The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 8

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.
Listening
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 Christmas,
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!
The Reason
"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 wholesome
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
Two Women
"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 indeed.
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.
The Prize Fight
"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air,
but I hit hard and

straight at my own body." -- 1 Cor.
ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S
Translation).
'T'was breakfast time, and outside in
the street
The factory men went by with hurrying
feet.
And on the bridge, in dim December light,
The newsboys
shouted of the great prize
fight.
Then, as I dished the bacon, and served
out
The porridge, all our youngsters gave
a shout.
The letter-box had clicked, and through
the din
The Picture News was