Fay Inchfawn

“ 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. ”

“ 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? ”

“ In Dorset Dear In Dorset Dear they're making hay In just the old West Country way. With fork and rake and old-time gear They make the hay in Dorset Dear. From early morn till twilight grey They toss and turn and shake the hay. And all the countryside is gay With roses on the fallen may, For 'tis the hay-time of the year In Dorset Dear. ”

“ 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. ”

“ In Somerset In Somerset they guide the plough From early dawn till twilight now. The good red earth smells sweeter yet, Behind the plough, in Somerset. The celandines round last year's mow Blaze out . . . and with his old-time vow The South Wind woos the Violet, In Somerset. Then, every brimming dyke and trough Is laughing wide with ripples now, And oh, 'tis easy to forget That wintry winds can sigh and sough, When thrushes chant on every bough In Somerset! ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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! ”

“ She's clingin' round my knees, She's asking me for sups of tea, and bites of bread and cheese. She's climbing into grandma's bed, she's stroking grandma's face. She's tore my paper into bits and strawed it round the place. "If all the weans in all the world," says I, "was standin' here, Not one could hold a farthin' dip to Fanny's little dear!" For Fanny's little Fanny—oh, she's took the heart of me! 'Tis childern's childern is the CROWN of humble folk like we! ”

“ Did her eyes shine, or her heart ever leap As my heart leaps to-day? I, who am young; who long to try my wings! How should she understand, She, with her calm cool hand? She never felt such yearnings? And, beside, It's clear I can't be tied For ever to my mother's apron strings." There are Infinities of Knowledge, dear. And there are mysteries, not yet made clear To you, the Uninitiate. . . . Life's book Is open, yes; but you may only look At its first section. Youth Is part, not all, the truth. It is impossible that you should see The end from the beginning perfectly. ”

“ When thou shalt rise, And, stripped of earth, shall stand Within an Unknown Land; Alone, where no familiar thing May bring familiar comforting; Look up! 'Tis but thy Father's House! And, see His love-lamps leaning out to welcome thee! ”

“ 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 ”

“ 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." ”

“ On the stream the starlight shimmered, o'er their wings the moonbeams shone, Music filtered through the forest—and the Little Folk were gone!
The Street Player The shopping had been tedious, and the rain Came pelting down as she turned home again. The motor-bus swirled past with rush and whirr, Nought but its fumes of petrol left for her. The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese Malodorously mixed themselves with these. And all seemed wrong. The world was drab and grey As the slow minutes wept themselves away. And then, athwart the noises of the street, A violin flung out an Irish air. ”

“ 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. ”

“ Oh ay, the childern's coming! The CHILDERN did I say? Of course, they're man and woman grown, this many and many a day. But still, my lady's mouth do smile, and squire looks fit to sing, As Master John and Miss Elaine is coming Mothering. Then down to Farmer Westacott's, there's doings fine and grand, Because young Jake is coming home from sea, you understand. Put into port but yesternight, and when he steps ashore, 'Tis coming home the laddie is, to Somer- set once more. ”

“ 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." ”

“ 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!" ”