The Verse-Book Of A Homely Woman | Page 8

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 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