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!

Within my House

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 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.

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."

The Housewife

See, I am cumbered, Lord,

With serving, and with small vexa-

tious 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—

Dark spiritual foes of God's and man's—

But with antagonistic pots and pans:

With footmarks in the hall,

With smears upon the wall,

With doubtful ears, and small unwashen

hands,

And with a babe's innumerable demands.

I toil with feverish haste, while tear-drops

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 contrive so

true.

And with my heart's door open—open

wide—

With leisured feet, and idle hands, I sat.

I, foolish, fussy, blind as any bat,

Sat down to listen, and to learn. And lo,

My thousand tasks were done the better so.

To Mother

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 sympathising ears

Swifter than ancient seer's.

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!

In Such an Hour

Sometimes, when everything goes

wrong:

When days are short, and nights are long;

When wash-day brings so dull a sky

That not a single thing will dry.

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;

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!

The Daily Interview

Such a sensation Sunday's preacher

made.

"Christian!" he cried, "what is your stockin-trade?

Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;

No interview with Christ from day to day,

A hurried prayer, maybe, just gabbled

through;

A random text—for any one will do."

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."

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 tryst 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 baker's 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 tryst 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 ironmould from tiny frocks;

'Twas 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 can-

not you

Who made the time to join the butter queue

Make time again for Me?

Yes, will you not, with all your daily

striving,

Use woman's wit in scheming and con-

triving

To keep that tryst with Me?"

Like ice long bound

On powdered frosty ground,

My erring will all suddenly gave way.

The kind soft wind of His sweet pleading

blew,

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 tryst with Thee, Lord, come

what may!"