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Title: Joy's Loom
Date of first publication: 1929
Author: Ruth Collie (ps Wilhelmina Stitch) (1888-1936)
Date first posted: August 23, 2025
Date last updated: August 23, 2025
Faded Page eBook #20250833
This eBook was produced by: Al Haines & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net
BY
WILHELMINA STITCH
AUTHOR OF
"THE FRAGRANT MINUTE FOR EVERY DAY"
FOURTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published ... September 12th 1929
Second Edition ... December 1929
Third Edition ... March 1930
Fourth Edition ... 1931
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
LIFE, THE PEDLAR
REAL POVERTY
A SMILE
SONG OF THE DAUNTLESS
GRACE BEFORE RISING
A STUDY IN CHARACTER
GHOSTS OF BUTTERFLIES
MUSINGS OF OLD AGE
OFF TO BRIGHTON
AN AUTUMN COAT
IN CHEERLESS DAYS
TO A SPIRE
THE COLLECTOR'S SONG
THE HOUSE OF HARD WORK
FIRST-BABY'S MUMMY SHOPS
THE MISSEL-THRUSH
PICNIC BASKETS
AN UNWELCOME GUEST
THE UNLOVELY TASK
A MARCHING SONG
ANGELS AT PLAY
ANTISEPTICS
THE FRETTING HEART
"WITHOUT MONEY, WITHOUT PRICE"
JUST COMMONPLACE
AT A REVUE
SELF-SEARCHING
THE MAKER OF RHYMES
IN BUCKINGHAMSHIRE
ANYBODY'S DOG
JUST SHY FOLK
ENGINE DRIVERS
THE PHILOSOPHIC BIRD
FEBRUARY
THE BEAUTY OF CANDLES
THE INEXTINGUISHABLE FLAME
TO CERTAIN FRIENDS
HEARTS
"THE FIRST SNOWDROP"
TO AN ABSENT SON
AT THE LONDON MUSEUM
THE DRESSMAKER
PATRICIA ANN'S PAINT-BOX
KING-CUPS
A CERTAIN BOOT-BOX
STREET TOYS
HER FIRST UMBRELLA
MOTHERS ALL
PAYING OUR DEBTS
LAUGHTER
SPEED
THE CHEERFUL HEART
THE OLD, OLD SONG
FOR REMEMBRANCE
A HUNTING SONG
SHOP WINDOWS
THE TOWN-CRIER
TO JACK FROST
THE WORLD
STARS
Life, the Pedlar, came along, singing such a cheery song. Brown his face with wind and sun; torn his clothes and splashed with rain; eyes a-light with mirth and fun; mouth with just a hint of pain. Life, the Pedlar, sang to me, 'neath my window, merrily.
I opened then my window wide, called to him, "Oh, Pedlar, pray, where's your pack and what's inside? Tell me, what have I to pay?" Laughing, Life threw back his head. "Pay me nought," he bravely said.
"Here's my pack. See what it holds! Such beautiful and splendid things. Soft white clouds with crimson folds, birds with shining, graceful wings. Little dreams so young and frail. Laughter—and a moonbeam pale! Music like a thread of gold; thoughts to star a lonely night; eyes to love and hands to hold; words that bring the truth and light." "Take your share," the Pedlar said, then gaily on his way he sped.
No golden coins of fancy? That is bad! For coins of fancy buy such charming dreams; a shred of hope when one is feeling sad, a lamp of courage that in darkness gleams. Yes, dreams and hope and courage can be bought with golden coins that fancy richly wrought.
And no small change of kindly mirth and wit, no silver pieces bearing laughter's face? No smile as tiny as a threepenny-bit with power to purchase much of life's sweet grace? Ah, then you're poor indeed, starved heart, and closed to you the doors of joy's wide mart.
The bankrupt spirit—poverty indeed! No power to fill imagination's purse with coins the wealthiest among us need. The bankrupt spirit! What poverty is worse than lack of golden dreams and rosy joy, and courage freed from fear, its base alloy?
It darts from out its secret place on to the lips, into the eyes, puts twinkling wrinkles on the face and then away it swiftly flies. But always does it leave behind a tender impress, sweet and kind.
The sunbeam smile—where does it go? It seeks the curve of other lips, and hovering gently to and fro, into the pool of eyes it slips, and beautifies another face with its rare tenderness and grace.
Now two have smiled, and soon a third will be a-smiling, that is clear, for who on earth has ever heard that smiles can really disappear? They can't—they simply have to be smiling from some face happily.
So let us smile just for a start and lo! our smile brings forth another; and it in turn usurps the heart of some depressed or weary brother. And all at once he sees a light where hung but shadows black as night.
Days when it seems that Joy is but a bubble, days when the world is naught but care and trouble, days when the burden and the journey grow to double—of course there are, of course there are, my sisters and my brothers.
Days when the spears of disappointment smite us, days when it seems that Fate has planned to spite us, days when our friends, our dearest, seem to slight us—of course there are, of course there are, my sisters and my brothers.
Days when we feel the burden is past bearing, days when we feel there's not a soul who's caring, days when we're lost and know not where we're faring—of course there are, of course there are, my sisters and my brothers.
Days such as these are days we must keep going; heads held with pride and flag of courage blowing; song on the lips and valiant smiles a-showing—of course we will, of course we will, my sisters and my brothers.
Lord, bless these waking eyes, let them see Thy shining Face ere the voice of Enterprise bids me take my destined place. Lord, ere I gladly rise, let me see Thy shining Face.
Lord, bless these hands of mine; let them feel Thy lips' caress. Holy pledge and holy sign; they will work for happiness. Ere they move, O, Power Divine, let them feel Thy lips' caress.
Lord, bless this waking brain, let Thy Spirit breathe o'er it. Ere I take the road again, let the wick of Truth be lit. Lord, keep me sweetly sane; strength of will and gentle wit.
Lord, bless this whole machine; eyes and ears, and hands and heart. Without Thy will it ne'er had been—Thine the hand to make it start.
You gaze at Nig, Nig doesn't stir. You stroke his head, perchance he'll purr; most likely blink his lazy eyes, but do you think King Nig would rise? Disturb his comfort? No, indeed. He really cannot see the need. 'Tis right that humans should adore, kneeling before him on the floor, and he'll accept your petting praise with faintly pleased, disdainful ways. And when you go—well, that is that, for Nig, you see, is just a cat.
You whisper "Bobbie!" With a bound he's covered yards and yards of ground. He dances, prances, yaps and barks; his eyes are like electric sparks. "What do you wish?" they seem to say. "I love you when you want to play. I'll do my tricks with joy and ease—just anything you think will please. I am so glad to be with you, no matter what I have to do. Sugar? I'll beg. Of course I must! And play with zest the game of trust, and lie down dead, a terrier log—for I'm your faithful, loving dog."
The sunbeams flit across the wall; like opals come to life are they. They slide and glide, they rise and fall; they dance like merry sprites at play. The flowered paper is so still; the blossoms scarcely breathe at all; they let the sunbeams play at will—they dance across the study wall.
Upon the painted flowers they light, and kiss the petals time again; like butterflies just poised for flight—then flit towards the window-pane. I've learnt your secret, sunbeams bright! You are the ghosts of butterflies that fell asleep one frosty night and did not wake until sunrise.
And then you found a potent spell had changed your nature and your size. The sun had captured you, ah! well—you're lovelier far than butterflies. My wall is like a garden fair now that these Ghosts upon it play, seeking the flowers that blossom there—like butterflies of Yesterday.
Silly, young, giggling things are they, just as we were long years ago! Lightheartedly they take their way—once, we did so. Flippant young things without a thought or care, intent upon a buckle or a bow. Far more concerned with what they eat and wear than how their souls will grow.
Earning and spending without considered thought, never concerned about the future years. Strange that we, too, were by experience taught—we learnt with pain and tears. Their laughter is the echo of our own; their folly born of folly wrought by us, and all the joys they claim, we, too, have known—Life wills it thus.
Fearless they tramp along the dusty road. We, once as fearless, wish them now Godspeed. Add not Time's wisdom to their youthful load—for soon enough they'll heed. Look how their laughter brightens up the room. Laughter is young but very wise forsooth. Courage and hope from laughter bud and bloom—Oh! grudge them not their youth.
Oh, little girl I used to be, I am envying you to-day. You would have been so filled with glee to pack and go away; you would have laughed and thrilled to see your things in neat array.
A bright-red bucket and a spade, a pair of new sand-shoes, a bathing-dress of flashing shade, you always loved bright hues. Which doll to take? Ah, little maid, that was so hard to choose. And in the train, you scarce could sit, thinking of donkey rides and coco-nuts you knew you'd hit and minstrel joys, besides!
But, little girl I used to be, listen to me to-day. I, too, am thrilled and filled with glee because I'm going away. I'll build Dream Castles on the sand, the golden sand of Dreamland's shore, and, with a spade from Fairyland, I'll just be You, once more!
"The style is very smart," said I, "my purse approves its modest price; I like the collar, what's the dye? the russet hue's extremely nice."
The sales clerk, amiable and spry, had slipped it on me in a trice. "Alas!" I mourned, "it does not fit." "Oh, madam, that is nought at all, a matter of just 'lifting it'; an alteration easy, small; no trouble, madam, not a bit." A fitter she did quickly call. It seems this lady spoke the truth. The fitter said the self-same thing. She "lifted it" and then, forsooth—it did correctly hang and cling!
"Oh heart!" cried I when homeward bound, "when you wear garments that don't fit, when you in ugly moods are gowned, I'll do the trick by lifting it." Just like my coat, the heart's despair needs "lifting up." Quite easy. See! Oh heart of mine, you shall not wear a coat that hangs despondently.
Shall the strings of the heart be mute, in winter days? Now is there need of a lute, so much to praise. Sing not alone of Springtime's daffodils and Summer's rose. Behold! Red suns there are and snow-capped hills, at the year's close.
Are not these beautiful to see, worthy of song? Pour forth your melody, brave heart and strong. Sing of the loveliness of morning mist draping the trees; of branches bare by sparkling hoar-frost kissed, and tonic breeze.
Sing though the days be short, cheerless and cold; strike your heart's lyre; need is there now of songs happy and bold, to light us a fire! Shall the strings of the heart be mute; no longer sing? Heart, be for God, His lute—heralding Spring!
If I were a spire, if I were a steeple, I'd sometimes desire to mix with mere people! I would weary, I feel, of cloud-friends by day; of bells whose loud peal frighten half-hours away.
If I were a spire, if I were a steeple, I'd sometimes desire to gaze at mere people. I would weary, I know, of the sky's placid smile, of the sun's dazzling glow, of stars by the mile; of the pale moon's conceit because of her grace. I'd soon long to greet a plain, human face.
And I'd long to be before I grew old, in meadows to see bright buttercups gold. And daisies so small, petals pink-tipped and white—a spire is too tall for this great delight. I'd weary quite soon of a wind's moaning voice. A mother's soft croon, ah! that is my choice. And the laughter of boys and of girls, free from care—these are the joys a steeple can't share.
A great collector I, of things that really matter. No fear nor frightened sigh, no spiteful, harmful chatter—a great collector I, of things that really matter. Like china rare and old and lovely to behold are words that travelled far and somewhat altered are by crossing land and sea—these are much prized by me.
And phrases like brocade, flashing with gold and jade, these do I love to buy, a great collector I! The house of memory contains my treasures rare. A moonlit silver sea, the sun on baby's hair, a trill of laughter gay, the tenderness of eyes, a perfect, much-loved day, a thrilling sweet surprise.
A little wistful grief, the sweet smell after rain, a springtime bough in leaf, the joy that follows pain. A great collector I—of things no one can buy.
There's a little House of Hard Work, and 'tis there I love to go, when life is taut and complex and my spirit's lamp burns low. For in this House of Hard Work, philosophy there's none, except to work with cheerfulness until each task is done.
I see no queen of fashion, I hear no sparkling wit, but a mother's mouth is tender and with love her eyes are lit. And a father's laugh is kindly, and a father's word is true, and, oh! the bonny baby, with hair of amber hue.
'Tis there that one learns wisdom, for they weave with joyous zest the pattern that is theirs to do—and deem that pattern best. There's a little House of Hard Work, and 'tis there I joy to be, for Love has fenced it round about, and a welcome beckons me!
"Yes, shantung, please, the pale shell-pink; two yards will be enough, I think. Perhaps too much? One and a half—(You ought to hear my baby laugh!). She's such a doll; her eyes are brown. I'm making her an eiderdown.
"The cotton-wool? Oh, over there. (Already she has curly hair.) And then I'll need some filoselle, some pink and white and blue as well, and shades of green (she's such a pet!). Oh, piping cord—must not forget."
"This coverlet will look too sweet (you ought to see her dimpled feet), for in each corner there will be the daintiest embroidery, and in the middle one large spray. (She'll have a tooth now, any day!) Harebells bright-blue and roses pink, so very charming, don't you think? Yes, thank you, that is all. Good-bye. (You never hear my baby cry!)"
Morning and evening the Missel-Thrush is singing, such a song of happiness, jolly little thrush. Wherefore, should I, to sorrow be a-clinging, the courage of that songster would make a human blush. From dawn unto evening the Missel-Thrush is busy; a nest to be built, then a family is born. To and fro, to and fro, enough to make him dizzy, the journeys that this small bird makes each day from early morn.
Four hungry nestlings that he must be a-feeding, to say nothing of himself and his gentle little wife; and courage is a virtue a Missel-Thrush is needing, for often he is threatened with marauders 'gainst his life! Bless you, little Missel-Thrush, so busy and so jolly, singing just as sweetly in the wind and driving rain, clinging unto sorrow would be the sorriest folly. Missel-Thrush, I hear you; my courage breathes again.
They asked me what I'd like for my birthday, "Any mortal thing I longed to own." I didn't wait a second to consider, but answered in a swift and cock-sure tone, "I want a picnic basket for my birthday, a wicker one of smooth and glossy brown; and packed with tableware so very neatly, with everything for picnics out of town." They both exclaimed, "Oh! nonsense! Don't be silly. You have no car. A foolish thing to choose. We wouldn't like to give you, for your birthday, a thing you'd seldom have a chance to use." "All right," I said, all flatly, on my birthday. "Then let it be a book—or anything. I've longed each year to have a picnic basket—the longing's very strong when it is Spring. It wouldn't matter that I couldn't use it; I'd often lift the lid and peep inside, and think of grass, and buttercups and daisies, and trees with loving arms spread far and wide." I always take a look at picnic baskets whene'er I see them through a window-pane.... If they should ask me, next year, what I'm needing—I'll say, "A picnic basket," once again!
Worry's face is drawn and grey. Worry's always dressed in brown. Worry has a nagging way, and his eyes look down! Worry shuffles with his feet; speaks in such a weary tone; never braves a sunlit street, and lives quite alone!
Worry has a sneaking way; this is what he likes to do—choose an extra busy day on which to visit you! He will stand beside your chair, follow you where'er you go. Fill you with a deep despair, and smile to see you so!
Worry is no joyous guest; see to it he does not stay. Tell him he's an ugly pest, and watch him slink away. Worry speaks of what will be; not what is, so do not heed. Lean not on his prophecy—he's but a broken reed.
For those engaged in some unlovely task this boon, O Lord, we ask, that You towards them turn Your shining face for their especial grace. Then will they see above their lowly work, beyond the gloom and murk, the beauty that is also theirs to share in this, our world so fair.
They will look up and see the stars at night, each one a nursery light for baby angels safely tucked in bed—soft clouds beneath each head. They will rejoice in blossoms drenched with dew, petals of vivid hue, in trees that hold high converse with the sky; in birds that swiftly fly.
For those engaged in some unlovely task this boon, O Lord, we ask. Make of their souls a sweet abiding place for Your own spirit's grace. Then will they find, despite the gloom and murk, much beauty in their work.
Cast out fear, fling it aside. Trample on fear with both your feet. Housewife! open your windows wide, fling out fear to the hard-paved street. Fear is a Jezebel masked with deceit; wrap her now in her winding-sheet.
Brother! behold a strong, new day. Go you forth with fearless tread. Never shall fear obstruct your way. Fear, the foe, is lying dead. Fear is a Jezebel masked with deceit; wrap her now in her winding-sheet. Fear it is that whispers low: "You're going to fail, cringe, oh heart!" Fear is a poison, deadly, slow, infecting life, a venomed dart. Fear is a Jezebel masked with deceit; wrap her now in her winding-sheet.
Come forth, prophets, as of old. Cry aloud that we may hear; cry aloud in accents bold: "Brothers, sisters, cast out fear. Fear is a Jezebel masked with deceit; wrap her now in her winding-sheet!"
I saw it through a window-pane—an angel carved in ivory. I passed and then walked back again. Its beauty beckoned me. So delicately carved and white, its wings as small as butterflies'. It was the most entrancing sight for beauty-loving eyes. An angel standing on its head just like a little mortal boy! Right through my heart bright laughter sped that it should have such joy.
I've often wondered since that day, how were the gates of Heaven won? The artist saw the angels play before his work was done, else had he failed to make it live and chain a pair of glancing eyes. Ah! what would I not gladly give to visit Paradise. To find the nursery that he found and watch the happy little things turn somersaults upon the ground, and never hurt their wings.
When you meet a gloomy person, a bitter one, take care! Remember it's infectious and it poisons all the air, the gloom that such a one exhales when mouthing his depressing tales.
Be quick. The antiseptics! This disease must not be caught. A dose of golden laughter, good sense with humour fraught, and ears and eyes quite deaf and blind to him with hatred-laden mind.
When your heart is sorely wounded there is something you must do to prevent it turning septic, which is very bad for you—for joy and beauty soon depart when poisoned is the wounded heart.
Be quick. The antiseptics! This wound needs hope's sweet balm and courage (though it sting a bit), and faith so cool and calm, and power to feel another's pain—for then the wound is healed again.
O heart, fret not nor worry so! Be not a bird that beats caged wings against the bars. Be like the winds that blow, a soft and casual little wind that croons and sings. O Heart, cease fretting so. Those dear desires which are your whole intent; the dreams that rule you through the day and night, perchance are not for you. Heart, be content to wait the coming of the guest, Delight.
O Heart, fret not nor worry so. For there is Destiny and sister Fate whose plans are not for you to shape or know. It is not difficult a while to wait. Seek not your good, for it will find you out. No need, O Heart, to fret and worry so, no need to raise a clamour or a shout, silent the dawn, the stars and sunset's glow.
Be like a little boat, O Heart, resigned unto the current of the stream. The winds of fate will drive you to your mart and there will wait fulfilment of a dream. O Heart, fret not nor worry day and night. Your good will follow you when worries cease. You cannot welcome as your guest, Delight, until you first have entertained sweet Peace.
"The unbought grace of life"—that is a phrase to make us think! All the loveliness of life, bright green leaf and bud pale pink, ours for seeing without strife; cowslips with the tint of honey, buttercups like stars of gold, all are ours, no need of money, free to all who will behold.
"Grace of life" no man e'er bought it, no man shaped it, changed it, wrought it; gift of God and we must take it; there remains—to mar or make it. "Grace of life"—all it implies. Gift of ears and tongue and eyes; gift of hands and gift of brain; beauteous moon to wax and wane, glorious sun to rise and set, sky enmeshed in starry net.
"Grace of life!" Ah! how express it? Naught to do but take and bless it, cherish it like some rare flow'r, tend it lovingly each hour. Then will it be, towards its close, more fragrant, lovelier, than the rose.
What a commonplace day it has been! The sky a commonplace shade of blue, the grass an everyday type of green and the usual round of things to do. The children and home claimed all mother's care, and father was busy from morn till night. Nothing unusual and nothing rare—the cat and the dog had their daily fight.
The pavements were thronged with busy feet, buses and motor-cars filled the road. The rain was wet and the sun gave heat, and shoulders grew weary beneath the load. What a commonplace day it has been. A fair share of work and a little fun, meals to cook and dishes to clean and homes for havens at set of sun. Such a commonplace day yet it glows with a precious gleam when daylight wanes; through commonplace hearts contentment flows because of the commonplace love that reigns.
Pretty, smiling faces, winsome, luring graces, glossy shingles, shining curls, happy, care-free, laughing girls; legs and arms that move as one—marvellous how it is done. This way, that way, all together, each one swaying like a feather; this way, that way, left and right, every movement sheer delight. This way, that way, twinkling toes, life's a whirl of green and rose!
Funny thing that so much brightness, so much glitter, so much lightness, makes one's throat begin to ache with a pain one can't mistake. Makes one's eyes feel hot, and smart, and sends a stab right through one's heart!
What can it be? Perchance one sees beyond that dancing done with ease, all the weary hours they worked—how at times it must have irked! Perhaps one sees behind those smiles, behind those daring flaunting styles, disappointments, failures, fears.... The Star comes on; the whole house cheers. The chorus girls are poised for flight—I'm clapping them with all my might.
Said I to the Day (when the blinds were pulled down): "You can't help but say you've not seen me frown. You'll have to admit I've worn a bright smile, nor grumbled a bit for a very long while."
"In fact, since you came with the letters and tea, I've been just the same—as sweet as can be—and now it is night and you'll soon depart; it would be polite to praise my good heart."
Said Day, with calm eyes, "I've been sunny and fair, no cause for deep sighs, nor heartache, nor care; like a millpond my breast, o'er which you could sail; would you still laugh and jest had I brought a fierce gale? Had I given you knocks, disappointments and jeers, some terrible shocks and cause for sharp fears—would you now come to bed so puffed up with pride?" "Ah, no!" said a voice from my honest inside!
Edith laughs whene'er I say, "Write a rhyme for me to-day." Cries, "Good gracious"—every time—"I really couldn't make a rhyme!" Strange that Edith doesn't know all her acts in sweet rhymes flow, from the minute she gets up (tinkle, tinkle, breakfast cup). All day long her willing hands make a rhyme life understands. Sweeter than the song of birds, and mere, foolish, printed words! Through the hours her willing feet beat out music that is sweet; songs she makes throughout the days, sounds of simple household ways. Singing kettle, hissing roast, sizzling fry and crackling toast; swish of brush and water's swirl—Edith you're a silly girl! Can't you see that every time yours is much the better rhyme?
I didn't see a primrose, one friendly little primrose. The beech-trees wore no petticoats of dainty, lacy green. The Spring is very late, they said; is very late indeed, they said; then suddenly we came upon a most entrancing scene.
I didn't see a primrose, one friendly little primrose, but oh! I saw a range of hills, snow-covered, dazzling white. It was a cherry orchard, a distant cherry orchard, and all of us fell silent, quite speechless with delight.
Then, as we neared this range of hills, this snow-capped, dazzling range of hills, and gazed upon the beauty of each gracious cherry-tree, I saw two words upon a house, such simple words upon a house, I read them first out loudly—then quite softly, just to me.
"God first," I read. "God first," I said. It seemed to me a miracle. The sun had caught the cherry-trees, I heard a blackbird sing. I didn't see a primrose, one friendly little primrose, but oh! I heard the voice of God proclaiming, "It is Spring."
Poor man, rich man, matters not a bit. You are his man—that's the end of it. He is yours, and that's quite good enough though your voice be stern and gruff. Unknown or famous, whichever you may be, Doggie doesn't mind at all, no! not he. Good times, bad times, foul or fair the weather, Doggie is quite content so long as you're together.
Cheerful man, dull man, Doggie's never bored. You are his pal, his prince, his overlord. Plain man or handsome, silly one or wise, you're always perfect—in your Doggie's eyes. Proud man, humble man, diffident or bold; sponsor of beauty or seeker after gold; man without a button, squire of acres wide—Doggie finds all happiness close by your side.
Doggie takes so little, yet so much he gives, quite content to worship the man with whom he lives. Trusts him and loves him and serves him to the end. Decent little Doggie, man's best friend.
They're not really cold and proud, they're not really stupid folk; how they long to be endowed with the gift to talk and joke, but, alas, they're just shy folk.
We must help them, you and I! Be the first to talk and smile, make the awkward moments fly, they'll feel braver in a while. Just be patient; they're so shy.
If they'd only realize you and I oft feel the same, they would don a gallant guise, hide their fears, and play the game, till pale shyness droops and dies.
They're not really cold and proud, they are truly very nice; how they long to be endowed with the gift to break the ice—shyness holds them in a vice. Friendly they just long to be. Shy folk suffer very much. Give them help and sympathy, just the little human touch to set imprisoned niceness free!
An engine driver must have pleasant thoughts. For, when the shadows fall, he can look back with satisfaction o'er the day's long track. Say to himself, "I've reached my destined goal, kept to the scheduled time and hurt no soul; observed the trail that was marked out for me and held to duty's lines unswervingly. Not once throughout the day looked left or right and safely reached the journey's end at night."
An Engine Driver! Happy indeed is he with thoughts like these, I ween, for company. Ah, me! The many months that lie behind! Like gleaming railway lines through life they wind. How oft a side-line lured me to digress, bidding me seek afar for happiness, when all the time (had I but seeing eyes) it waited, straight ahead, in Duty's guise. Now like an Engine Driver must I learn to be, when travelling the months ahead of me.
Little bird, little bird, on that very slender bough, isn't it a bit absurd that you are singing now? Are you not at all afraid that the branch will break in twain whilst you sing a serenade, a glad and sweet refrain? Is it, then, enough for you when the branches bend and sway, to know that should they break in two, you have wings to fly away?
Philosophic feathered friend, that's the way, I think, to live, singing sweetly to the end, giving all you have to give; never entertaining fear, knowing if one twig should break there's another somewhere near, waiting ready, for your sake; knowing you have wings to rise high above one branch of sorrow till you see, through dauntless eyes, safety for the morrow.
Now February strides upon the scene, in frock of russet brown with dots of green. Her hair is gold, her rosy cheeks ablaze because of Winter's rough-and-tumble ways. "Keep close, keep close," cries Winter, "to my side, for I am still your captor and your guide."
She laughs, this gallant month, and strides along, despite the painful clutch of Winter's hand. Though short of breath, she sings a buoyant song for now she journeys to a flow'r-strewn land through dales and vales, o'er meadows and o'er rills, to greet bright crocuses and daffodils.
The joyous skylark cheers her on her way; blackbird and thrush sing very sweetly, too, of blackthorn boughs that don their white array and hedgerows bright with leaves all green and new, whilst violets from sheltered nooks now peer and whisper gladly, "February's here!"
Sing a song of candles—aren't they lovely things! Not like birds for beauty, for they have not wings; not like birds for joyousness—no candle ever sings!
Sing a song of candles lying in a shop. Mrs. In-A-Hurry has to glance and stop. She wouldn't for a saucepan, nor a painted wooden top; but ah! she must for candles—each is a lovely thing hiding in its slimness a bud to flower in Spring. Yes, candles are like promises that make a light heart sing.
Sing a song for candles that bring forth flowers of gold; twisted ones like bronzes are lovely to behold, and those with scarlet jackets are scornful of the cold. Sing a song of candles, the handsomest, forsooth, are those that banish darkness and light the way to truth. And the brightest of all candles is the eager soul of youth!
The night is at her work again, her back against my window-pane! She throws a veil o'er each flow'r-bed, extinguishes the blue and red. She drains the colour from the grass; the green grows black as she doth pass.
She throws a dark cloak o'er the trees and shrouds in mystery each breeze. She creeps about without a sound and spills long shadows on the ground, and when she's tired with work outside, she thinks with me she will abide!
She finds the keyhole of the door, slips through and darkens my oak floor and makes the curtains, once so gay, reflect her mantle's deep-toned grey. Into a corner she will creep and leave a shadow there to sleep.
A silver vase, a crimson bloom, are suddenly enwrapped in gloom. On with your work, industrious night, deprive me of each point of light. Yet will I see, for lo! there gleams my golden lamp of rosy dreams.
In praise of certain friends I write. They who are ready day or night to serve me with such keen delight and yet who feel no hurt of pride if I should seem to turn aside and seek another friend and guide.
In heat or cold, sunshine or hail, they are the friends who never fail to cheer me with a mirthful tale, inspire my brain and please my ear with flowing rhythms sweet to hear. They give me flow'rs throughout the year.
They match my mood, whate'er it be; they play and joke and laugh with me and offer soothing sympathy. They've garnered wisdom though the ages; poets are they, teachers and sages who ask for no reward, no wages.
But that I touch with gentle hand and always try to understand. No more than this do they demand. They are my friends when shadows fall, or when morn scales the night's high wall—my friends, my books, that never pall.
There is a heart, Do-and-Dare, laughing in the face of care, flaunting fear and dull despair.
There's a heart with broken wings, yet it soars and sweetly sings, to the tree of Hope it clings.
There's a heart, Luck-on-the-Wane, stumbles, almost faints with pain, laughs, and takes the road again.
There's a heart, Wait-and-See, darkest clouds in time will flee and the sun shine gloriously.
There's a heart, Up-and-Doing, strength and courage oft renewing; ne'er repining, never rueing.
There's a heart, Mother-Wide, thoughts of self must stay outside, for it would nurture, comfort, guide.
There's a heart, Love's-own-Way, serving others day by day, setting suns in skies of grey.
The Mother of All Living is in grief, looking in vain for many beauteous things that she so loved; (alas! that joy is brief) gone are the bright-hued flowers and no bird sings, grey are the skies and perished every leaf.
Then Eve, the Mother of All Living, weeps. She cannot understand this mood of Earth across whose face a sombre shadow creeps, whose eyes no longer mirror sunny mirth; even the playful little rabbit sleeps.
The grass has lost its sparkle, sheen and green (Now where can Adam be? Pray he come soon!), the sword-like wind is piercing, sharp and keen, the sun has set and veiled with clouds the moon. "Ah me!" weeps Eve, "this is a dreary scene."
"Cease weeping, Eve," a friendly angel cries and breathes upon a flake of drifting snow, and lo! before her glad, astonished eyes, it lives, takes root, and she can watch it grow—a snowflake in our snowdrop's dainty guise.
For you, new sounds, new friends, new sights. For us, a dreariness and pain; a hungry longing through blank days and nights—till you come home again. You have the joy of work that must be done, and though we glory in your sure success, you were the source from dawn till set of sun of all our happiness.
Your thoughts have all the future for their flight. But ours are circling ever in the past, or dwelling on the one intense delight—when you return at last. Each thing, inanimate and dumb, a chair, a book, the reading-lamp and fire, has now the power to ask, "When will he come?" thus voicing our desire.
The old home, now that you have gone, dear boy, is like an empty shell in which we hear the murmur of life's tide that flowed with joy o'er hearts that felt you near. Fail not to write. This one thing we implore. Letters must be your voice and touch of hand; must be your footsteps at our silent door—Dear son, you understand?
But three things held my interest, and three things chained my roving eyes. A stick, a book and (this was best!) a half-worn shoe of tiny size.
A pedlar's stick and very old. I mused about this unknown's pack. And were his fairings always sold, or was his business sometimes slack? And did he walk through London town when lilacs scented all the air, selling bright ribbons for a gown, and filmy scarves to veil soft hair?
The A.B.C. inscribed on horn! Oh, scholar of long vanished years, did you your baby lessons scorn and smear this book of horn with tears? A tiny shoe which had been found just near a wharf, the notice said. You vagrant Puss! Now I'll be bound poor mother feared that you were dead. But when she found you once again, though you had lost one little shoe, though you had caused her tears and pain—I hope she didn't punish you!
I would her thoughts had all been written down! But they have passed in silence, through a thread, into a work-a-day or festive gown—and we are left to guess her thoughts unsaid.
She was so young when she began to sew. First she but "tacked" for some much surer hand. But now, the wrinkles, tiny row on row, are, round her eyes, like gathers in a band; just like the gathers she herself has made in many a frock of ivory-tinted shade.
Little young dressmaker with silk and lace, fashioning frocks predestined for a ball! I think a wistfulness veiled her sweet face; she, too, could hear the rhythmic music call.
How intimately she has lived with life, expressing every mood by her great skill; watching the maid emerge a happy wife; interpreting her pleasure in a frill! But when she makes a frock of schoolgirl size, I think she weaves in blessings, mother-wise.
The lid's divided into three, 'tis shiny and so very black. My childhood's tide of ecstasy is flowing, flowing back! I'm shopping for Patricia Ann (one-quarter of my age is she)—each paint is in a little pan, just as it used to be.
And there are rows of them, just think! Three gallant rows; green, yellow, blue; rose madder, cousin to a pink; gamboge of mustard hue. My heart thumps quickly—yes, it's there! The little tube called Chinese White. Mysterious paint, a treasure rare, it always gave me such delight.
Ultramarine and olive-green! One conjured with such names as these. I see an old, familiar scene, "My paint-box, mother, please." The lid's divided into three, 'tis shiny and so extra black. Patricia Ann! 'tis ecstasy to bring this memory back.
I should have hurried, being late. But then, the King-Cups, such a glow! Right at the corner, Notting Hill Gate. Enough to make one's feet grow slow, enough to make one stop and stare (and feel if there are pence to spare!).
"One bob, lady, this big bunch. Aren't they lovely, just like gold? They'll all be gone before m' lunch, m' baskets empty, 'arf is sold; picked them myself else they'd be dearer." At this remark I drew much nearer.
"Picked them yourself?" I showed surprise. "That's right, lady, every one." (I tried to catch the wretch's eyes.) "Up fer hours before the sun." I asked, "And did you hear the thrush?" "A thousand, mum" (without a blush!).
He thrust the King-Cups in my face. He said, "The blackbirds was a treat. Of course, it was a dampish place." I glanced at his dry-booted feet. I laughed aloud and so did he. The King-Cups glowed with sympathy.
Indeed you have just cause for pride. It's true you're damp and somewhat dented, quite badly injured at one side, but, ah! you're sweetly scented. To think that you once carried shoes and now you've brought such fragrant beauty. Of course, a box like you can't choose—you simply have to do your duty.
Your life is over. That is plain. But your last service was worth while, for, though the day was chill with rain, yet did the postman flash a smile. He smiled and with great gusto cried (as down our horrid stairs he went), "I'm sure they're flowers for you inside. From Whitstable. My home is Kent."
Nice, smiling postie! He was right. You were so damp, yet smelt so sweet. Off with your lid. Oh! what delight—cowslips and primroses to greet! Ah! boot-box, 'twas your lucky day. I'm sure you never dreamt you'd bring to town, ere you were thrown away, the breath and loveliness of Spring.
A monkey turns a somersault, a clown walks up a ladder; before these toys I have to halt, and grow quite glad—and gladder! Policemen, in the shiniest tin, control an unseen traffic. That doll can dance, see it begin—oh, I grow quite ecstatic.
Of course, we love the gracious shops that harbour every type of toy; but when I see street humming-tops, I really can't restrain my joy. You see, it makes one feel quite young when striding through a busy city to hear the friendly, Cockney tongue, "Now look at jumping kitty!"
In shops you aren't amazed to meet a squeaking pig that slowly dies; but when you see one on the street—it's such a fine surprise. Imagine seeing tropic birds a-pecking at some golden grain ('tis hard to find appropriate words) 'mid London soot and rain. Toy birds! A realistic crowd—how they went bobbing up and down; I stared and stared, and laughed aloud—then bought the red one streaked with brown.
"I hope it will rain when I'm out," she said, "I hope it will rain, I do. I have an umbrella, it's new and it's red; I hold it quite high, right over my head. It opens just like an umbrella should; its ribs are of steel and its handle of wood, and Nursie reminds me I have to take care not to tangle the spokes in another girl's hair, and be very careful of small children's eyes—how I wish that the rain would plop from the skies!"
"At the very first drop, I'd open it quick; it slides down the handle and makes a sharp click. Then I know it is ready and step underneath, and away we both go together! It's the loveliest feeling, walking like that, with a bright red roof right over my hat; and no one can see me, except p'raps my shoes; but I can peep sideways whenever I choose. Oh, I'm longing for rainy weather!"
"The silk looks so lovely, when shining with rain; each drop makes a plop—and then a bright stain. I think it's beginning ... I'd better be quick ... it's sliding ... it's open ... it's made a sharp click!"
In a shop I heard her say (I listened, shameless, I confess!), "That boy of ours, from day to day, brings us nought but happiness." "Just like ours," her friend replied. "Never lived a better lad; always been a source of pride to his mother and his dad."
How I longed to say with glee, "So is mine—so that makes three!"
In a 'bus that very day (I shouldn't listen, but I do), I overheard a woman say (her voice just thrilled me through and through), "You've no idea how Son has grown, better boy there never breathed." The other said in such a tone I knew her lips with smiles were wreathed, "So is ours! So thoughtful, kind; just as good as gold is he."
I longed to call out from behind, "So is mine—so that makes three!" Talk to strangers! Can't be done—God bless every mother's son!
Said Mother Earth, "'Tis surely meet that I my gratitude should show for sunshine's warm and thrilling glow, for all the winds that softly blow, for rain that cools me of my heat. Seemly is gratitude and sweet, and I my thanks would now bestow."
So Mother Earth brought forth in turn, the Springtime blossoms, tender, fair; she drenched with scent the Springtime air. Then Summer's flowers smiled everywhere, while her maternal breast did yearn to proffer fruit for all to share. Thus did she make a rich return for sun and rain and wind's good care.
Said Soul of man, "'Tis surely right that I to Him my just dues pay for blossoms strewed along the way, for mercy shown me day by day, for beauteous dawn and starry night, for all His gifts that give the delight. I must repay, 'tis only right. Like Mother Earth I'll strive to be—a garden, flowering fragrantly."
Give me a draught of laughter before the day begins. Let troubles follow after, 'tis the laughing heart that wins. Proffer me golden laughter when clouds obscure the sun, no matter what comes after. With laughter, work's well done.
Tonic supreme is laughter, salt for the daily meat, light 'neath the gloomiest rafter, essence providing the sweet. Fresh air, and all souls need it, swift and heaven-sent purge, music for ears that heed it, irresistible urge.
Precious beyond all measure, gift that we all may share, mankind's magical treasure, banishing sorrow and care. Give me a draught of laughter before the day begins. Let troubles follow after, 'tis the laughing heart that wins.
They who have gone so slowly all their days, come give them garlands and acclaim them great. Their record is deserving of high praise; the voice of duty slowed their eager gait. Seldom spectacular is duty's speed which is maintained the road-length of the years, decided by the daily humdrum need—flow'rs for the slow of gait, give them your cheers.
For when one longs to flee from duty's face, it takes great courage to withstand the urge; the same old road, the uninspiring pace: over the soul the waves of boredom surge.
Here is a record that is hard to beat: never too fast for those with injured wings; never too fast for those with weary feet; never too fast for little humdrum things that must be done for someone else's sake; never too fast to hear a brother's voice; just slow enough, as we our journey take, to see the signpost, Beauty, and rejoice.
"The cheerful heart hath a continual feast—" So it has, so it has; a feast of sound! Growing things a-pushing, a-pushing through the ground. Waves coming home to shore, waves outward bound. So it has, so it has, a feast of sounds to hear, Springtime a-dancing, advancing very near, and sticky-buds a-swelling on every chestnut spear.
"The cheerful heart hath a continual feast——" So it has, so it has; a feast of sight! Dawn with her golden, pink-flushed light; stars with their silver in the blue of night. So it has, so it has, a feast of sights to see! Pink and white blossoms on the almond-tree, and all the glowing pictures on the walls of memory.
"The cheerful heart hath a continual feast——" So it has, so it has; a feast of things to do! Tasks that face it hourly, the whole day through; tasks that come a-knocking each time the day is new. So it has, so it has, a feast of Duty's bringing. Cheerful Heart draws near to it, smiling and a-singing, whilst Courage sets the bells of Hope a-swinging and a-ringing!
Any little song will do, for me and you. Needn't be a long song, needn't be a strong song, just a little soft song—for us two.
Any little rippling rhyme, a fairy chime. Needn't be a bold theme, just a rosy, gold dream, just the little old theme—for us two. Any little song will do, for me and you. So long as it is love's song, gentle as a dove's song, yet a strong and long song—for us two.
Any little song will do; old, yet new. With love for its sweet theme; a rosy and a fleet dream; a lasting and a meet theme—for us two. Just a little song to sing, a tender rhyme. With love's bright gleam in it, and love's true theme in it, and love's sweet dream in it—to last all time!
England, they went for you. A band of youthful knights, a host of shining knights, relinquishing all dear delights though life was young and joy was new—England, they went for you.
England, they loved you so. On alien soil, 'neath alien skies, yours were the features mirrored in their eyes. "In England now," they mused, "the sun doth rise"; or, "now she sets, a gold and crimson glow"—England, they loved you so.
England, what will you do? What will you do for those who gave life's rose in its first blush to you? England! For their dear sake, grow lovelier still. Let Honour flourish; let the Truth awake; give us, who live, the heart and power and will to make you lovelier still.
And then will they, through heaven's shining bars, smile down on England and, with happy breath, apostrophise the fellowship of stars—"See you how England immortalises Death?"
Look! Dawn comes tripping o'er the hill and in her hand a pearly horn. Through it, she sounds an echoing trill, a gladsome greeting to the morn. Oh! Dawn, your stirring bugle blow—a-hunting, hunting, I will go.
Imagination for swift steed, a Pegasus with whim-born wings; we'll follow where gay fancies lead to Inspiration's hidden springs. Oh! Dawn, your stirring bugle blow—a-hunting, hunting, I will go.
And beauty everywhere we'll see, as through the south we gaily ride; red berries on the spindle-tree and flashing Bryony beside. And Old Man's Beard, like new-fall'n snow, along the country lanes will grow.
We'll go along, a slapping pace, topping a flight of rails with ease. Oh, never was there such a chase—the quarry, just a gentle breeze; the quarry, just a sunset's glow when I a-hunting, hunting go!
Blessings on you, merry windows. How you hearten passers-by, sending forth your smiling radiance in these days of gloomy sky. Walking past a row of windows, peering here and gazing there, I am thrilled through my whole being—to these treasures, I am heir!
Glow of colours, curves of beauty, loveliness displayed for me. Here, a most entrancing picture; there, exquisite jewellery. Shimmering silks and gleaming satins smiling through the window-pane; books that beckon to the spirit; toys that make one young again.
Blessings on you, merry windows, homeward now I take my way with my spirit drenched in colours; heart steps forth in gay array! Happiness, a flashing jewel, on my finger now I wear. Blessings on the Christmas windows, to whose beauty I am heir.
Hark! The Crier rings his bell, "Dreams to sell, dreams to sell!" Smiles for pay, take your choice, dreams to make the heart rejoice. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding, ding, ding. Dreams that dance and gaily sing!
Dreams to sell! I'll choose these. Flow'rs and streams and shady trees. Such a pleasant little dream will make the winter shorter seem. For the summer—ice and snow, dream-tobogganing I'll go. For the Autumn while leaves fall—the blackbird's thrilling Springtime call.
What's my choice, then, for the Spring? Dream of golden harvesting. Now a dream for all the Year—friendship, kindliness and cheer. Give me, Crier, give me, pray, Dream of Love to last alway. Hark! The Crier rings his bell, "Dreams to sell, dreams to sell!"
Alas, Jack Frost, 'tis true you have brought death. Witness the roses in my lady's bow'r. Yet, with your guilt-convicted breath, and in that self-same, devastating hour, you also proved how generous you are, for on her window-pane you left a star!
Gallant Jack Frost! to give the young a treat, breathing your magic on each little pool, forming "cat-ice" for brave, adventurous feet that play the laggard on their way to school. Oh, joy, to hear the laughing Jills and Jacks when 'neath their boisterous tread, the cat-ice cracks!
A misty fog! Ah, then, what work you do. Then you're the artist, magical, supreme. Look! Frosted leaves, berries of scarlet hue; a world a-sparkle, fairyland, a dream. Bare branches are more lovely since you came, and spider webs are silver filigree. The world is set within a glistening frame since you achieved this master-artistry.
Beauty of earth and sky and sea, human affections warm and bright. Sorrow and joy and sympathy, sun and shadow, and day and night. Suns that rise and set again, shining stars and singing birds; falls for pride and balm for pain; tenderness of spoken words. All these things, and more, unfurled within the calyx of the world.
Changes happening everywhere, inventions from man's eager mind, affecting land and sea and air, always something new to find. Out of love and into love, birth and death and then new life. Peaceful stars at night above; by day, a city's heat and strife. Hate and love, mistrust, belief, laughter, frowns and smiles and fears. Ill and good luck, joy and grief, courage drying cowardly tears. All these things, and more, unfurled, within the calyx of the world.
The sky hath stars at night, like flowers they bloom, their petals silvery white, their petals shining bright, dispel the gloom.
The mind hath stars as well, star-thoughts that brightly gleam, pure thoughts that cast a spell, and weave a dream.
And there are stars for day! A sunny, helpful deed; a gleaming beaming ray that brightens up the grey of someone's need.
The sky, the mind, the heart, star-shine there is for all. Lo! words that give delight are shooting-stars in flight; are shooting-stars that fall upon a troubled breast, and light a soul to rest.
Printed in Great Britain by
UNWIN BROTHERS LIMITED, LONDON AND WOKING
[The end of Joy's Loom by Wilhelmina Stitch]