Part 2

Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby! Pink and white blossom, go you to sleep. Bluebells are silent, hushaby, lullaby, only the stars may twinkle and peep. Blue eyes of baby, hushaby, lullaby, now must they close 'neath their curtains so white. The thrush has ceased singing, hushaby, lullaby, pink and white blossom, I kiss you good-night. The white woolly lambkins are peacefully sleeping, hushaby, lullaby, gold-haloed head. O'er the gold of the meadows a grey mist is creeping, the wings of the angels now curtain your bed. Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby. Your cot is a garden, the fairest I know. Rose petals your cheeks are, hushaby, lullaby, and the curls on the pillow like buttercups glow! Pink and white blossom, hushaby, lullaby, fall you to sleep while the nightingales sing. Bluebells your eyes are, hushaby, lullaby, pink and white blossom, the glory of spring.

_UNTO THE DAY--_

Many things in this world are bad, no good looking the other way, lots of things to make us sad--but it's very fine to-day. Loads of troubles come to us, you've had yours and I've had mine. We won't brood and fret and fuss--for to-day is very fine. Chilly when the winter's here, and no leaf is on the bough. Let us sing a song of cheer--for it's very pleasant now. Life is often cruel, unkind. Vainly seek we for the light. Gusts of passion fog the mind--but, just now, the sun shines bright. Let's not brood on grief that's past, shadows fall but shadows lift. Only Love and Goodness last--let's enjoy to-day's good gift.

_AT THE DAY'S END_

Your pardon, Life, if we have treated ill one hour of this good day; if we have shown a stubborn, sulky will, choosing an ugly way, though you have offered for our errant feet a well-built, clean, a straight and smiling street! Your pardon, Life, if we have failed to see the beauty of each hour; if we have walked with eyes turned inwardly, blind to a bird or flow'r; to all the loveliness you offered us. Your pardon, Life, if we have acted thus. And if we have, one moment, turned deaf ears to voices that inspire; if we have entertained pale, cowardly fears and fanned a low desire; if we have brought to naught one gift you gave, your pardon, Life, we crave. Oh, hear us, Life, if we have acted ill, in deed or thought along the way; to-morrow we will rise with strengthened will--and tarnish not your day.

THE FAMILY DOCTOR

He has no time to "specialise," is quite unknown to fame; he's understanding, kindly, wise, and "doctor" is his name. Always at patients' beck and call, all hours of day and night, for both momentous ills and small--and oft with death to fight. Not always is it draughts to drink, his trusting patients need. He tries to make the thoughtless think--'tis sometimes hearts that bleed. The honoured confidant and friend of families is he, and often when for him they send, they crave but sympathy. "Doctor," one says, "will make the lad see reason quickly, dear." Doctor is asked to soften Dad, or cast out mother's fear. Their joys and sorrows he doth share, for doctor always must be told; he lightens many a heavy care, and this for love, not gold. And he mends broken spirits, too, dispenses cheer and mirth. The every-ready friend and true--the very salt of earth.

_MEMORY'S GARDEN_

How fortunate are we, blessed with a memory! It is God's gift to all in high estate and small. A storehouse for the keeping of beauty we've been reaping from life's fields, along the way, hour by hour and day by day. Oh Eyes! let nothing pass. The dew-kissed morning grass is a very lovely sight. Then there are stars at night; and a little child at play is a twinkling star for day! Oh Ears! drink in the sounds with which this world abounds. Not music only, no, not this alone. For what more lovely than the throbbing tone of human voice that blends tenderly with voice of friends? Oh Soul! garner most zealously each quiet joy, each ecstasy, each sound, each touch, each sight, whate'er has given delight. Then when the summer days of life draw to a close, from Memory's fair garden--we can pluck a rose.

_MY TRUANT SHADOW_

I envied little girls to-day: I envied little boys. For part of me just longed to play with Springtime's jolly toys. I longed to have a hoop to bowl, a spinning top and whip, a bright red ball to bounce and roll--a rope so I might skip. A rope with handles very gay, on each a painted rose. Then little girls who passed my way would say, "Oh! look at those!" But I, alas! this morning walked with silly, grown-up tread; so wisely my companion talked, such solemn things he said. But suddenly my shadow tripped a little way ahead. And with a brand new rope it skipped--I feared it would drop dead. So fast it skipped, such slender feet, it really made me wince. And then it skipped across the street; I have not seen it since. But what it's doing I can guess, that naughty, truant, Shadow-me! It's spinning tops (oh! happiness) and bowling hoops with ecstasy!

_TO CAT PETER_

My Peter! It is time I told you flat, just what I think of species known as cat. Throughout the centuries, from earliest days, mere human-beings have sung loud your praise. Beloved of popes the cat has often been; sacred in Egypt; petted by king or queen. And you, you orphan, common little stray, accept the homage that we weakly pay as if it were your just and proper due. I am disgusted, quite annoyed with you. What do you do for us, I'd like to know? You care not when or where we come or go. You show no joy when we return at night, but blink your eyes, and are indifferent, quite. You stalk into the kitchen, drink your milk, then lick your paws until they shine like silk; sit in a sunny window, catch a fly; then, feeling bored, leap to a shelf on high, and from this prominence you view with scorn--those who have served with love since you were born!

_IN THE BEGINNING_

In the beginning was the seed. And silently the work went on. The roots struck deep; new life was freed; the warm rain fell; the bright sun shone. A tiny shoot; two leaves of green; growth hour by hour--and then the day when all the glory of a flower was seen. The deed perfected in true beauty's way, for not a single word had yet been heard! Grant us the power to act this way. Let each good impulse strike upon rich soil, and there take root and blossom through the day not by the breath of words but silent toil. For gracious words should follow what we do, the lovely blossoms of a fruitful deed; or like the sun's exquisite farewell hue, beauty that is of service, the just meed. "First, we will act." This is the best of creeds. For words draw life after the good is done; and flash within the sunlight of our deeds like rays reflected from the spirit's sun.

_HAMMER AWAY_

Watching the blacksmith, were you, son? Watching the way his work is done. Muscle is needed and also brain. Hammer, and hammer, and hammer again, striking the blow, tirelessly, true. Fashioned at last the perfect shoe. Wasn't done quickly, lad, admit; persistence needed and strength and grit. That is the way we all must work (no use tiring nor trying to shirk). Not for an hour, not for a day; nor for a week, nor month, nor year; just how long no one can say (keep on, laddie, success is near), hammer away, boy, hammer away. Look how ambition's sparks are flying (Splendid! laddie, just keep on trying), fashion your dream on the anvil, duty; mould and hammer it into beauty. You are a smith; your anvil, life. Keep swinging the hammer, despite all strife. Honest your purpose, stroke that is true; joy in the thing you are trying to do; ambition's flame for the smithy's fire, lit by the strength of a great desire. Then noble the work, at the end of the day--hammer away, lad, hammer away.

_WHITHER BOUND?_

A window filled with naught but shoes of every shape and every size; of black and brown and flaunting hues--they claimed my fascinated eyes. I simply had to stand and stare (would you believe me, in the rain!), I had no wish to buy a pair, indeed, I have a foolish brain. But this is why I could not go: I could not tear myself away, I felt a great desire to know where all these shoes would wend one day. And while the raindrops, laughing, fell, I stood and mused a little while. This pair, oh, anyone could tell, would walk for many a business mile, and those would mince along the street as proud as proud as they could be; and these, they were for dancing feet. Perhaps (hoped I) they'll dance with me! Just then a cosy pair I spied. Ah, they would meet my heart's desire, for when it rained and stormed outside, they'd stay, with books, beside the fire.

_LOOKING BACKWARD_

I can remember many childhood joys, a cashmere frock my mother made for me; a woolly lamb, best loved of many toys; mauve frock, white lamb, and little girl of three. I can remember (Oh! I'm full of shame) picking big holes in mother's gingerbread. And when she asked me for the culprit's name, "It must have been the flies," I calmly said. I can remember a laburnam tree spanning a river with its arch of gold. And stored for ever in my memory are all the Fairy Tales my father told. I'll ne'er forget a little magic door, a little shiny gate of yellow wood. Through it I passed whene'er the clock struck four (provided that I really had been good). Then down a hill, quite steep and very wide, a perilous descent to Paradise! The drawing-room door--and I was safe inside, and reached the haven of my mother's eyes.

_THE KITCHEN_

Of course, I'm proud! (the kitchen said). 'Tis I who harbour water, bread. The staff of Life these two things be, and both of them come forth from me. The Salt and Spice of Life I share with all dependent on my fare. And oh! I've always something sweet for Nursery Folk, on truant feet! There's great work done in my domain. 'Tis I who nourish brawn and brain. Where would this family now be except for cook, and fire, and me! And who but I sends forth a tray, with fragrant brew each new-born day? And where would be sweet Friendship's hour, the dainty china, lovely flow'r, the rush of children in the room dispelling any hint of gloom, did I, at five o'clock, not send hot toast and tea of perfect blend? May nought but cheerful cooks come here; for I, at any time of year, in my great purpose take delight: to serve the Healthy Appetite.

_THE HARBOUR HEART_

The heart is like a quiet port expecting ships each day. The spirit is the armoured fort that guards the ocean way. For, sometimes, on the sea of life there rides an evil ship. The crew belongs to Captain Strife, who shows a bitter lip. Dead Hopes and Fears and shattered Dreams, his cargo in the hold; above his ship a vulture screams, the wind blows keen and cold. Then Coastguard Spirit calls with zest, "Oh, heart of mine, beware, let not this vessel come to rest, 'twill bring you black despair." One day, when lovely is the sky, a ship sails into view. Its banner, Courage, floats on high, and joyous is the crew. 'Tis Captain Youth with dreams of yore, how gently he doth speak. Oh, gallant ship, pull into shore, my heart's the port you seek.

_TO A PATCHWORK QUILT_

Who made you? Was she old or young? Were her fingers white and soft and slim? And the song that was sung (as she worked) a love song or a hymn? You think, old quilt, in vain I probe and ask? But like a mirror you reflect it all. For I can see her at her homely task, sweet-faced and comely, fair and queenly tall. And there were toddlers pressed against her knee, their rosy fingers petting each bright hue. One trilled, "That pretty scarlet piece is meant for me." Another, "May I have this lovely blue?" How clear it is she loved all outdoor things. So many shades of sky she's brought together; touches of crimson seen on blackbirds' wings; the greens of trees; soft greys of rainy weather. And here is mauve, a wistful, gentle shade, when she felt weary and a little sad. Ah, me! This brown is serious and staid, but yellow smiles and proves that she grew glad. But when she reached the borders then, I think, she chose the blue to match a midnight sky, and silver snippets for the stars that wink; and, as she stitched, she sang a lullaby.

_MY OLD DOLL_

"Too old," they cried, "with dolls to play." And so I gently laid away the doll my father bought for me when I was only half past three. One day, I mused, my own wee girl may hug that doll and kiss each curl. How could I tell a roguish boy would treat with scorn my childhood's joy? One spring, when tidying things anew, my dolly came again to view. I hugged her and I smoothed her head. "You'll go to Barbara," I said. "My niece, my golden Babs, is four, she'll love you as I did of yore." But when it came to paper, string, I felt my eyes with salt tears sting. I put that dolly back again! Absurd? I know. But oh! the pain. Then later, when a year had passed, I took that doll, and held her fast. Said I, "To little Ruth you'll go, that niece of mine will love you so." I smoothed her dress and ironed her lace--then put her back in her old place. It's very, very clear to me, the little girl I used to be refuses to relinquish Moll, the first, and last, and best-loved Doll!

_LITTLE ROADS TO HAPPINESS_

The little roads to happiness, they are not hard to find; they do not lead to great success--but to a quiet mind. They do not lead to mighty power nor to substantial wealth. They bring one to a book, a flower, a song of cheer and health. The little roads to happiness are free to everyone; they lead one to the wind's caress, to kiss of friendly sun. These little roads are shining white, for all the world to see; their sign-boards, pointing left and right, are love and sympathy. The little roads of happiness have this most charming way; no matter how they may digress throughout the busy day; no matter where they twist and wind through fields of rich delight, they're always of the self-same mind to lead us home at night.

_FRIENDSHIP AND SUSPICION_

Friendship and Suspicion cannot dwell together. Friendship loves the sun; Suspicion, cloudy weather. Friendship needs must trust; Suspicion has to doubt, and, seeking hidden faults, turn all things inside out. Friendship clings to Truth, which is Suspicion's foe. 'Tis Truth that feeds the wick for Friendship's steady glow. No matter what the problem, ah! Friendship understands. And proffers ready helpfulness with eager, outstretched hands. And never questions coldly, nor probes with bitter sneer, but eases every burden, dispels each chilly fear. Friendship seeks companions, Suspicion walks alone, eyelids drooping meanly, in his heart, a stone. Friendship's joy is service, fair or foul the weather. Suspicion turns from giving--so they cannot dwell together.

_THE WORTHY CREW_

Discontented? Job no good? Chief is never praising you? Going elsewhere? Wish you could? Feeling bitter, tired and blue? Sure you're meant for bigger things. Never get a chance, that's all. Long to use ambition's wings; feel you're up against a wall? Only just occurred to you--well, you scarcely like to ask--but, after all, what _does_ he do, what is the Chief's important task? Quite convinced you do the most? Confident you should earn more? Of course, you do not like to boast--you've other chances, by the score! When this mood has you in grip (as some day it's bound to do), remember--a successful ship must carry, too, a worthy crew. When this mood nags at your heart, reflect--we can't all captains be; each must play his special part; ships need crews when off to sea.

_THE POSTMAN_

He is the aide-de-camp of merchandise. While thousands calmly lie a-bed and dream, he bears the seeds of some great enterprise from which springs forth a money-making scheme! Ambassador from Friendship's court is he, bearing those greetings that enrich the day with happy thoughts, and with sweet melody which, on the heart-strings, only friends can play. Life's messenger! And so he needs must bring echoes from Sorrow's Hall as well as Joy. We hold no grudge against him for the sting, knowing all happiness has its alloy. Greater than Mercury who served the gods, the sturdy Postman, of our busy days. Wingless, on patient feet, he daily plods, evoking from all hearts a word of praise. He is the very pulse of life for all; without his letters we would be as dumb. No interchange of thoughts, how life would pall. Oh, joyous sound, the Postman has just come!

"_ANGELS IN THE SNOW_"

I would go back to Canada, at this time of the year, for three things, just three things, my memory holds most dear. And this, I say, is one of them: a blanket of white snow, a-glistening with diamonds, and the breakfast sun aglow! A smooth, white blanket undisturbed except where Bunny's feet have pricked a pattern from a bush, right to a human street! And this, I say is two of them: to see bare branches dressed in fluffy, frozen, flakes of snow when pink clouds blush the west. And this, I say, is three of them, and this I long to see: the woolly-armoured toddlers, playing so merrily. With arms outstretched they fall down flat, and lie there, laughing so. And when they rise, each leaves behind "an angel in the snow"!

_TO MONDAY MORNING_

Good morning, Monday! Welcome, Sir! Indeed, I'm glad to see you here. They utter treason who aver you are devoid of joy and cheer. That Monday feeling--well, it's this: Hurrah! the week has now begun and who can say what luck and bliss will come our way e'er set of sun. A brand new week with work to do, and past mistakes all swept away; our energies strung up anew to meet and greet the unknown day. This morn when sleep dropped from my eyes, I felt a most delightful thrill. I saw, to my intense surprise--a guest upon my window-sill. He'd one leg out and one leg in (he'd opened up the window wide), I liked his merry, carefree grin, and so I begged him step inside. 'Twas you, oh, Monday. Welcome, Sir! Your presence fills me with great glee; my pulses with excitement stir--I wonder what you've brought for me.

_SECURITIES_

One thing there is more Greek than Greek to my bemused and puzzled brain. I read it daily, week by week, but never is its meaning plain. It is the column that one sees naming securities galore. There's oil and rubber--several teas--and gold in far-off Labrador. Those fractions! How they puzzle me. I must confess they make me laugh. How can there be security in what is listed minus half? You scorn my denseness, clever Sir? There's just this thing I have to say. The stocks I own, I much prefer--such splendid dividends they pay. I've many shares in mines of mirth, in sunshine, air and flowers and sky, in all the things of sterling worth, yes, very rich indeed am I. I've neither copper, tin, nor gold; nor platinum without alloy. I own what can't be bought or sold--for I have many shares in Joy.

_WHEN DECEMBER COMES_

December with her skirts a-blowing, frozen dew-drops in each ear; berries at her breast a-glowing, rosy-cheeked December's here. Hoar-frost to her garments clinging, prettier gems she could not find; merrily, December's singing songs best suited to her mind. Songs of mistletoe and holly; songs of labels, paper, string; loving thoughts and Gayhearts folly--and just a tiny hint of Spring! December bears herself right proudly, Amazonian Queen is she. Hear her laughing, long and loudly--boisterous winds her minstrelsy. December's crown is bright and gleaming, Jack Frost made it for a gift. Just like stars her eyes are beaming, mouth has such a happy lift! December knows that we adore her. Joyfully she goes her way; eleven sisters march before her--in her train comes Christmas Day.

_THE LITTLE SHOPS_

Oh, smiling god of Good Luck, now night has slipped away, look down upon the little shops, and help them through the day. The shutters have been taken down and polished are the window-panes; the brasses glow, the front is swept--smile, god of Luck, till daylight wanes. The little shops pull at one's heart, so simple is their merchandise. A little window beckons us through which we peer with misted eyes. For narrow shops are often kind to tiny folk scarce counter-high. Above a shop, behind a blind, I've heard a little baby cry. Above a shop, I've often seen a mother's anxious face appear. How many customers have been? The closing hour is drawing near. Great shops, like temples dedicate to merchandise from every mart, are over-lords of their own fate--but little shops tug at the heart!

_SUMMER IN YOUR HEART_

What's the sense of fretting because the sun's forgetting almost every day to play his part? What care you for the weather, let it rain and hail together, if there's summer time a-shining in your heart. No wonder you feel weary if you think that life is dreary just because a bitter wind decides to blow. What care you for the weather, come snow and fog together, if the heart of you with sunshine is aglow. What's the sense of sighing because Old Time is trying to turn your darksome hair to solemn grey? He can't rob you of your youth when your spirit is, forsooth, a shining, flaunting banner bright and gay. Let Father Time grow fleeter, the years will prove but sweeter, though youth--it is thus ordered--must depart. Life has no winter season, for this very sound good reason--one can always have the summer in one's heart!

_APRIL, THE JESTER_

Hark to April's merry laughter! Glad is she to reach this earth. Perhaps she'll weep a minute after--sorrow often follows mirth. Not to-day, though, will she sorrow; she's our Jester, queen of fun. Time enough to weep to-morrow, when her roguishness is done. Cap and bells is April wearing, Punchinello in her hand; jokes with Brother Wind she's sharing, mortals cannot understand. Oh! beware of April's laughter; trust her not, she is not true. First she laughs--a minute after, she will make a fool of you. Now I've warned you, you'll be clever, quite prepared for April's wit. Let her whisper "Perfect weather," you'll not be deceived by it! April her attire is flaunting, cap and bells and motley gay; and her smile is mocking, taunting--April's fools are we to-day. Play the Jester, little April, just for four and twenty hours. Then to duty, naughty April--earth awaits your smiles and show'rs.

_THE SONG OF THE SOUL_