 DEDICATION The Verse Book of a Homely Woman by Faye Inchfond, a pseudonym of Elizabeth Rebekah Ward, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka, dedicated to my first love, my mother. END OF DEDICATION This recording is in the public domain. PART 1 INDOORS The Long View by Faye Inchfond, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. 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. END OF POEM This recording is in the public domain. Within My House by Faye Inchfond, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. 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 straightened, Lord, to's 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Housewife by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. See, I am combered, Lord, with serving, and with small vexatious 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, nor spiritual foes of gods and mans, but with antagonistic pots and pans, with footmarks in the hall, with smears upon the wall, with doubtful ears, and small, unwashin' hands, and with a babe's innumerable demands. I toil with feverish haste, while teardrops 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 can drive so true. And with my heart's door open, open wide, with leisure'd feet and idle hands, I sacked. I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat, sat down to listen and to learn, and lo, my thousand tasks were done the better so. End of poem. 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 sympathizing ears, swifter than ancient seers. 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. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. In Such an Hour, by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Sometimes when everything goes wrong, when days are short and nights are long, when washday brings so dull a sky that not a single thing will dry, and when the kitchen chimney smokes, and when there's not 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Daily Interview by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. 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 may be just gabbled through, a random text for any one will do. Then gently, lovingly, with look intense, he leaned toward 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 trist 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 bakers 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 trist 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 iron mould from tiny frocks. T'was 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 cannot you, who made time to join the butter-cue, make time again for me? Yes, will you not, with all your daily striving, use woman's wit in scheming and contriving, to keep that trist with me? Like ice, long bound, on powdered, frosty ground. My airing will all suddenly gave way. The kind soft wind of his sweet pleading blue, 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 trist with thee, Lord, come what may. It is a wondrous and surprising thing, how that ten minutes takes the piercing sting from vexing circumstance, and poisonous 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 yester eve in the waning light, when the wind was still and the gloaming bright, there came a breath from a far country, and the ghost of a little house called to me. Have you forgotten me? No, I cried. Your hull 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 parlor 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 minyanette, in the sunny room where you used to sow, 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 footmen 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 hearthstone. The little ghost paused, then away, I said, back to your place with the quiet dead, back to your place lest my servant see, that the ghost of a little house calls to me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE HOUSE MOTHER, by Fay Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. 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 mine, 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, wearyful, 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 so 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 hopelessness, 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 shouldst, in the high and heavenly places, pass over my affairs as things of naught. There are so many houses just like mine, and I so earthbound 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 in nature just like you? I labored 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 understand 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 a grayment 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 hither, too. 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Convalescence by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Not long ago I prayed for dying grace. For then I thought to see thee face to face. And now I ask, Lord, to the weaklings 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 behind. But oh, the kitchen cupboards, what a sight! It will take at least a month to get them right. And that last cocoa had a smoky taste. Yet 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 tousaled hair, and the lumpy gruel, clatters up the stair. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Homesick by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I shut my eyes to rest them just a bit ago, it seems, and back among the Cotswolds I were wandering in me dreams. I saw the old gray homestead with the rick-yard set around, and catched the lowen of the herd, a pleasant, home-like sound. And on I went to singing, through the pastures where the sheep was lying underneath the elms, a tryon for to sleep. And where the stream was trickling by, half-stifled by the grass, heaped over thick with butter-cups, I saw the corn-crake pass. For it was summer, summer, summer, and the blue forget-me-naughts wiped out this dusty city and the smoky chimbley-pots. I clean-forgot my lady's gown, the dazzling 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 shearing time. There was the wild briar roses hangin' down so pink and sweet, a drop another fragrance on the clover at my feet. In 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 and breezes seemed to say, tis lonesome on the Cotswold now that Mary drew's away. And back again I'm goin', for me wages has been paid, and they're lookin' through the papers for another kitchen made. Back to the old gray homestead and the uplands, cool and green, to my lad among the Cotswolds, where me heart has always been. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. On washing-day, by Faye Inchefond, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I'm goin' to Grandmas for a bit. My mother's got the copper-lit, and piles of clothes are on the floor, and steam comes out the wash-house door, and Mrs. Griggs has come, and 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, and 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. And mother dried my frock, and said, Come back in time to go to bed. I'm off to Grandmas for, you see, At home they can't put up with me. But down at Grandmas, tis so nice, If Grandmas making current cake, She'll let me put the ginger-spice, And grease the tin, and watch it bake. And then she says she thinks it fun, To taste the edges when it's done. That's Grandmas house, why hip, hooray! My grandma's got a washing-day, For grandpa's shirts are on the line, And stockings, too, six, seven, eight, nine. She'll let me help her, yes, She'll tie her apron round to keep me dry, And 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, And me and Grandma will have tea at dinner-time, Just her and me. And eggs, I spec'd, and treacle rice, My goodness, won't it all be nice? Grandma, I'm come to spend the day, Cos mother finds me in the way. Grandma, I'll peg the hankies out, Grandma, I'll stir the starch about. Grandma, I'm come, because, you see, At home they can't put up with me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When Baby Strayed by Faye Inchvon Read for LibriVox.org by Clarica 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 comrade-ship divine, T'was 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. Oh 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 dons, With golden bars, And all the music of the heavenly train. Possessing all things, What hadst thou to gain by seeking me? Was I, and what am I, less than not, And yet thy mercy sought? Yea, thou hast set my feet upon the way of holiness, And sweet it is, to seek the 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. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. IF ONLY By Fay Inchfawn Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica 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 contrived 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Listening by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. 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 pearl, 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 three penny-worth for tea. Two plain, two pearl, That heel is neat. I hear his step far down the street. Two pearl, two plain, The sock can wait. I'll make the tea, He's at the gate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dear Folks in Devon, by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Back in the dear old country tis Christmas, And tonight I'm thinking of the mistletoe And hollyberry's bright. The smoke above our chimbly pots I dearly love to see, And those dear folks down in Devon, How they'll talk and think of me. Ode ban will bring the letters Christmas morn, And if there's one as comes across from Canada, Straight from their absent son, My mother's hands will tremble, And my dad'll likely say, Don't seem like Christmas time no more, With our dear lad away. I can see him 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 pudding, As mothers always do. Ah, me, if I could just have wings, And in the dimzy 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 welcome in for me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE REASON by Fay Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Why shouldst thou be as a wayfaring man, That turneth aside to tarry for a night? Jeremiah, Book 14, verse 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 vexed? The man is not to us, why should we care? The little attic-room will do, Tis bear, 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 over much, or buy some poultry wear of his. Nay, altar-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. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. Two women, by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I beseech Uodias, and beseech Sintikey, That they be of the same mind in the Lord. Philippians, Book Four, Verse Two Uodias. 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 Sintikey's manner ruffles me. Sintikey. No, not for worlds. Uodias 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 Uodias can be. Uodias, yet in the Lord, Ah, that's another thing. Sintikey, yet in the Lord, That alters it indeed. Uodias, for his sake I'll endure her whispering. Sintikey, for his sake I'll consent to let her lead. Uodias, Lord teach me to forbear, Yes, day by day. Sintikey, Lord keep me gentle now and all the way. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Prize Fight by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I am a boxer who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body. First Corinthians, Book 9, verse 26, Weymouth's translation. Twas breakfast time, and outside in the street, the factory men went by with hurrying feet, and on the bridge, in dim December light, the news boys 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 the 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 neighbor'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 tablecloth 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, oh tender wise, and read approval in thy loving eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Home Lights by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. 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. Right it was how sweet to go to the warn familiar door. No need to stand awhile 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. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To an old teapot, by Faye Inchefond, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Now, from the dust of half-forgotten things, you rise to haunt me at the year's spring cleaning, and bring to memory dim imaginings of mystic meaning. No old-time potter handled you, I wean, nor yet were you of gold or silver molten. No derby stamp, nor worster can be seen, nor royal delton. 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 meeted out in region's 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 day's diviner. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. To A Rebellious Daughter by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. You call authority a grievous thing. With careless hands you snapped 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 override 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 forever 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. That 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? O'er, 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? Nay, before death's angel overlean you, before your chance is gone. This is worth thinking on. Are mothers blameless then? Nay, dearie, nay, nor even tactful always, yet there may come some gray dawning in the by-and-by, when, no more brave, nor sure, nor strong, you'll cry aloud to God for that despised thing. The Old Dear Comfort Mother's Apron String Up to the hall my lady there'll wear her satin gown, for little miss and master'll be coming down from town. Oh, aye, the children's coming! The children, did I say? Of course there 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 yester-night, and when he steps ashore, to his coming-home the laddy is to Somerset once more. And so hers baking spicy cakes and stirring raisins in, to welcome of her only chick who's coming mothering. And what of we, ain't we got no children for to come? Well, yes, there's Sam and Henry, and they'll be coming home, and Ned is very nice six foot, and Joe is six foot three, but children still to my good man, and children still to me. And all the violets seem to know, and all the thrushes sing, as how our Kate and Bess and Flo is coming mothering. End of Poem. When little Fanny came to town, I felt as I could sing. She were the sprakest little maid, the sharpest, pertest thing. Her mother were as proud as punch, and as for I, well there. I never see, sitch-girt blue eyes, I never see, sitch-hair. If all the weens in Somerset, says I, was standing here, not one could hold a candle-light long side our little dear. Now Fanny's little fan have come. She's clinging round my knees. She's asking me for supps 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 weens in all the world, says I, was standing here, not one could hold a far-than-dip to Fanny's little dear. For Fanny's little Fanny, oh, she's took the heart of me. Tis children's children is the crown of humble folk like we. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Naughty Day by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. I've had a naughty day to-day. I scrunched a biscuit in my hair, and dipped my feeder in the milk, and spread my rusk upon a chair. When Mother put me in my bath, I tossed the water all about, and popped the soap upon my head, and threw the sponge and flannel out. I wouldn't let her put my hand inside the arm-hole of my vest. I held the sleeve, until she said, I really never should be dressed. And while she made the beds, I found her tidy, and took out the hairs. And then I got the water can, and tipped it headlong down the stairs. I crawled along the kitchen floor, and got some coal out of the box, and drew black pictures on the walls, and wiped my fingers on my socks. Oh, this has been a naughty day. That's why they've put me off to bed. He can't get into mischief there. Perhaps we'll have some peace, they said. They put the net across my cot, or else downstairs again I'd creep. But see, I'll suck the counterpane to pulp before I go to sleep. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. To A Little White Bird, by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Into the world you came, and I was dumb. Because God did it, so the wise ones said. I wonder sometimes, did you really come, and are you truly dead? Thus you went out, alone and uncorrest, oh sweet soft thing, in all your infant grace. I never held you in my arms, nor pressed warm kisses on your face. But in the garden of the undefiled, my soul will claim you, you and not another. I shall hold out my arms, and say, my child, and you will call me mother. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. Because by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Psalm 116. Because he heard my voice and answered me. Because he listened, ah, so patiently, in those dark days, when sorrowful, alone. I knelt with tears, and prayed him for a stone. Because he said me nay, and then instead, a wonderful sweet truth. He gave me bread, set my heart singing, all in sweet accord. Because of this I love, I love the Lord. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. When he comes, by Faye Inchvon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. When he comes, my sweetest when? See Rosetti. Thus may it be, I thought, at some day's close, some lilac-haunted eve, when every rose breathes forth its incense, may he find me there, in holy leisure, lifting hands of prayer, in some sweet garden-place, to catch the first dear wonder of his face. Or in my room above, in silent meditation of his love, my soul illumined with a rapture rare. It would be sweet if even then, these eyes might glimpse him coming in the eastern skies, and be caught up to meet him in the air. But now, ah, now the days rush by their hurrying ways. No longer know I vague imaginings, for every hour has wings, yet my heart watches as I work I say, all simply, to him, come, and if to-day, then wilt thou find me thus just as I am. Tending my household, stirring gooseberry jam, or swiftly rinsing tiny vests and hoes, with puzzled forehead, patching some one's clothes, guiding small footsteps, swift to hear and run, from early dawn till setting of the sun. And when so ere he comes, I'll rise and go, yes, all the gladlier that he found me so. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. PART II. OUTDOORS. EARLY SPRING. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Quick through the gates of Fairyland the south wind forced his way. It was his to make the earth forget her grief of yesterday. To his mind cried he to bring her joy, and on his lightsome feet, in haste he slung the snow-drop bells, pushed past the fairy sentinels, and out with laughter sweet. Clear flames of crocus glimmered on the shining way he went. He whispered to the trees strange tales of wondrous sweet intent, when suddenly his witching voice, with timbre rich and rare, rang through the woodlands, till it cleft earth's silent solitudes, and left a dream of roses there. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE WITNESS. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. The master of the garden said, Who, now the earth seems cold and dead, Will by his fearless witnessing, Hold men's hearts for the tardy spring. But yet I am but half awake, all drowsily the primrose spake, and fast the sleeping daffodils had folded up their golden frills. Indeed the frail anemone said softly, Tis too cold for me. Wood hyacinths, all deeply set, replied, No ice has melted yet. Then suddenly, with smile so bright, Upsprang a winter aconite, and to the master joyfully she cried, I will the witness be. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. IN SUMMERSET. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. 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 selendines 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 trow is laughing wide with ripples now. And oh, Tis easy to forget, that wintry winds can sigh and sow when thrushes chant on every bough in Somerset. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. SONG OF A WOODLAND STREAM. By Faye Inchevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Silent was I, and so still, as day followed day, imprisoned until King Frost worked his will, held fast like a vice in his cold hand of ice, for fear kept me silent, and low he had wrapped me around and about with a mantle of snow. But sudden there spake one greater than he. Then my heart was awake and my spirit ran free. At his bidding my bands fell apart, he had burst them asunder. I can feel the swift wind rushing by me, once more the old wonder of quickening sap stirs my pulses. I shout in my gladness, forgetting the sadness, for the voice of the Lord fills the air. And forth through the hollow I go, where in glad April weather the trees of the forest break out into singing together. And here the frail windflowers will cluster, with young ferns uncurling, where broad water and deeper my waters go eddying, whirling, to meet the sweet spring on her journey. His servant to be, whose words set me free. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Luggage in advance by Faye Ingevon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clareka. The fairies must have come, I said. Or through the moist leaves, brown and dead, the primroses are pushing up. And here's a scarlet fairy-cup. They must have come, because I see a single wooden enemy, the flower that everybody knows the fairies use to scent their clothes. And hark! The south wind blowing fills the trumpets of the daffodils. They must have come. Then, loud to me, sang from a budding cherry-tree a cheerful thrush. I say, I say, the fairy folk are on their way. Look out, look out, beneath your feet, are all their treasures, sweet, sweet, sweet. They could not carry them, you see, those caskets crammed with witchery, so ready for the first spring dance they sent their luggage in advance. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE CROSS ROADS There I halted. Further down the hollow stood the township, where my errand lay. Firm my purpose till a voice cried, Follow, come this way, I tell you, come this way. Silence thrush, you know I think of buying a spring-tide hat. My frock is worn and old, so to the shops I go. What's that you're crying? Here, come here, and gather Primrose Gold. Well, yes, some day I will, but time is going. I haste to purchase silks and satins fair. I'm all in rags. The lady's smock is showing up yonder in the little coppice there. And wooden enemies spread out their laces. Each cell and dine has dawned a silken gown. The violets are lifting shy, sweet faces. And there's a chif-chaff, soft and slim and brown. But what about my hat? The bees are humming. And my new frock, the Hawthorne's budding free. Sweet! Oh! So sweet! Well, have your way, I'm coming, and who's to blame for that? Why me! Me! Me! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer Met Me. By Faye Inchvon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Summer met me in the glade with a host of fair princesses. Golden iris, fox-gloves stayed. Some beams flecked their gorgeous dresses. Roses followed in her train. Creamy elder-flowers beset me, singing, down the scented lane. Summer met me. Summer met me, hair-bells rang. Honey-suckle clustered near as the royal pageant sang songs enchanting to the ear. Rainy days may come a pace never more to grieve or fret me, since in all her radiant grace Summer met me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Carrier. By Faye Inchvon. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. O' John's got past his work, said they, last week as ever was. Don't pay to send by him. He's stupid, too, and brings things what won't never do. We'll send by post. He is that slow, and that old hauls of his can't go. But smorning, well, twas fun to see the gentle folks run after we. Squire's lady stopped I in the lane. Oh, says she. Go into town again. You'll not mind calling into bings to fetch my cakes and buns and things. I've got a party coming on, and not to eat. So do we, John. Then up the street, who should I see but old mam Besson tailing me? And Doctor's wife, and Mrs. Higgs was wanting vitals for their pigs. And would I bring some? Well, what next? Granny Dunn has broke her specks, and wants a mended up in town. So would John call and bring him down to-night. And so the tail goes on. Tis sure you will now, do we, John? Well, tis a heevil wind that blows nobody any good. It shows as old John have his uses yet, though now and then he do forget. Ye up, bold gal. When strikes is on, they're glad of poor old stupid John. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lad's Love by the Gate, by Faye Ingefond, read for LibriVox.org by Clarica. Down in the dear west country, there's a garden where I know the spring is rioting this hour, though I am far away. Where all the glad flower faces are old loves of long ago, and each in its accustomed place is blossoming to-day. The lilac drops her amethysts upon the mossy wall, while in her bow's a cheerful thrush is calling to his mate. Dear breath of mignonette and stalks, I love you, know you all, and oh, the fragrant spices from the Lad's Love by the Gate. And wind from the west country, wet wind, but scented so that straight from my dear garden you seem but lately come. Just tell me of the yellow broom, the gilder's roses snow, and of the tangled climates where myriad insects hum. Oh, is there any heartsies left, or any rosemary, and in their own green solitudes, say, do the lilies wait? I knew it. The wind, but once, speak low and tenderly. How fares it? Tell me truly with the Lad's Love by the Gate. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Thrush by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Across the land came a magic word when the earth was barren lonely, and I sit and sing of the joyous spring, for it was I who heard, I only. Then dreams came by of the gladsome days of many a wayside posy, for a crocus peeps where the wild rose sleeps, and the willow wands are rosy. Oh, the time to be, when the paths are green, when the primrose gold is lying beneath the hazel spray, where the catkins sway and the dear south wind comes sighing, my maiden eye, we shall build a nest so snug and warm and cosy, when the king-cups gleam on the meadow stream, where the willow wands are rosy. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Endorset Deer by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. Endorset Deer they're making hay, in just the old west country way. With fork and rake and old-time gear they make the hay endorset deer. From early morn till twilight gray 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 endorset deer. The loaded wagons wend their way across the pasture-lands and stay beside the hedge, where fox-gloves peer. And ricks that shall be fashioned here will be the sweetest stuff, they say, in dorset deer. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Flight of the Fairies by Faye Ingevon, read for LibriVox.org by Clareka. There's a rustle in the woodlands, and a sighing in the breeze, but the little folk are busy in the bushes and the trees. They are packing up their treasures every one with nimble hand, ready for the coming journey back to sunny, fairy land. They have gathered up the jewels from their beds of mossy green, with all the dewy diamonds that summer morns have seen, the silver from the lichen and the powdered gold dust, too, where the butter-cups have flourished and the dandelions grew. They packed away the birdie songs, then lest we should be sad. They left the robins' carol out to make the winter glad. They packed the fragrance of the flowers, then lest we should forget. Out of the pearly scented box they dropped a violet. Then o'er a leafy carpet by the silent woods they came, where the golden bracken lingered and the maples were aflame. 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 shopping had been tedious, and the rain came pelting down as she turned home again. The motor-bus swirled past with a rush and whir, not 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 gray as the slow minutes wept themselves away. And then a thwart the noises of the street, a violin flung out in Irish air. I'll take you home again, Kathleen. Ah, sweet! How tender-sweet those lilting phrases were! They soothed the way the weariness and brought such peace to one worn woman over wrought that she forgot the things which vexed her so. The two outrageous price of calico, the shop girl's look of pitying insolence because she paused to count the dwindling pence. The player stopped, but the rapt vision stayed. That woman faced life's worries unafraid. The sugar shortage now had ceased to be an insurmountable calamity. The kingdom was not bacon, no, nor butter, but things more costly still too rare to utter. And over chimney-pots so bare and tall the sun set gloriously after all. Oh, the garden ways are lonely. Winds that bluster, winds that shout, battle with the strong labyrinum, toss the sad brown leaves about. In the gay, herbaceous border, now a scene of wild disorder, the last dear holly-hawk has flamed his crimson glory out. Yet, upon this night of longing, souls are all abroad, they say. Will they come the dazzling blossoms that were here but yesterday? Will the ghosts of radiant roses and my sheltered lily closes, hold once more their shattered fragrance, now November's on her way? Wall flowers surely you'll remember. Let's recall it, will you not? How I loved and watched intended, made this ground a hallowed spot. Pansies with the soft, meek faces, hair-bells with a thousand graces. Dear dead loves, I wait and listen. Tell me, have you quite forgot? Hush! They come! For down the pathway steals a fragrance, honey-sweet. Larkspurs, lilies, stalks and roses, hasten now my heart to greet. Stay! O stay! My hands would hold you, but the arms that would infold you crushed the bush of lad's love growing in the dusk beside my feet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE LOG FIRE In her last hour of life the tree gave up her glorious memories. Old scent of wooden enemy, the sapphire blue of April skies. With faint but ever strengthening flame, the dew-drenched hyacinthine spires were lost as red-gold bracken came, with maple bathed in living fires. Gray smoke of ancient climatis toward the silver birch inclined, and deep in thorny fastnesses the coral bryony entwined. And softly through the dusky room they strayed, fair ghosts of other days, with breath-like early cherry-bloom, with tender eyes and gentle ways. They glimmered on the somber walls, they danced upon the oaken floor, till through the loudly silent halls joy reigned majestical once more. Up blazed the fire, and dazzling clear one rapturous spirit radiant stood. "'Twas you at last, yes you, my dear, we two were back in Gatcombe wood.' End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. GOD SAVE THE KING by Faye Inchefond. Red for LibriVox.org by Clarica. GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. It seems the church is full of bygone dreams. Long live our noble king. My own, it is hard to stand here all alone. GOD SAVE THE KING. But sweetheart, you are always brave to dare and do. Send him victorious, for then my darling will come home again. Happy and glorious, till be like heaven to him and what to me. Long to reign over us. My dear, and we'd been wedded one short year. GOD SAVE OUR KING. And Lord, I pray, keep my king safe this very day. Forgive us, thou great England's kingly king, that thus do women national anthem sing. End of poem. End of The First Book of a Homely Woman.