Some day of days! Some dawning
         yet to be
     I shall be clothed with immortality!

     And, in that day, I shall not greatly care
     That Jane spilt candle grease upon the
         stair.

     It will not grieve me then, as once it did,
     That careless hands have chipped my
         teapot lid.

     I groan, being burdened. But, in that
         glad day,
     I shall forget vexations of the way.

     That needs were often great, when means
         were small,
     Will not perplex me any more at all
     A few short years at most (it may be less),
     I shall have done with earthly storm and
         stress.

     So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet.
     O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep
         me sweet!

     First, there's the entrance, narrow,
         and so small,
     The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall;
     That staircase, too, has such an awkward
         bend,
     The carpet rucks, and rises up on end!
     Then, all the rooms are cramped and close
         together;
     And there's a musty smell in rainy weather.
     Yes, and it makes the daily work go hard
     To have the only tap across a yard.
     These creaking doors, these draughts, this
         battered paint,
     Would try, I think, the temper of a saint,

     How often had I railed against these
         things,
     With envies, and with bitter murmurings
     For spacious rooms, and sunny garden
         plots!
     Until one day,
     Washing the breakfast dishes, so I think,
     I paused a moment in my work to pray;
     And then and there
     All life seemed suddenly made new and
         fair;
     For, like the Psalmist's dove among the
         pots
     (Those endless pots, that filled the tiny
         sink!),
     My spirit found her wings.

     "Lord" (thus I prayed), "it matters not
         at all
     That my poor home is ill-arranged and
         small:
     I, not the house, am straitened; Lord,
         'tis I!
     Enlarge my foolish heart, that by-and-by
     I may look up with such a radiant face
     Thou shalt have glory even in this place.
     And when I trip, or stumble unawares
     In carrying water up these awkward stairs,
     Then keep me sweet, and teach me day
         by day
     To tread with patience Thy appointed
         way.
     As for the house . . . . Lord, let it be
         my part
     To walk within it with a perfect heart."

     See, I am cumbered, Lord,
        With serving, and with small vexa-
          tious things.
     Upstairs, and down, my feet
     Must hasten, sure and fleet.
     So weary that I cannot heed Thy word;
     So tired, I cannot now mount up with
          wings.
     I wrestle—how I wrestle!—through the
          hours.
     Nay, not with principalities, nor powers—
     Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's—
     But with antagonistic pots and pans:
     With footmarks in the hall,
     With smears upon the wall,
     With doubtful ears, and small unwashen
          hands,
     And with a babe's innumerable demands.

     I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops
          glisten,

     (O, child of mine, be still. And listen—
          listen!)

     At last, I laid aside
     Important work, no other hands could do
     So well (I thought), no skill contrive so
          true.
     And with my heart's door open—open
          wide—
     With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat.
     I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat,
     Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo,
     My thousand tasks were done the better so.

     I would that you should know,
     Dear mother, that I love you—love
          you so!
     That I remember other days and years;
     Remember childish joys and childish fears.
     And this, because my baby's little hand
     Opened my own heart's door and made
          me understand.

     I wonder how you could
     Be always kind and good!
     So quick to hear; to tend
     My smallest ills; to lend
     Such sympathising ears
     Swifter than ancient seer's.
     I never yet knew hands so soft and kind,
     Nor any cheek so smooth, nor any mind
     So full of tender thoughts. . . . Dear
          mother, now
     I think that I can guess a little how
     You must have looked for some response,
          some sign,
     That all my tiresome wayward heart was
          thine.

     And sure it was! You were my first dear
          love!
     You who first pointed me to God above;
     You who seemed hearkening to my lightest
          word,
     And in the dark night seasons always
          heard
     When I came trembling, knocking at your
          door.
     Forgive me, mother, if my whims outwore
     Your patient heart. Or if in later days
     I sought out foolish unfamiliar ways;
     If ever, mother dear, I loosed my hold
     Of your loved hand; or, headstrong,
          thought you cold,
     Forgive me, mother! Oh, forgive me,
          dear!
     I am come back at last—you see me
          here,
     Your loving child. . . . And, mother,
          on my knee
     I pray that thus my child may think of
          me!

     Sometimes, when everything goes
          wrong:
     When days are short, and nights are long;
     When wash-day brings so dull a sky
     That not a single thing will dry.
     And when the kitchen chimney smokes,
     And when there's naught so "queer" as
          folks!
     When friends deplore my faded youth,
     And when the baby cuts a tooth.
     While John, the baby last but one,
     Clings round my skirts till day is done;
     When fat, good-tempered Jane is glum,
     And butcher's man forgets to come.

     Sometimes, I say, on days like these,
     I get a sudden gleam of bliss.
     "Not on some sunny day of ease,
     He'll come . . but on a day like this!"
     And, in the twinkling of an eye,
     These tiresome things will all go by!

     And, 'tis a curious thing, but Jane
     Is sure, just then, to smile again;
     Or, out the truant sun will peep,
     And both the babies fall asleep.
     The fire burns up with roar sublime,
     And butcher's man is just in time.
     And oh! My feeble faith grows strong
     Sometimes, when everything goes wrong!

     Such a sensation Sunday's preacher
          made.
     "Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock-
          in-trade?
     Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;
     No interview with Christ from day to day,
     A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled
          through;
     A random text—for any one will do."
     Then gently, lovingly, with look intense,
     He leaned towards us—
     "Is this common sense?
     No person in his rightful mind will try
     To run his business so, lest by-and-by
     The thing collapses, smirching his good
          name,
     And he, insolvent, face the world with
     shame."

     I heard it all; and something inly said
     That all was true. The daily toil and press
     Had crowded out my hopes of holiness.
     Still, my old self rose, reasoning:
     How can you,
     With strenuous work to do—
     Real slogging work—say, how can you
          keep pace
     With leisured folks? Why, you could
          grow in grace
     If you had time . . . the daily Interview
     Was never meant for those who wash and
          bake.

     But yet a small Voice whispered:
     "For My sake
     Keep tryst with Me!
     There are so many minutes in a day,
     So spare Me ten.
     It shall be proven, then,
     Ten minutes set apart can well repay
     You shall accomplish more
     If you will shut your door
     For ten short minutes just to watch and
          pray."

     "Lord, if I do
     Set ten apart for You"
     (I dared, yes dared, to reason thus with
          Him)
     "The baker's sure to come;
     Or Jane will call
     To say some visitor is in the hall;
     Or I shall smell the porridge burning, yes,
     And run to stop it in my hastiness.
     There's not ten minutes, Lord, in all the
          day
     I can be sure of peace in which to watch
          and pray."

     But all that night,
     With calm insistent might,
     That gentle Voice spake softly, lovingly—
     "Keep tryst with Me!
     You have devised a dozen different ways
     Of getting easy meals on washing days;
     You spend much anxious thought on
          hopeless socks;
     On moving ironmould from tiny frocks;
     'Twas you who found
     A way to make the sugar lumps go round;
     You, who invented ways and means of
          making
     Nice spicy buns for tea, hot from the baking,
     When margarine was short . . . and can-
          not you
     Who made the time to join the butter queue
     Make time again for Me?
     Yes, will you not, with all your daily
          striving,
     Use woman's wit in scheming and con-
          triving
     To keep that tryst with Me?"

     Like ice long bound
     On powdered frosty ground,
     My erring will all suddenly gave way.
     The kind soft wind of His sweet pleading
          blew,
     And swiftly, silently, before I knew,
     The warm love loosed and ran.
     Life-giving floods began,
     And so most lovingly I answered Him:
     "Lord, yes, I will, and can.
     I will keep tryst with Thee, Lord, come
          what may!"

     ENVOY.

       It is a wondrous and surprising thing
       How that ten minutes takes the piercing
          sting
       From vexing circumstance and poison-
          ous dart
       Hurled by the enemy straight at my
          heart.
       So, to the woman tempest-tossed and
          tried
       By household cares, and hosts of things
          beside,
       With all my strength God bids me say
          to you:
       "Dear soul, do try the daily Interview!"

     One yestereve, in the waning light,
     When the wind was still and the
          gloaming bright,
     There came a breath from a far countrie,
     And the ghost of a Little House called
          to me.

     "Have you forgotten me?" "No!" I cried.
     "Your hall was as narrow as this is wide,
     Your roof was leaky, the rain came
          through
     Till a ceiling fell, on my new frock too!

     "In your parlour flooring a loose board hid,
     And wore the carpet, you know it did!
     Your kitchen was small, and the shelves
          were few,
     While the fireplace smoked—and you
          know it's true!"

     The little ghost sighed: "Do you quite
          forget
     My window boxes of mignonette?
     And the sunny room where you used to
          sew
     When a great hope came to you, long ago?

     "Ah, me! How you used to watch the
          door
     Where a latch-key turned on the stroke
          of four.
     And you made the tea, and you poured
          it out
     From an old brown pot with a broken
          spout

     "Now, times have changed. And your
          footman waits
     With the silver urn, and the fluted plates.
     But the little blind Love with the wings,
          has flown,
     Who used to sit by your warm hearth-
          stone."

     The little ghost paused. Then "Away!"
          I said.
     "Back to your place with the quiet dead.
     Back to your place, lest my servants see,
     That the ghost of a Little House calls
          to me."

     Across the town the evening bell is
          ringing;
     Clear comes the call, through kitchen
          windows winging!

     Lord, knowing Thou art kind,
     I heed Thy call to prayer.
     I have a soul to save;
     A heart which needs, I think, a double
          share
     Of sweetnesses which noble ladies crave.
     Hope, faith and diligence, and patient
          care,
     With meekness, grace, and lowliness of
          mind.
     Lord, wilt Thou grant all these
     To one who prays, but cannot sit at ease?

     They do not know,
     The passers-by, who go
     Up to Thy house, with saintly faces set;
     Who throng about Thy seat,
     And sing Thy praises sweet,
     Till vials full of odours cloud Thy feet;
     They do not know . . .
     And, if they knew, then would they greatly
          care
     That Thy tired handmaid washed the
          children's hair;
     Or, with red roughened hands, scoured
          dishes well,
     While through the window called the
          evening bell?
     And that her seeking soul looks upward
          yet,
     THEY do not know . . . but THOU wilt
         not forget

     I know it all . . . I know.
     For I am God. I am Jehovah, He
     Who made you what you are; and I can
          see
     The tears that wet your pillow night by
          night,
     When nurse has lowered that too-brilliant
          light;
     When the talk ceases, and the ward grows
          still,
     And you have doffed your will:
     I know the anguish and the helplessness.
     I know the fears that toss you to and fro.
     And how you wrestle, weariful,
     With hosts of little strings that pull
     About your heart, and tear it so.
     I know.

     Lord, do You know
     I had no time to put clean curtains up;
     No time to finish darning all the socks;
     Nor sew clean frilling in the children's
          frocks?
     And do You know about my Baby's cold?
     And how things are with my sweet three-
          year-old?
     Will Jane remember right
     Their cough mixture at night?
     And will she ever think
     To brush the kitchen flues, or scrub the
          sink?

     And then, there's John! Poor tired
          lonely John!
     No one will run to put his slippers on.
     And not a soul but me
     Knows just exactly how he likes his tea.
     It rends my heart to think I cannot go
     And minister to him. . . .

     I know. I know.

     Then, there are other things,
     Dear Lord . . . more little strings
     That pull my heart. Now Baby feels her
          feet
     She loves to run outside into the street
     And Jane's hands are so full, she'll never
          see. . . .
     And I'm quite sure the clean clothes won't
          be aired—
     At least, not properly.
     And, oh, I can't, I really can't be spared—
     My little house calls so!

     I know.
     And I am waiting here to help and bless.
     Lay down your head. Lay down your hope-
          lessness
     And let Me speak.
     You are so weary, child, you are so weak.
     But let us reason out
     The darkness and the doubt;
     This torturing fear that tosses you about.

     I hold the universe. I count the stars.
     And out of shortened lives I build the
     ages. . . .

     But, Lord, while such high things Thy
          thought engages,
     I fear—forgive me—lest
     Amid those limitless eternal spaces
     Thou shouldest, in the high and heavenly
          places,
     Pass over my affairs as things of nought.
     There are so many houses just like mine.
     And I so earth-bound, and Thyself Divine.
     It seems impossible that Thou shouldst
          care
     Just what my babies wear;
     And what John gets to eat; . . . and
          can it be
     A circumstance of great concern to Thee
     Whether I live or die?

     Have you forgotten then, My child, that I,
     The Infinite, the Limitless, laid down
     The method of existence that I knew,
     And took on Me a nature just like you?
     I laboured day by day
     In the same dogged way
     That you have tackled household tasks.
          And then,
     Remember, child, remember once again
     Your own beloveds . . . did you really
          think—
     (Those days you toiled to get their meat
          and drink,
     And made their clothes, and tried to under-
          stand
     Their little ailments)—did you think your
          hand,
     Your feeble hand, was keeping them from ill?
     I gave them life, and life is more than meat;
     Those little limbs, so comely and so sweet.
     You can make raiment for them, and are glad,
     But can you add
     One cubit to their stature? Yet they grow!
     Oh, child, hands off! Hands off! And
          leave them so.
     I guarded hitherto, I guard them still.

     I have let go at last. I have let go.
     And, oh, the rest it is, dear God, to know
     My dear ones are so safe, for Thou wilt
          keep.
     Hands off, at last! Now, I can go to
          sleep.

     Not long ago, I prayed for dying
          grace,
     For then I thought to see Thee face to
          face.

     And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's
          cry)
     That Thou wilt give me grace to live, not
          die.

     Such foolish prayers! I know. Yet
          pray I must.
     Lord help me—help me not to see the
          dust!

     And not to nag, nor fret because the blind
     Hangs crooked, and the curtain sags be-
          hind.

     But, oh! The kitchen cupboards! What a
          sight!
     'T'will take at least a month to get them
          right.

     And that last cocoa had a smoky taste,
     And all the milk has boiled away to waste!

     And—no, I resolutely will not think
     About the saucepans, nor about the sink.

     These light afflictions are but temporal
          things—
     To rise above them, wilt Thou lend me
          wings?

     Then I shall smile when Jane, with towzled
          hair
     (And lumpy gruel!), clatters up the stair.

     I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit
          ago it seems,
     An' back among the Cotswolds I were
          wanderin' in me dreams.
     I saw the old grey homestead, with the
          rickyard set around,
     An' catched the lowin' of the herd, a
          pleasant, homelike sound.
     Then on I went a-singin', through the
          pastures where the sheep
     Was lyin' underneath the elms, a-tryin' for
          to sleep.

     An' where the stream was tricklin' by, half
          stifled by the grass,
     Heaped over thick with buttercups, I saw
          the corncrake pass.
     For 'twas Summer, Summer, SUMMER!
          An' the blue forget-me-nots
     Wiped out this dusty city and the smoky
          chimbley pots.
     I clean forgot My Lady's gown, the
          dazzlin' sights I've seen;
     I was back among the Cotswolds, where
          me heart has always been.

     Then through the sixteen-acre on I went,
          a stiffish climb,
     Right to the bridge, where all our sheep
          comes up at shearin' time.
     There was the wild briar roses hangin'
          down so pink an' sweet,
     A-droppin' o' their fragrance on the clover
          at my feet
     An' here me heart stopped beatin', for
          down by Gatcombe's Wood
     My lad was workin' with his team, as only
          my lad could!

     "COME BACK!" was what the tricklin' brook
          an' breezes seemed to say.
     "'TIS LONESOME ON THE COTSWOLDS NOW THAT
          MARY DREW'S AWAY."

     An' back again I'm goin' (for me wages
          has been paid,
     An' they're lookin' through the papers for
          another kitchen maid).
     Back to the old grey homestead, an' the
          uplands cool an' green,
     To my lad among the Cotswolds, where
          me heart has always been!

     "I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit
     My mother's got the copper lit;
     An' piles of clothes are on the floor,
     An' steam comes out the wash-house door;
     An' Mrs. Griggs has come, an' she
     Is just as cross as she can be.
     She's had her lunch, and ate a lot;
     I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot.
     An' when I helped her make the starch,
     She said: 'Now, Miss, you just quick
          march!
     What? Touch them soap-suds if you
          durst;
     I'll see you in the blue-bag first!'
     An' mother dried my frock, an' said:
     'Come back in time to go to bed.'
     I'm off to gran'ma's, for, you see,
     At home, they can't put up with me.

     "But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice.
     If gran'ma's making currant-cake,
     She'll let me put the ginger spice,
     An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake;
     An' then she says she thinks it fun
     To taste the edges when it's done.

     "That's gran'ma's house. Why, hip,
          hooray!
     My gran'ma's got a washing day;
     For gran'pa's shirts are on the line,
     An' stockings, too—six, seven, eight, nine!
     She'll let me help her. Yes, she'll tie
     Her apron round to keep me dry;
     An' on her little stool I'll stand
     Up to the wash-tub. 'Twill be grand!
     There's no cross Mrs. Griggs to say,
     'Young Miss is always in the way.'
     An' me and gran'ma will have tea
     At dinner-time—just her an' me—
     An' eggs, I 'spect, an' treacle rice.
     My goodness! Won't it all be nice?

     "Gran'ma, I'm come to spend the day,
     'Cause mother finds me in the way.
     Gran'ma, I'll peg the hankies out;
     Gran'ma, I'll stir the starch about;
     Gran'ma, I'm come, because, you see,
     At home, they can't put up with me."

     When Baby strayed, it seemed to
          me,
     Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly.

     At once, with frenzied haste, my feet
     Ran up and down the busy street.

     If ever in my life I prayed,
     It was the evening Baby strayed.

     And yet my great concern was this
     (Not dread of losing Baby's kiss,

     And Baby's soft small hand in mine,
     And Baby's comradeship divine),

     'Twas BABY'S terror, BABY'S fears!
     Whose hand but mine could dry her
          tears?

     I without Baby? In my need
     I were a piteous soul indeed.

     But piteous far, beyond all other,
     A little child without a mother.

     And God, in mercy, graciously
     Gave my lost darling back to me.

     O high and lofty One!
     THOU couldst have lived to all eternity
     Apart from ME!
     In majesty, upon that emerald throne.
     Thou, with Thy morning stars,
     Thy dawns, with golden bars,
     And all the music of the heavenly train.
     Possessing all things, what hadst Thou to
          gain
     By seeking me?
     What was I? . . . and, what am I? . . .
          less than nought.
     And yet Thy mercy sought.
     Yea, Thou hast set my feet
     Upon the way of holiness, and sweet
     It is, to seek Thee daily, unafraid . . .

     But (this I learnt the night that Baby
          strayed)
     Here was Thy chief, Thy great concern
          for me:
     My desolate estate, apart from Thee!

     If only dinner cooked itself,
     And groceries grew upon the shelf;
     If children did as they were told,
     And never had a cough or cold;
     And washed their hands, and wiped their
          boots,
     And never tore their Sunday suits,
     But always tidied up the floor,
     Nor once forgot to shut the door.

     If John remembered not to throw
     His papers on the ground. And oh!
     If he would put his pipes away,
     And shake the ashes on the tray
     Instead of on the floor close by;
     And always spread his towel to dry,
     And hung his hat upon the peg,
     And never had bones in his leg.

     Then, there's another thing. If Jane
     Would put the matches back again
     Just where she found them, it would be
     A save of time to her and me.
     And if she never did forget
     To put the dustbin out; nor yet
     Contrive to gossip with the baker,
     Nor need ten thunderbolts to wake her.

     Ahem! If wishes all came true,
     I don't know what I'd find to do,
     Because if no one made a mess
     There'd be no need of cleanliness.
     And things might work so blissfully,
     In time—who knows?—they'd not need
          me!

     And this being so, I fancy whether
     I'll go on keeping things together.

     His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain
     That hurtles on the window pane.
     Let's draw the curtains close and sit
     Beside the fire awhile and knit.
     Two purl—two plain. A well-shaped
          sock,
     And warm. (I thought I heard a knock,
     But 'twas the slam of Jones's door.)
     Yes, good Scotch yarn is far before
     The fleecy wools—a different thing,
     And best for wear. (Was that his ring?)
     No. 'Tis the muffin man I see;
     We'll have threepennyworth for tea.
     Two plain—two purl; that heel is neat.
     (I hear his step far down the street.)
     Two purl—two plain. The sock can
          wait;
     I'll make the tea. (He's at the gate!)

The Dear Folks in
     Devon

     Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ-
          mas, and to-night
     I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly
          berries bright.
     The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd
          dearly love to see,
     And those dear folks down in Devon,
          how they'll talk and think of me.

     Owd Ben'll bring the letters, Christmas
          morn, and if there's one
     As comes across from Canada straight
          from their absent son,
     My Mother's hands'll tremble, and my
          Dad'll likely say:
     "Don't seem like Christmas time no more,
          with our dear lad away."

     I can see 'em carve the Christmas beef,
          and Brother Jimmy's wife
     Will say her never tasted such, no, not in
          all her life.
     And Sister Martha's Christmas pies melt
          in your mouth, 'tis true,
     But 'twas Mother made the puddin', as
          mothers always do!

     Ah me! If I could just have wings, and
          in the dimsey light
     Go stealing up the cobbled path this
          lonesome Christmas night,
     Lift up the latch with gentle hand—My!
          What a shout there'd be!
     From those dear folks down in Devon!
          What a welcomin' for me!

        "Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that
     turneth aside to tarry for a night?"—Jer. xiv. 8.

     Nay, do not get the venison pasty
          out;
     I shall not greatly put myself about
     Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall
          spare
     Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole-
          some fare.
     We have to-morrow's dinner still to find;
     It's well for you I have a frugal mind.

     Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever
          next?
     Why with such questionings should I be
          vext?
     The man is naught to us; why should
          we care?
     The little attic room will do; 'tis bare,
     But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light;
     He has but come to tarry for a night.

     I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I,
     Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy
     Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to
          bed,
     And he can sup alone, well warmed and
          fed;
     'Tis much to take him in a night like this.
     Why should I fret me with concerns of
          his?

     Grey morning came, and at the break of
          day
     The Man rose up and went upon his way

        "I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they
     be of the same mind in the Lord"—Phil. iv. 2,

     EUODIAS.

     But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am
          sure
     He never would expect me to endure.
     There is a something in her very face
     Antagonistic to the work of grace.
     And even when I would speak graciously
     Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me.

     SYNTYCHE.

     No, not for worlds! Euodias has no
          mind;
     So slow she is, so spiritually blind.
     Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she
          says
     She grieves to see my aggravating ways
     Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly
     How odious Euodias can be!

     EUODIAS.

     Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another
          thing!

     SYNTYCHE.

     Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in-
          deed.

     EUODIAS.

     For His sake I'll endure her whispering

     SYNTYCHE.

     For His sake I'll consent to let her lead.

     EUODIAS.

     Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by
          day.

     SYNTYCHE.

     Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the
          way.