the windows, pull up every blind; let in shafts of sunshine, cleansing breezes, too; sweep away all cobwebs--that's the thing to do. Bathe the eyes in gladness, look at sky and earth. Fill the lungs with laughter, magic's worked by mirth. Sweep out every corner, free the heart from dust; intolerance and prejudice are nasty types of rust! Key the slackened heart-strings, ready for a tune. Love will be in need of them, lilac time is soon. When the mind is polished, when the heart is clean, what a charming person will step upon the scene!

_A SPRINGTIME LULLABY_