The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 9

suddenly pushed in.
John showed the lads the pictures, and
explained
Just how the fight took place, and what
was gained
By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me
As I sat,
busy, pouring out the tea:
"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.

She hits the air sometimes, though," and
John smiled.
"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with
widened eyes
Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a
prize?"
We laughed. And yet it set me thinking,
how
I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow
Munched at our early
cabbages, and ate
The lettuce up, and tramped my mignonette

!
And many a time I kicked against the
pricks
Because the little dog at number six
Disturbed my rest. And
then, how cross
I got
When Jane seemed discontented with her
lot.
Until poor John in desperation said
He wearied of the theme --
and went to
bed!
And how I vexed myself that day, when he
Brought people
unexpectedly for tea,
Because the table-cloth was old and
stained,
And not a single piece of cake remained.
And how my poor
head ached! Because,
well there!
It uses lots of strength to beat the air!
"I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray
For grace to hit the self-life
every day.
And when the old annoyance comes once
more
And the old temper rises sharp and sore,
I shall hit hard and
straight, O TenderWise,
And read approval in Thy loving eyes.
The Home Lights
"In my father's house!" The words
Bring sweet cadence to my ears.

Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,
Fly all swiftly down the
years,
To that wide casement, where I always see
Bright love-lamps
leaning out to welcome
me.

Sweet it was, how sweet to go
To the worn, familiar door.
No need
to stand a while, and wait,
Outside the well-remembered gate;
No
need to knock;
The easy lock
Turned almost of itself, and so
My
spirit was "at home" once more.
And then, within, how good to find

The same cool atmosphere of peace,
Where I, a tired child, might
cease
To grieve, or dread,
Or toil for bread.
I could forget
The
dreary fret.
The strivings after hopes too high,
I let them every one
go by.
The ills of life, the blows unkind,
These fearsome things
were left behind.
ENVOY.
O trembling soul of mine,
See how God's mercies shine!
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!
To an Old Teapot
Now from the dust of half-forgotten
things,
You rise to haunt me at the year's Springcleaning,
And bring to memory dim imaginings
Of mystic meaning.
No old-time potter handled you, I ween,
Nor yet were you of gold or
silver molten;
No Derby stamp, nor Worcester, can be
seen,
Nor Royal Doulton.
You never stood to grace the princely

board
Of monarchs in some Oriental palace.
Your lid is chipped,
your chubby side is
scored
As if in malice.
I hesitate to say it, but your spout
Is with unhandsome rivets held
together --
Mute witnesses of treatment meted out
In regions nether.
O patient sufferer of many bumps!
I ask it gently -- shall the dustbin
hold
you?
And will the dust-heap, with its cabbage
stumps,
At last enfold you?
It ought. And yet with gentle hands I
place
You with my priceless Delft and Dresden
china,
For sake of one who loved your homely
face
In days diviner.
To a Rebellious
Daughter
You call authority "a grievous thing."
With careless hands you snap
the
leading string,
And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),
Put off the old
love, and put on the new.
For "What does Mother know of love?"
you say.
"Did her soul ever thrill?
Did little tendernesses ever creep

Into her dreams, and over-ride her will?
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.
You answer: "Even so.
But how can Mother know,
Who meditates
upon the price of bacon?
On 'liberties' the charwoman has taken,

And on the laundry's last atrocities?
She knows her cookery book,

And how a joint of English meat should
look.
But all such things as these
Make up her life. She dwells in
tents,
but I
In a vast temple open to the sky."
Yet, time was, when that Mother stooped
to learn
The language written in your infant face.
For years she
walked your pace,
And none but she interpreted your chatter.
Who
else felt interest in such pitter-patter?
Or, weary, joined in all your
games with
zest,
And managed with a minimum of rest?
Now, is it not your
turn
To bridge the gulf, to span the gap between

you?
To-day, before Death's angel over-lean