{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_50810/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_50810","id":"gutenberg_50810","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/50810","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Religion/Spirituality","Curran, Pearl Lenore Pollard, 1883-1937","Parapsychology -- Investigation","Spirits -- Biography","Worth, Patience (Spirit)"],"text":"PATIENCE WORTH\n\n                           A PSYCHIC MYSTERY\n\n\n\n\n                                   By\n\n                             CASPER S. YOST\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: colophon]\n\n\n\n\n                                NEW YORK\n                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY\n                                  1916\n\n\n\n\n                            COPYRIGHT, 1916\n\n                                   BY\n\n                         HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY\n\n                       _Published February, 1916_\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n                                PREFACE\n\n\nThe compiler of this book is not a spiritualist, nor a psychologist, nor\na member of the Society for Psychical Research; nor has he ever had\nanything more than a transitory and skeptical interest in psychic\nphenomena of any character. He is a newspaper man whose privilege and\npleasure it is to present the facts in relation to some phenomena which\nhe does not attempt to classify nor to explain, but which are virtually\nwithout precedent in the record of occult manifestations. The mystery of\nPatience Worth is one which every reader may endeavor to solve for\nhimself. The sole purpose of this narrative is to give the visible\ntruth, the physical evidence, so to speak, the things that can be seen\nand that are therefore susceptible of proof by ocular demonstration. In\nthis category are the instruments of communication and the\ncommunications themselves, which are described, explained and, in some\ncases, interpreted, where an effort at interpretation seems to be\ndesirable.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n                                CONTENTS\n\n\n                                                    PAGE\n\n                THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH           1\n\n                NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS           9\n\n                PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE               37\n\n                THE POETRY                            63\n\n                THE PROSE                            107\n\n                CONVERSATIONS                        173\n\n                RELIGION                             223\n\n                THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY             247\n\n                INDEX                                287\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\n\n                      THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH\n\n\nUpon a July evening in 1913 two women of St. Louis sat with a ouija\nboard upon their knees. Some time before this a friend had aroused their\ninterest in this unfathomable toy, and they had since whiled away many\nan hour with the inscrutable meanderings of the heart-shaped pointer;\nbut, like thousands of others who had played with the instrument, they\nhad found it, up to this date, but little more than a source of amused\nwonder. The messages which they had laboriously spelled out were only\nsuch as might have come from the subconsciousness of either one or the\nother, or, at least, were no more strange than innumerable\ncommunications which have been received through the reading of the ouija\nboard.\n\nBut upon this night they received a visitor. The pointer suddenly became\nendowed with an unusual agility, and with great rapidity presented this\nintroduction:\n\n\u201cMany moons ago I lived. Again I come. Patience Worth my name.\u201d\n\nThe women gazed, round-eyed, at each other, and the board continued:\n\n\u201cWait. I would speak with thee. If thou shalt live, then so shall I. I\nmake my bread by thy hearth. Good friends, let us be merrie. The time\nfor work is past. Let the tabbie drowse and blink her wisdom to the\nfirelog.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow quaint that is!\u201d one of the women exclaimed.\n\n\u201cGood Mother Wisdom is too harsh for thee,\u201d said the board, \u201cand thou\nshouldst love her only as a foster mother.\u201d\n\nThus began an intimate association with \u201cPatience Worth\u201d that still\ncontinues, and a series of communications that in intellectual vigor and\nliterary quality are virtually without precedent in the scant\nimaginative literature quoted in the chronicles of psychic phenomena.\n\nThe personality of Patience Worth\u2014if personality it may be called\u2014so\nimpressed itself upon these women, at the first visit, that they got\npencil and paper and put down not only all that she transmitted through\nthe board, but all the questions and comment that elicited her remarks;\nand at every meeting since then, a verbatim record has been made of the\nconversation and the communications.\n\nThese records have accumulated until they have filled several volumes of\ntypewritten pages, and upon them, and upon the writer\u2019s personal\nobservations of the workings of the phenomena, this narrative is based.\nThey include conversations, maxims, epigrams, allegories, tales, dramas,\npoems, all the way from sportive to religious, and even prayers, most of\nthem of no little beauty and of a character that may reasonably be\nconsidered unique in literature.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe women referred to are Mrs. John H. Curran, wife of the former\nImmigration Commissioner of Missouri, and Mrs. Emily Grant Hutchings,\nwife of the Secretary of the Tower Grove Park Board in St. Louis, both\nladies of culture and refinement. Mrs. Curran is a young woman of\nnervous temperament, bright, vivacious, ready of speech. She has a taste\nfor literature, but is not a writer, and has never attempted to write\nanything more ambitious than a personal letter. Mrs. Hutchings, on the\nother hand, is a professional writer of skill, and it was to her quick\nappreciation of the quality of the communications that the starting of\nthe record is due. It was soon apparent, however, that it was Mrs.\nCurran who was the sole agent of transmission; for the communications\ncame only when she was at the board, and it mattered not who else sat\nwith her. During the first months only Mrs. Curran and Mrs. Hutchings\nsat, but gradually the circle widened, and others assisted Mrs. Curran.\nSometimes as many as five or six would sit with her in the course of an\nevening. Mr. Curran has acted as amanuensis, and recorded the\ncommunications at most of the sittings, Mrs. Curran\u2019s mother, Mrs. Mary\nE. Pollard, occasionally taking his place.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe ouija board is a rectangular piece of wood about 16 inches wide by\n24 inches in length and half an inch thick. Upon it the letters of the\nalphabet are arranged in two concentric arcs, with the ten numerals\nbelow, and the words \u201cYes\u201d and \u201cNo\u201d at the upper corners. The\nplanchette, or pointer, is a thin, heart-shaped piece of wood provided\nwith three legs, upon which it moves about upon the board, its point\nindicating the letters of the words it is spelling. Two persons are\nnecessary for its operation. They place the tips of their fingers\nlightly upon the pointer and wait. Perhaps it moves; perhaps it does\nnot. Sometimes it moves aimlessly about the board, spelling nothing;\nsometimes it spells words, but is unable to form a sentence; but often\nit responds readily enough to the impulses which control it, and even\nanswers questions intelligibly, occasionally in a way that excites the\nwonder and even the awe of those about it. Its powers have been\nattributed by some to supernatural influence, by others to\nsubconsciousness, but science has looked upon it with disdain, as, until\nrecent years, science has looked upon nearly all unprecedented\nphenomena.\n\nMr. W. T. Carrington, an eminent English investigator of psychical\nphenomena, in an exhaustive work upon the subject, has this to say of\nthe ouija board: \u201cGranting for the sake of argument that the board is\nmoved by the sitter, either consciously or unconsciously, the great and\nvital question still remains: What is the intelligence behind the board,\nthat directs the phenomena? Whoever sets out to give a final and\ndecisive answer to this question in the present state of our knowledge\nwill have his task cut out for him, and I wish him happiness in the\nundertaking. Personally I am attempting nothing of the kind.\u201d\n\nThe ouija board has been in use for many years. There is no element of\nnovelty in the mere fact that curious and puzzling messages are received\nby means of it. I emphasize this fact because I wish to place the board\nin its proper relation to the communications from the intelligence\ncalling herself Patience Worth. Aside from the psychical problem\ninvolved\u2014and which, so far as the board is concerned, is the same in\nthis case as in many others\u2014the ouija board has no more significance\nthan a pen or a pencil in the hand. It is merely an instrument for the\ntransmission of thought in words. In comparison with the personality and\nthe literature which it reveals in this instance, it is a factor of\nlittle significance. It is proper to say, however, at this point, that\nevery word attributed to Patience Worth in this volume was received by\nMrs. Curran through this instrument.\n\n\n\n\n                      NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS\n\n    \u201cHe who buildeth with peg and cudgel but buildeth a toy for\n    an age who will but cast aside the bauble as naught; but he\n    who buildeth with word, a quill and a fluid, buildeth\n    well.\u201d\u2014PATIENCE WORTH.\n\n\nThere are a number of things that distinguish Patience Worth from all\nother \u201cintelligences\u201d that have been credited with communications\npretending to come from a spiritual source. First is her intellect. One\nof the strongest arguments against the genuineness of such\ncommunications has been the lack of intelligence often displayed in\nthem. They have largely been, though with many exceptions, crude\nemanations of weak mentalities, and few of the exceptions have shown\ngreater intellect or greater knowledge than is possessed by the average\nhuman being.\n\nIn a work entitled, \u201cIs Death the End?\u201d Dr. John H. Holmes, an eminent\nNew York divine, gives considerable space to the psychic evidence of\nimmortality. In the course of his discussion of this phase of his\nsubject he concisely describes the characteristic features of psychic\ncommunications. \u201cNobody,\u201d he says, \u201ccan study the evidence gathered in\nthis particular field without noticing, first of all, the triviality,\nalmost the inanity, of the communications received. Here we come, eager\nfor the evidence of future life and information as to what it means to\ndie and pass into the great beyond. And what do we get? First of all\u2014and\nnaturally enough, perhaps\u2014frantic efforts on the part of the alleged\nspirits to prove their identity by the citation of intricate and\nunimportant details of where they were and what they did at different\ntimes when they were here among men. Sometimes there is a recounting of\nan event which is taking place in a part of the world far removed from\nthe locality in which the medium and the recipient are sitting. Again\nand again there is a descent to obscurity and feeble chattering.\u201d\n\nI quote this passage, not merely because it so clearly states the\nexperience and conclusions of many who have investigated these\nphenomena, but because it serves to show by its marked contrast the\nwonder of the communications from Patience Worth. There are no efforts\non her part to prove her identity. On the contrary, she can rarely be\ninduced to speak of herself, and the personal information she has\nreluctantly given is disappointingly meager. \u201cAbout me,\u201d she says, \u201cthou\nwouldst know much. Yesterday is dead. Let thy mind rest as to the past.\u201d\nShe never speaks of her own acts as a physical being; she never refers\nto any event taking place in the world now or that has taken place in\nthe past. But far more important than these, she reveals an intellect\nthat is worthy of any man\u2019s respect. It is at once keen, swift, subtle\nand profound. There is not once but always a \u201csustained level of clear\nthought and fine feeling.\u201d There is obscurity at times, but it is\nusually the obscurity of profundity, and intelligent study generally\nreveals a meaning that is worth the effort. There is never a \u201cfocusing\nof attention upon the affairs of this world,\u201d except for the purpose of\ndisplaying its beauties and its wonders, and to assist in explaining the\nworld that she claims is to come. For that other world she seems to try\nto explain as far as some apparent limitations permit, speaks as few\nhave spoken before, and her words often bring delight to the mind and\nconsolation to the soul.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBefore considering these communications in detail, it would be well for\nthe reader to become a little better acquainted with the alleged\nPatience herself. I speak of her as a person, for whatever she, or it,\nmay be, the impression of a distinct personality is clear and definite;\nand it is, besides, more convenient so to designate her. Patience as a\nrule speaks an archaic tongue that is in general the English language of\nabout the time of the Stuarts, but which contains elements of a usage\nstill more ancient, and, not rarely, word and phrase forms that seem\nnever to have been used in English or in any English dialect. Almost all\nof her words, however, whether in conversation or in literary\ncomposition, are of pure Anglo-Saxon-Norman origin. There is seldom a\nword of direct Latin or Greek parentage. Virtually all of the objects\nshe refers to are things that existed in the seventeenth century or\nearlier. In all of the great mass of manuscript that has come from her\nwe have not noticed a single reference to an object of modern creation\nor development; nor have more than a dozen words been found in her\nwritings that may be of later origin than the seventeenth century, and\nsome of these words are debatable. She has shown, in what would seem to\nbe a genuinely feminine spirit of perversity, that she can use a modern\nword if she chooses to do so. And if she is living now, no matter when\nshe was on earth, why should she not? (She has twice used the word\n\u201cshack,\u201d meaning a roughly constructed cabin, a word which is in that\nsense so new and so local that it has but recently found a place in the\ndictionaries.) But the fact remains that the number of such words is so\nsmall as to be negligible.\n\nOnly one who has tried to write in archaic English without committing\nanachronisms can realize its tremendous difficulty. We are so saturated\nwith words and idioms of modern origin that it is almost impossible\nwholly to discard them, even when given every advantage of time and\nreflection. How much more difficult must it be then to use and maintain\nsuch language without an error in ordinary impromptu conversation,\nanswering questions that could not have been expected, and flashing\nrepartee that is entirely dependent upon the situation or remarks of the\nmoment. Yet Patience does this with marvelous facility. So she can\nhardly be Mrs. Curran.\n\nAll of her knowledge of material things seems to be drawn from English\nassociations. She is surprisingly familiar with the trees and flowers,\nthe birds and beasts of England. She knows the manners and customs of\nits people as they were two or three centuries ago, the people of the\nfields or the people of the palace. Her speech is filled with references\nto the furniture, utensils and mechanical contrivances of the household\nof that time, and to its articles of dress, musical instruments, and\ntools of agriculture and the mechanical arts. There are also a few\nindications of a knowledge of New England life. Yet she has never\nadmitted a residence in England or New England, has never spoken of a\nbirthplace or an abiding place anywhere, has never, in fact, used a\nsingle geographical proper name in relation to herself.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe communications of Patience Worth come in a variety of forms:\nConversation that is strewn with wit and wisdom, epigrams and maxims;\npoems by the hundred; parables and allegories; stories of a\nsemi-dramatic character, and dramas.\n\nHere is an example of her conversation from one of the early records\u2014an\nevening when a skeptical friend, a young physician, somewhat disposed to\nthe use of slang, was present with his wife.\n\nAs the ladies took the board, the doctor remarked:\n\n\u201cI hope Patience Worth will come. I\u2019d like to find out what her game\nis.\u201d\n\nPatience was there and instantly responded:\n\n\u201cDost, then, desire the plucking of another goose?\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cBy George, she\u2019s right there with the grease, isn\u2019t she?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cEnough to baste the last upon the spit.\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cWell, that\u2019s quick wit for you. Pretty hard to catch her.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cThe salt of today will not serve to catch the bird of\ntomorrow.\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cShe\u2019d better call herself the bird of yesterday. I wonder\nwhat kind of a mind she had, anyway.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cDost crave to taste the sauce?\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cShe holds to her simile of the goose. I wish you\u2019d ask her\nhow she makes that little table move under your hands to spell the\nwords.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cA wise cook telleth not the brew.\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cTurn that board over and let me see what\u2019s under it.\u201d\n\nThis was done, and after his inspection it was reversed.\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cThee\u2019lt bump thy nose to look within the hopper.\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cWhew! She doesn\u2019t mind handing you one, does she?\u201d\n\n_Mrs. Pollard._\u2014\u201cThat\u2019s Patience\u2019s way. She doesn\u2019t think we count for\nanything.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cThe bell-cow doth deem the good folk go to Sabboth house\nfrom the ringing of her bell.\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cShe evidently thinks we are a conceited lot. Well, I believe\nshe\u2019ll agree with me that you can\u2019t get far in this world without a fair\nopinion of yourself.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cSo the donkey loveth his bray!\u201d\n\n_The Doctor\u2019s Wife._\u2014\u201cYou can draw her on all you please. I\u2019m going to\nkeep perfectly still.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cOh, e\u2019en the mouse will have a nibble.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. Curran._\u2014\u201cThere! She isn\u2019t going to let you off without a little\nroast. I wonder what she has to say to you.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cDid\u2019st ever see the brood hen puff up with self-esteem when\nall her chicks go for a swim?\u201d\n\n_Doctor._\u2014\u201cLet\u2019s analyze that and see if there\u2019s anything in it.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cStrain the potion. Mayhap thou wilt find a fly.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThis will be sufficient to illustrate Patience\u2019s form of speech and her\nready wit. It also shows something of the character of the people to\nwhom and through whom she has usually spoken. They are not solemn\ninvestigators nor \u201cpussy-footed\u201d charlatans. There is no ceremony about\nthe sitting, no dimmed lights, no compelled silences, no mummeries of\nany sort. The _assistance_ is of the ordinary, fun-loving, somewhat\nirreverent American type. The board is brought into the living-room\nunder the full glare of the electric lamps. The men perhaps smoke their\ncigars. If Patience seems to be in the humor for conversation, all may\ntake part, and she hurls her javelins impartially. A visitor is at once\nbrought within the umbra of her wit.\n\nHer conversation, as already indicated, is filled with epigrams and\nmaxims. A book could be made from these alone. They are, of course, not\nalways original. What maxims are? But they are given on the instant,\nwithout possibility of previous thought, and are always to the point.\nHere are a few of these prompt aphorisms:\n\n    \u201cA lollypop is but a breeder of pain.\u201d\n\n    \u201cAn old goose gobbles the grain like a gosling.\u201d\n\n    \u201cDead resolves are sorry fare.\u201d\n\n    \u201cThe goose knoweth where the bin leaketh.\u201d\n\n    \u201cQuills of sages were plucked from geese.\u201d\n\n    \u201cPuddings fit for lords would sour the belly of the swineboy.\u201d\n\n    \u201cTo clap the cover on a steaming pot of herbs will but modify[1] the\n    stench.\u201d\n\nFootnote 1:\n\n      A word of this degree of latinity is very rare with her.\n\n    \u201cShe who quacketh loudest deems the gander not the lead at waddling\n    time.\u201d\n\n    \u201cClimb not the stars to find a pebble.\u201d\n\n    \u201cHe who hath a house, a hearth and a friend hath a lucky lot.\u201d\n\nShe is often caustic and incisive.\n\n    \u201cA man loveth his wife, but, ah, the buckles on his knee breeks!\u201d\n\n    \u201cShould I present thee with a pumpkin, wouldst thou desire to count\n    the seeds?\u201d\n\n    \u201cA drink of asses\u2019 milk would nurture the swine, but wouldst thou\n    then expect his song to change from Want, Want, Want?\u201d\n\n    \u201cSome folk, like the bell without a clapper, go clanging on in good\n    faith, believing the good folk can hear them.\u201d\n\n    \u201cWere I to tell thee the pudding string were a spinet\u2019s string, thou\n    wouldst make ready for the dance.\u201d\n\n    \u201cThee\u2019lt tie thy God within thy kerchief, else have none of Him, and\n    like unto a bat, hang thyself topsy-turvy to better view His\n    handiwork.\u201d\n\n    \u201c\u2019Twould pleg thee sore should thy shadow wear cap and bells.\u201d\n\n    \u201cFrom constant wishing the moon may tip for thee.\u201d\n\n    \u201cWouldst thou have a daisy blossom upon a thistle?\u201d\n\n    \u201cYe who carry pigskins to the well and lace not the hole are a\n    tiresome lot.\u201d\n\n    \u201cHe who eateth a bannock well made flattereth himself should his\n    belly not sour.\u201d\n\nAside from the dramatic compositions, some of which are of great length,\nmost of the communications received from Patience have been in verse.\nThere is rarely a rhyme, practically all being iambic blank verse in\nlines of irregular length. The rhythm is almost uniformly smooth. At\nsome sittings the poetry begins to come as soon as the hands are placed\nupon the planchette, and the evening is given over to the production of\nverse. At others, verses are mingled with repartee and epigram, but\nseldom is an evening spent without at least one poem coming. This was\nnot the case in the earlier months, when many sittings were given up\nwholly to conversation. The poetry has gradually increased in volume, as\nif the earlier efforts of the influence had been tentative, while the\nresponsiveness of the intermediary was being tested. So, too, the\nearlier verses were fragments.\n\n                  A blighted bud may hold\n            A sweeter message than the loveliest flower.\n            For God hath kissed her wounded heart\n            And left a promise there.\n\n            A cloak of lies may clothe a golden truth.\n            The sunlight\u2019s warmth may fade its glossy black\n            To whitening green and prove the fault\n            Of weak and shoddy dye.\n\n            Oh, why let sorrow steel thy heart?\n            Thy busom is but its foster mother,\n            The world its cradle, and the loving home\n            Its grave.\n\n            Weave sorrow on the loom of love\n            And warp the loom with faith.\n\n\nSuch fragments, however, were but steps leading to larger things. A\nlittle later on this came:\n\n        So thou hast trod among the tansey tuft\n        And murr and thyme, and gathered all the garden\u2019s store,\n        And glutted on the lillie\u2019s sensuous sweet,\n        And let thy shade to mar the sunny path,\n        And only paused to strike the slender humming bird,\n        Whose molten-tinted wing but spoke the song\n        Of fluttering joy, and in thy very hand\n        Turned to motley gray. Then thinkest thou\n        To build the garden back by trickery?\n\n\nAnd then, some six months after her first visit, came the poem which\nfollows, and which may be considered the real beginning of her larger\nworks:\n\n             Long lines of leaden cloud; a purple sea;\n             White gulls skimming across the spray.\n             Oh dissonant cry! Art thou\n             The death cry of desire?\n\n             Ah, wail, ye winds,\n             And search ye for my dearest wish\n             Along the rugged coast, and down\n             Where purling waters whisper\n             To the rosy coral reef.\n             Ah, search! Ah, search!\n             And when ye return, bring ye the answering.\n\n             Do I stand and call unto the sea for answer?\n             Ah, wisdom, where art thou?\n             A gull but shows thee to the Southland,\n             And leaden sky but warneth thee of storm.\n             And wind, thou art but a changeling.\n             So, shall I call to thee? Not so.\n             I build not upon the spray,\n             And seek not within the smaller world,\n             For God dwelleth not abroad, but deep within.\n\nThere is spiritual significance, more or less profound, in nearly all of\nthe poems. Some of the lines are obscure, but study reveals a meaning,\nand the more I, at least, study them, the more I have been impressed\nwith the intellectual power behind them. It is this that makes these\ncommunications seem to stand alone among the numerous messages that are\nalleged to have come from \u201cthat undiscovered country.\u201d\n\nAn intense love of nature is expressed in most of the communications,\nwhether in prose or verse, and also a wide knowledge of nature\u2014not the\nknowledge of the scientist, but that of the poet.\n\n All silver-laced with web and crystal-studded, hangs\n A golden lily cup, as airy as a dancing sprite.\n The moon hath caught a fleeting cloud, and rests in her embrace.\n The bumblefly still hovers o\u2019er the clover flower,\n And mimics all the zephyr\u2019s song. White butterflies,\n Whose wings bespeak late wooing of the buttercup,\n Wend home their way, the gold still clinging to their snowy gossamer.\n E\u2019en the toad, who old and moss-grown seems,\n Is wabbled on a lilypad, and watches for the moon\n To bid the cloud adieu and light him to his hunt\n For fickle marsh flies who tease him through the day.\n Why, every rose has loosed her petals,\n And sends a pleading perfume to the moss\n That creeps upon the maple\u2019s stalk, to tempt it hence\n To bear a cooling draught. Round yonder trunk\n The ivy clings and loves it into green.\n The pansy dreams of coaxing goldenrod\n To change her station, lest her modest flower\n Be ever doomed to blossom \u2019neath the shadow of the wall.\n And was not He who touched the pansy\n With His regal robes and left their color there,\n All-wise to leave her modesty as her greatest charm?\n Here snowdrops blossom \u2019neath a fringe of tuft,\n And fatty grubs find rest amid the mold.\n All love, and Love himself, is here,\n For every garden is fashioned by his hand.\n Are then the garden\u2019s treasures more of worth\n Than ugly toad or mold? Not so, for Love\n May tint the zincy blue-gray murk\n Of curdling fall to crimson, light-flashed summertide.\n Ah, why then question Love, I prithee, friend?\n\nThis is poetry, but there is something more than liquid sweetness in its\nlines. There is a truth. Deeper wisdom and a lore more profound and more\nmystical are revealed or delicately concealed in some of the others.\n\n       I searched among the hills to find His love,\n       And found but waving trees, and stones\n       Where lizards flaunt their green and slip to cool\n       Adown the moss. I searched within the field\n       To find His treasure-trove, and found but tasseled stalk\n       And baby grain, encradled in a silky nest.\n       I searched deep in the rose\u2019s heart to find\n       His pledge to me, and steeped in honey, it was there.\n       Lo, while I wait, a vagabond with goss\u2019mer wing\n       Hath stripped her of her loot and borne it all to me.\n       I searched along the shore to find His heart,\n       Ahope the lazy waves would bear it me;\n       And watched them creep to rest upon the sands,\n       Who sent them back again, asearch for me.\n       I sought amid a tempest for His strength,\n       And found it in its shrieking glee;\n       And saw man\u2019s paltry blocks come crashing down,\n       And heard the wailing of the trees who grew\n       Afeared, and, moaning, caused the flowers to quake\n       And tremble lest the sun forget them at the dawn;\n       While bolts shot clouds asunder, and e\u2019en the sea\n       Was panting with the spending of his might.\n       I searched within a wayside cot for His white soul,\n       And found a dimple next the lips of one who slept,\n       And watched the curtained wonder of her eyes,\n       Aflutter o\u2019er the iris-colored pools that held His smile:\n       And touched the warm and shrinking lips, so mute,\n       And yet so wise. For canst thou doubt whose kiss\n       Still lingers on their bloom?\n           Amid a muck of curse, and lie,\n       And sensuous lust, and damning leers,\n       I searched for Good and Light,\n       And found it there, aye, even there;\n       For broken reeds may house a lark\u2019s pure nest.\n       I stopped me at a pool to rest,\n       And toyed along the brink to pluck\n       The cress who would so guard her lips:\n       And flung a stone straight to her heart,\n       And, lo, but silver laughter mocketh me!\n       And as I stoop to catch the plash,\n       Pale sunbeams pierce the bower,\n       And ah, the shade and laughter melt\n       And leave me, empty, there.\n       But wait! I search and find,\n       Reflected in the pool, myself, the searcher.\n       And, on the silver surface traced,\n       My answer to it all.\n       For, heart of mine, who on this journey\n       Sought with me, I knew thee not,\n       But searched for prayer and love amid the rocks\n       Whilst thou but now declare thyself to me.\n       Ah, could I deem thee strong and fitting\n       As the tempest to depict His strength;\n       Or yet as gentle as the smile of baby lips,\n       Or sweet as honeyed rose or pure as mountain pool?\n       And yet thou art, and thou art mine\u2014\n       A gift and answer from my God.\n\nIt is not my purpose to attempt an extended interpretation of the\nmetaphysics of these poems. This one will repay real study. No doubt\nthere will be varied views of its meaning.\n\nThese poems do not all move with the murmuring ripple of running brooks.\nSome of them, appalling in the rugged strength of their figures of\nspeech, are like the storm waves smashing their sides against the\ncliffs. In my opinion there are not very many in literature that grip\nthe mind with greater force than the first two lines of the brief one\nwhich follows, and there are few things more beautiful than its\nconclusion:\n\n              Ah, God, I have drunk unto the dregs,\n              And flung the cup at Thee!\n              The dust of crumbled righteousness\n              Hath dried and soaked unto itself\n              E\u2019en the drop I spilled to Bacchus,\n              Whilst Thou, all-patient,\n              Sendest purple vintage for a later harvest.\n\nThe poems sometimes contain irony, gentle as a summer zephyr or crushing\nas a mailed fist. For instance this challenge to the vainglorious:\n\n           Strike ye the sword or dip ye in an inken well;\n           Smear ye a gaudy color or daub ye the clay?\n           Aye, beat upon thy busom then and cry,\n           \u201c\u2019Tis mine, this world-love and vainglory!\u201d\n           Ah, master-hand, who guided thee? Stay!\n           Dost know that through the ages,\n           Yea, through the very ages,\n           One grain of hero dust, blown from afar,\n           Hath lodged, and moveth thee?\n           Wait. Wreathe thyself and wait.\n           The green shall deepen to an ashen brown\n           And crumble then and fall into thy sightless eyes,\n           While thy moldering flesh droppeth awry.\n           Wait, and catch thy dust.\n           Mayhap thou canst build it back!\n\nShe touches all the strings of human emotion, and frequently thrums the\nnote of sorrow, usually, however, as an overture to a p\u00e6an of joy. The\nsomber tones in her pictures, to use another metaphor, are used mainly\nto strengthen the high lights. But now and then there comes a verse of\nsadness such as this one, which yet is not wholly sad:\n\n                   Ah, wake me not!\n             For should my dreaming work a spell to soothe\n             My troubled soul, wouldst thou deny me dreams?\n                   Ah, wake me not!\n             If \u2019mong the leaves wherein the shadows lurk\n             I fancy conjured faces of my loved, long lost;\n             And if the clouds to me are sorrow\u2019s shroud;\n             And if I trick my sorrow, then, to hide\n             Beneath a smile; or build of wasted words\n             A key to wisdom\u2019s door\u2014wouldst thou deny me?\n                   Ah, let me dream!\n             The day may bring fresh sorrows,\n             But the night will bring new dreams.\n\nWhen this was spelled upon the board, its pathos affected Mrs. Curran to\ntears, and, to comfort her, Patience quickly applied an antidote in the\nfollowing jingle, which illustrates not only her versatility, but her\nsense of humor:\n\n                  Patter, patter, briney drops,\n                  On my kerchief drying:\n                  Spatter, spatter, salty stream,\n                  Down my poor cheeks flying.\n                  Brine enough to \u2019merse a ham,\n                  Salt enough to build a dam!\n                  Trickle, trickle, all ye can\n                  And wet my dry heart\u2019s aching.\n                  Sop and sop, \u2019tis better so,\n                  For in dry soil flowers ne\u2019er grow.\n\nThis little jingle answered its purpose. Mrs. Curran\u2019s tears continued\nto fall, but they were tears of laughter, and all of the little party\nabout the board were put in good spirits. Then Patience dryly remarked:\n\n\u201cTwo singers there be; he who should sing like a troubadour and brayeth\nlike an ass, and he who should bray that singeth.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThese examples will serve to illustrate the nature of the\ncommunications, and as an introduction to the numerous compositions that\nwill be presented in the course of this narrative.\n\nThe question now arises, or, more likely, it has been in the reader\u2019s\nmind since the book was opened: What evidence is there of their\ngenuineness? Does Mrs. Curran, consciously or subconsciously, produce\nthis matter? It is hardly credible that anyone able to write such poems\nwould bother with a ouija board to do it.\n\nIt will probably be quite evident to a reader of the whole matter that\nwhoever or whatever it is that writes this poetry and prose, possesses,\nas already intimated, not only an unusual mind, but an unusual knowledge\nof archaic forms of English, a close acquaintance with nature as it is\nfound in England, and a familiarity with the manners and customs of\nEnglish life of an older time. Many of the words used in the later\ncompositions, particularly those of a dramatic nature, are obscure\ndialectal forms not to be found in any work of literature. All of the\nbirds and flowers and trees referred to in the communications are native\nto England, with the few exceptions that indicate some knowledge of New\nEngland. No one not growing up with the language used could have\nacquired facility in it without years of patient study. No one could\nbecome so familiar with English nature without long residence in\nEngland: for the knowledge revealed is not of the character that can be\nobtained from books. Mrs. Curran has had none of these experiences. She\nhas never been in England. Her studies since leaving school have been\nconfined to music, to which art she is passionately attached, and in\nwhich she is adept. She has never been a student of literature, ancient\nor modern, and has never attempted any form of literary work. She has\nhad no particular interest in English history, English literature or\nEnglish life.\n\nBut, it may be urged, this matter might be produced subconsciously, from\nMrs. Curran\u2019s mind or from the mind of some person associated with her.\nThe phenomena of subconsciousness are many and varied, and the word is\nused to indicate, but does not explain, numerous mysteries of the mind\nwhich seem wholly baffling despite this verbal hitching post. But I have\nno desire to enter into an argument. My sole purpose is so to present\nthe facts that the reader may intelligently form his own opinion. Here\nare the facts that relate to this phase of the subject:\n\nMrs. Curran does not go into a trance when the communications are\nreceived. On the contrary, her mind is absolutely normal, and she may\ntalk to others while the board is in operation under her hands. It is\nunaffected by conversation in the room. There is no _effort_ at mental\nconcentration. Aside from Mrs. Curran, it does not matter who is\npresent, or who sits at the board with her; there are seldom the same\npersons at any two successive sittings. Yet the personality of Patience\nis constant and unvarying. As to subconscious action on the part of Mrs.\nCurran, it would seem to be sufficient to say that no one can impart\nknowledge subconsciously, unless it has been first acquired through the\nmedia of consciousness; that is to say, through the senses. No one, for\nexample, who had never seen or heard a word of Chinese, could speak the\nlanguage subconsciously. One may unconsciously acquire information, but\nit must be through the senses.\n\nIt remains but to add that the reputation and social position of the\nCurrans puts them above the suspicion of fraud, if fraud were at all\npossible in such a matter as this; that Mrs. Curran does not give public\nexhibitions, nor private exhibitions for pay; that the compositions have\nbeen received in the presence of their friends, or of friends of their\nfriends, all specially invited guests. There seems nothing abnormal\nabout her. She is an intelligent, conscientious woman, a member of the\nEpiscopalian church, but not especially zealous in affairs of religion,\na talented musician, a clever and witty conversationalist, and a\ncharming hostess. These facts are stated not as gratuitous compliments,\nbut as evidences of character and temperament which have a bearing upon\nthe question.\n\n\n\n\n                        PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE\n\n                            \u201cYea, I be me.\u201d\n\n\nPatience, as I have said, has given very little information about\nherself, and every effort to pin her to a definite time or locality has\nbeen without avail. When she first introduced herself to Mrs. Curran,\nshe was asked where she came from, and she replied, \u201cAcross the sea.\u201d\nAsked when she lived, the pointer groped among the figures as if\nstruggling with memory, and finally, with much hesitation upon each\ndigit, gave the date 1649. This seemed to be so in accord with her\nlanguage, and the articles of dress and household use to which she\nreferred, that it was accepted as a date that had some relation to her\nmaterial existence. But Patience has since made it quite plain that she\nis not to be tied to any period.\n\n\u201cI be like to the wind,\u201d she says, \u201cand yea, like to it do blow me ever,\nyea, since time. Do ye to tether me unto today I blow me then tomorrow,\nand do ye to tether me unto tomorrow I blow me then today.\u201d\n\nIndeed, she at times seems to take a mischievous delight in baffling the\nseeker after personal information; and at other times, when she has a\ncomposition in hand, she expresses sharp displeasure at such inquiries.\nAs this is not a speculative work, but a narrative, the attempt to fix a\ntime and place for her will be left to those who may find interest in\nthe task. All that can be said with definiteness is that she brings the\nspeech and the atmosphere, as it were, of an age or ages long past; that\nshe is thoroughly English, and that while she can and does project\nherself back into the mists of time, and speak of early medieval scenes\nas familiarly as of the English renaissance, she does not make use of\nany knowledge she may possess of modern developments or modern\nconditions. And yet, archaic in word and form as her compositions are,\nthere is something very modern in her way of thought and in her attitude\ntoward nature. An eminent philologist asked her how it was that she used\nthe language of so many different periods, and she replied: \u201cI do plod a\ntwist of a path and it hath run from then till now.\u201d And when he said\nthat in her poetry there seemed to be echoes or intangible suggestions\nof comparatively recent poets, and asked her to explain, she said:\n\u201cThere be aneath the every stone a hidden voice. I but loose the stone\nand lo, the voice!\u201d\n\nBut while the archaic form of her speech and writings is an evidence of\nher genuineness, and she so considers it, she does not approve of its\nanalysis as a philological amusement. \u201cI brew and fashion feasts,\u201d she\nsays, \u201cand lo, do ye to tear asunder, thee wouldst have but grain dust\nand unfit to eat. I put not meaning to the tale, but source thereof.\u201d\nThat is to say, she does not wish to be measured by the form of her\nwords, but by the thoughts they convey and the source from which they\ncome. And she has put this admonition into strong and striking phrases.\n\n\u201cPut ye a value \u2019pon word? And weigh ye the line to measure, then, the\ngift o\u2019 Him \u2019pon rod afashioned out by man?\n\n\u201cI tell thee, He hath spoke from out the lowliest, and man did put to\nmeasure, and lo, the lips astop!\n\n\u201cAnd He doth speak anew; yea, and He hath spoke from out the mighty, and\nman doth whine o\u2019 track ashow \u2019pon path he knoweth not\u2014and lo, the\nmighty be astopped!\n\n\u201cYea, and He ashoweth wonders, and man findeth him a rule, and lo, the\nwonder shrinketh, and but the rule remaineth!\n\n\u201cYea, the days do rock with word o\u2019 Him, and man doth look but to the\nrod, and lo, the word o\u2019 Him asinketh to a whispering, to die.\n\n\u201cAnd yet, in patience, He seeketh new days to speak to thee. And thou\nne\u2019er shalt see His working. Nay!\n\n\u201cLook ye unto the seed o\u2019 the olive tree, aplanted. Doth the master, at\nits first burst athrough the sod, set up a rule and murmur him, \u2018\u2019Tis\nne\u2019er an olive tree! It hath but a pulp stem and winged leaves?\u2019 Nay, he\nletteth it to grow, and nurtureth it thro\u2019 days, and lo, at finish,\nthere astandeth the olive tree!\n\n\u201cYe\u2019d uproot the very seed in quest o\u2019 root! I bid thee nurture o\u2019 its\nday astead.\n\n\u201cI tell thee more: He speaketh not by line or word; Nay, by love and\ngiving.\n\n\u201cDo ye also this, in His name.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut, aside from the meagerness of her history, there is no\nindefiniteness in her personality, and this clear-cut and unmistakable\nindividuality, quite different from that of Mrs. Curran, is as strong an\nevidence of her genuineness as is the uniqueness of her literary\nproductions. To speak of something which cannot be seen nor heard nor\nfelt as a personality, would seem to be a misuse of the word, and yet\npersonality is much more a matter of mental than of physical\ncharacteristics. The tongue and the eyes are merely instruments by means\nof which personality is revealed. The personality of Patience Worth is\nmanifested through the instrumentality of a ouija board, and her\nstriking individuality is thereby as vividly expressed as if she were\npresent in the flesh. Indeed, it requires no effort of the imagination\nto visualize her. Whatever she may be, she is at hand. Nor does she have\nto be solicited. The moment the fingers are on the board she takes\ncommand. She seems fairly to jump at the opportunity to express herself.\n\nAnd she is essentially feminine. There are indubitable evidences of\nfeminine tastes, emotions, habits of thought, and knowledge. She is, for\nexample, profoundly versed in the methods of housekeeping of two\ncenturies or more ago. She is familiar with all the domestic machinery\nand utensils of that olden time\u2014the operation of the loom and the\nspinning wheel, the art of cooking at an open hearth, the sanding of\nfloors; and this homely knowledge is the essence of many of her proverbs\nand epigrams.\n\n\u201cA good wife,\u201d she says, \u201ckeepeth the floor well sanded and rushes in\nplenty to burn. The pewter should reflect the fire\u2019s bright glow; but in\nthy day housewifery is a sorry trade.\u201d\n\nAt another time she opened the evening thus:\n\n\u201cI have brought me some barley corn and a porridge pot. May I then sup?\u201d\n\nAnd the same evening she said to Mrs. Pollard:\n\n\u201cThee\u2019lt ever stuff the pot and wash the dishcloth in thine own way.\nAlackaday! Go brush thy hearth. Set pot aboiling. Thee\u2019lt cook into the\nbrew a stuff that tasteth full well unto thy guest.\u201d\n\nA collection of maxims for housekeepers might be made from the flashes\nof Patience\u2019s conversation. For example:\n\n\u201cToo much sweet may spoil the short bread.\u201d\n\n\u201cWeak yarn is not worth the knitting.\u201d\n\n\u201cA pound for pound loaf was never known to fail.\u201d\n\n\u201cA basting but toughens an old goose.\u201d\n\nThese and many others like them were used by her in a figurative sense,\nbut they reveal an intimate knowledge of the household arts and\nappliances of a forgotten time. If she knows anything of stoves or\nranges, of fireless cookers, of refrigerators, of any of the thousand\nand one utensils which are familiar to the modern housewife, she has\nnever once let slip a word to betray such knowledge.\n\nAt one time, after she had delivered a poem, the circle fell into a\ndiscussion of its meaning, and after a bit Patience declared they were\n\u201clike treacle dripping,\u201d and added, \u201cthee\u2019lt find the dishcloth may make\na savory stew.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s roasting us,\u201d cried Mrs. Hutchings.\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d said Patience, \u201cboiling the pot.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou don\u2019t understand our slang, Patience,\u201d Mrs. Hutchings explained.\n\u201cRoasting means criticising or rebuking.\u201d\n\n\u201cYea, basting,\u201d said Patience.\n\nMrs. Pollard remarked: \u201cI\u2019ve heard my mother say, \u2018He got a basting!\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cAn up-and-down turn to the hourglass does to a turn,\u201d Patience observed\ndryly.\n\n\u201cI suppose she means,\u201d said Mrs. Hutchings, \u201cthat two hours of basting\nor roasting would make us understand.\u201d\n\n\u201cWould she be likely to know about hourglasses?\u201d Mrs. Curran asked.\n\nPatience answered the question.\n\n\u201cA dial beam on a sorry day would make a muck o\u2019 basting.\u201d Meaning that\na sundial was of no use on a cloudy day.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut Patience is not usually as patient with lack of understanding as\nthis bit of conversation would indicate.\n\n\u201cI dress and baste thy fowl,\u201d she said once, \u201cand thee wouldst have me\neat for thee. If thou wouldst build the comb, then search thee for the\nhoney.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, we know we are stupid,\u201d said one. \u201cWe admit it.\u201d\n\n\u201cSaw drip would build thy head and fill thy crannies,\u201d Patience went on,\n\u201cyet ye feel smug in wisdom.\u201d\n\nAnd again: \u201cI card and weave, and ye look a painful lot should I pass ye\na bobbin to wind.\u201d\n\nA request to repeat a doubtful line drew forth this exclamation:\n\u201cBother! I fain would sew thy seam, not do thy patching.\u201d\n\nAt another time she protested against a discussion that interrupted the\ndelivery of a poem: \u201cWho then doth hold the distaff from whence the\nthread doth wind? Thou art shuttling \u2019twixt the woof and warp but to mar\nthe weaving.\u201d\n\nAnd once she exclaimed, \u201cI sneeze on rust o\u2019 wits!\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut it must not be understood that Patience is bad-tempered. These\noutbreaks are quoted to show one side of her personality, and they\nusually indicate impatience rather than anger: for, a moment after such\ncaustic exclamations, she is likely to be talking quite genially or\ndictating the tenderest of poetry. She quite often, too, expresses\naffection for the family with which she has associated herself. At one\ntime she said to Mrs. Curran, who had expressed impatience at some\ncryptic utterance of the board:\n\n\u201cAh, weary, weary me, from trudging and tracking o\u2019er the long road to\nthy heart! Wilt thou, then, not let me rest awhile therein?\u201d\n\nAnd again: \u201cShould thee let thy fire to ember I fain would cast fresh\nfaggots.\u201d\n\nAnd at another time she said of Mrs. Curran: \u201cShe doth boil and seethe,\nand brew and taste, but I have a loving for the wench.\u201d\n\nBut she seems to think that those with whom she is associated should\ntake her love for granted, as home folks usually do, and she showers her\nmost beautiful compliments upon the casual visitor who happens to win\nher favor. To one such she said:\n\n\u201cThe heart o\u2019 her hath suffered thorn, but bloomed a garland o\u2019er the\nwounds.\u201d\n\nTo a lady who is somewhat deaf she paid this charming tribute:\n\n\u201cShe hath an ear upon her every finger\u2019s tip, and \u2019pon her eye a\nthousand flecks o\u2019 color for to spread upon a dreary tale and paint a\nleaden sky aflash. What need she o\u2019 ears?\u201d\n\nAnd to another who, after a time at the board, said she did not want to\nweary Patience:\n\n\u201cWeary then at loving of a friend? Would I then had the garlanded bloom\no\u2019 love she hath woven and lighted, I do swear, with smiling washed\nbrighter with her tears.\u201d\n\nAnd again: \u201cI be weaving of a garland. Do leave me then a bit to tie its\nends. I plucked but buds, and woe! they did spell but infant\u2019s love. I\ncast ye, then, a blown bloom, wide petaled and rich o\u2019 scent. Take thou\nand press atween thy heart throbs\u2014my gift.\u201d\n\nOf still another she said: \u201cShe be a star-bloom blue that nestleth to\nthe soft grasses of the spring, but ah, the brightness cast to him who\nseeketh field aweary!\u201d\n\nAnd yet again: \u201cFields hath she trod arugged, aye, and weed agrown. Aye,\nand e\u2019en now, where she hath set abloom the blossoms o\u2019 her very soul,\nweed aspringeth. And lo, she standeth head ahigh and eye to sky and\nfaith astrong. And foot abruised still troddeth rugged field. But I do\npromise ye \u2019tis such an faith that layeth low the weed and putteth \u2019pon\nthe rugged path asmoothe, and yet but bloom shalt show, and ever shalt\nshe stand, head ahigh and eye unto the sky.\u201d\n\nUpon an evening after she had showered such compliments upon the ladies\npresent she exclaimed:\n\n\u201cI be a wag atruth, and lo, my posey-wreath be stripped!\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe seldom favors the men in this way. She has referred to herself\nseveral times as a spinster, and this may account for a certain\nreluctance to saying complimentary things of the other sex. \u201cA prosy\nspinster may but plash in love\u2019s pool,\u201d she remarked once, and at\nanother time she said: \u201cA wife shall brush her goodman\u2019s blacks and\npolish o\u2019 his buckles, but a maid may not dare e\u2019en to blow the trifling\ndust from his knickerbockers.\u201d With a few notable exceptions, her\nattitude toward men has been expressed in sarcasm, none the less cutting\nto those for whom she has an affection manifested in other ways. To one\nsuch she said:\n\n\u201cThee\u2019lt peg thy shoes, lad, to best their wearing, and eat too freely\nof the fowl. Thy belly needeth pegging sore, I wot.\u201d\n\n\u201cPatience doesn\u2019t mean that for me,\u201d he protested.\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d she said, \u201cthe jackass ne\u2019er can know his reflection in the pool.\nHe deemeth the thrush hath stolen of his song. Buy thee a pushcart.\n\u2019Twill speak for thee.\u201d\n\nAnd of this same rotund friend she remarked, when he laughed at\nsomething she had said:\n\n\u201cHe shaketh like a pot o\u2019 goose jell!\u201d\n\n\u201cI back up, Patience,\u201d he cried.\n\n\u201cAnd thee\u2019lt find the cart,\u201d she said.\n\nOf a visitor, a physician, she had this to say:\n\n\u201cHe bindeth and asmears and looketh at a merry, and his eye doth lie.\nHow doth he smite and stitch like to a wench, and brew o\u2019er steam! Yea,\n\u2019tis atwist he be. He runneth whither, and, at a beconing, (beckoning)\nyon, and ever thus; but \u2019tis a blunder-mucker he he. His head like to a\nsteel, yea, and heart a summer\u2019s cloud athin (within), enough to show\nathrough the clear o\u2019 blue.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut it is upon the infant that Patience bestows her tenderest words. Her\nlove of childhood is shown in many lines of rare and touching beauty.\n\n\u201cYe seek to level unto her,\u201d she said of a baby girl who was present one\nevening, \u201cbut thou art awry at reasoning. For he who putteth him to\nbabe\u2019s path doth track him high, and lo, the path leadeth unto the Door.\nYea, and doth she knock, it doth ope.\n\n\u201cCast ye wide thy soul\u2019s doors and set within such love. For, brother, I\ndo tell thee that though the soul o\u2019 ye be torn, aye, and scarred, \u2019tis\nsuch an love that doth heal. The love o\u2019 babe be the balm o\u2019 earth.\n\n\u201cSee ye! The sun tarrieth \u2019bout the lips o\u2019 her; aye, and though the\nhand be but thy finger\u2019s span, \u2019tis o\u2019 a weight to tear away thy heart.\u201d\n\nAnd upon another occasion she revealed something of herself in these\nwords:\n\n              Know ye; in my heart\u2019s mansion\n              There be apart a place\n              Wherein I treasure my God\u2019s gifts.\n              Think ye to peer therein? Nay.\n              And should thee by a chance\n              To catch a stolen glimpse,\n              Thee\u2019dst laugh amerry, for hord (hoard)\n              Would show but dross to thee:\n              A friend\u2019s regard, ashrunked and turned\n              To naught\u2014but one bright memory is there;\n              A hope\u2014now dead, but showeth gold hid there;\n              A host o\u2019 nothings\u2014dreams, hopes, fears;\n              Love throbs afluttered hence\n              Since first touch o\u2019 baby hands\n              Caressed my heart\u2019s store ahidden.\n\nReturning to the femininity of Patience, it is also shown in her\nfrequent references to dress. Upon an evening when the publication of\nher poems had been under discussion, when next the board was taken up\nshe let them know that she had heard, in this manner:\n\n\u201cMy pettieskirt hath a scallop,\u201d she said. \u201cMayhap that will help thy\nhistory.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d cried Mrs. Curran, \u201cwe are discovered!\u201d\n\n\u201cYea,\u201d laughed Patience\u2014she must have laughed, \u201cand tell thou of my\nbuckled boots and add a cap-string.\u201d\n\nFurther illustrative of her feminine characteristics and of her interest\nin dress, as well as of a certain fun-loving spirit which now and then\nseems to sway her, is this record of a sitting upon an evening when Mr.\nCurran and Mr. Hutchings had gone to the theater, and the ladies were\nalone:\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cGo ye to the lighted hall to search for learning? Nay, \u2019tis\na piddle, not a stream, ye search. Mayhap thou sendest thy men for\nbarleycorn. \u2019Twould then surprise thee should the asses eat it.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cWhat is she driving at?\u201d\n\n_Mrs. P._\u2014\u201cThe men and the theater, I suppose.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cPatience, what are they seeing up there?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cNe\u2019er a timid wench, I vum.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. C._\u2014\u201cYou don\u2019t approve of their going, do you, Patience?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cThee\u2019lt find a hearth more profit. Better they cast the bit\nof paper.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. C._\u2014\u201cWhat does she mean by paper? Their programmes?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cPainted parchment squares.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. P._\u2014\u201cOh, she means they\u2019d better stay at home and play cards.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cAre they likely to get their morals corrupted at that show?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cHe who tickleth the ass to start a braying, fain would\ncarol with his brother.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. C._\u2014\u201cIf the singing is as bad as it usually is at that place, I\ndon\u2019t wonder at her disapproval. But what about the girls, Patience?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cMy pettieskirt ye may borrow for the brazens.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. P._\u2014\u201cNow, what is a pettieskirt? Is it really a skirt or is it\nthat ruff they used to wear around the neck?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cNay, my bib covereth the neckband.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cThen, where do you wear your pettieskirt?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201c\u2019Neath my kirtle.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. C._\u2014\u201cIs that the same as girdle? Let\u2019s look it up.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cArt fashioning thy new frock?\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cI predict that Patience will found a new style\u2014Puritan.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201c\u2019Twere a virtue, egad!\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cYou evidently don\u2019t think much of our present style. In your\nday women dressed more modestly, didn\u2019t they?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cMany\u2019s the wench who pulled her points to pop. But ah, the\nlocks were combed to satin! He who bent above might see himself\nreflected.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. C._\u2014\u201cWhat were the young girls of your day like, Patience?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cA silly lot, as these of thine. Wait!\u201d\n\nThere was no movement of the board for about three minutes, and then:\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a sorry lot, not harming but boresome!\u201d\n\n_Mrs. H._\u2014\u201cOh, Patience, have you been to the theater?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cA peep in good cause could surely ne\u2019er harm the godly.\u201d\n\n_Mrs. C._\u2014\u201cHow do you think we ought to look after those men?\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cThine ale is drunk at the hearth. Surely he who stops to\nsip may bless the firelog belonging to thee.\u201d\n\nWhen the men returned home they agreed with the verdict of Patience\nbefore they had heard it, that it was a \u201ctame\u201d show, \u201cnot harming, but\nboresome.\u201d\n\nThe exclamation of Mrs. Curran, \u201cLet\u2019s look it up,\u201d in the extract just\nquoted from the record, has been a frequent one in this circle since\nPatience came. So many of her words are obsolete that her friends are\noften compelled to search through the dictionaries and glossaries for\ntheir meaning. Her reference to articles of dress\u2014wimple, kirtle,\npettieskirt, points and so on, had all to be \u201clooked up.\u201d Once Patience\nbegan an evening with this remark:\n\n\u201cThe cockshut finds ye still peering to find the other land.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is cock\u2019s hut?\u201d asked Mrs. H.\n\n\u201cNay,\u201d said Patience, \u201cCock-shut. Thee needeth light, but cockshut\nbringeth dark.\u201d\n\n\u201cCockshut must mean shutting up the cock at night,\u201d suggested a visitor.\n\n\u201cAye, and geese, too, then could be put to quiet,\u201d Patience exclaimed.\n\u201cWouldst thou wish for cockshut?\u201d\n\nSearch revealed that cockshut was a term anciently applied to a net used\nfor catching woodcock, and it was spread at nightfall, hence cockshut\nacquired also the meaning of early evening. Shakespeare uses the term\nonce, in Richard III., in the phrase, \u201cMuch about cockshut time,\u201d but it\nis a very rare word in literature, and probably has not been used, even\ncolloquially, for centuries.\n\nThere are many such words used by Patience\u2014relics of an age long past.\nThe writer was present at a sitting when part of a romantic story-play\nof medieval days was being received on the board. One of the characters\nin the story spoke of herself as \u201cplaying the jane-o\u2019-apes.\u201d No one\npresent had ever heard or seen the word. Patience was asked if it had\nbeen correctly received, and she repeated it. Upon investigation it was\nfound that it is a feminine form of the familiar jackanapes, meaning a\nsilly girl. Massinger used it in one of his plays in the seventeenth\ncentury, but that appears to be the only instance of its use in\nliterature.\n\nThese words may be not unknown to many people, but the point is that\nthey were totally strange to those at the board, including Mrs.\nCurran\u2014words that could not possibly have come out of the consciousness\nor subconsciousness of any one of them. The frequent use of such words\nhelps to give verity to the archaic tongue in which she expresses her\nthoughts, and the consistent and unerring use of this obsolete form of\nspeech is, next to the character of her literary production, the\nstrongest evidence of her genuineness. It will be noticed, too, that the\nlanguage she uses in conversation is quite different from that in her\nliterary compositions, although there are definite similarities which\nseem to prove that they come from the same source. In this also she is\nwholly consistent: for it is unquestionably true that no poet ever\ntalked as he wrote. Every writer uses colloquial words and idioms in\nconversation that he would never employ in literature. No matter what\nhis skill or genius as a writer may be, he talks \u201cjust like other\npeople.\u201d Patience Worth in this, as in other things, is true to her\ncharacter.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt may be repeated that in all this matter\u2014and it is but a skimming of\nthe mass\u2014one may readily discern a distinct and striking personality;\nnot a wraith-like, formless, evanescent shadow, but a personality that\ncan be clearly visualized. One can easily imagine Patience Worth to be a\nwoman of the Puritan period, with, however, none of the severe and\ngloomy beliefs of the Puritan\u2014a woman of a past age stepped out of an\nold picture and leaving behind her the material artificialities of paint\nand canvas. From her speech and her writings one may conceive her to be\na woman of Northern England, possibly: for she uses a number of ancient\nwords that are found to have been peculiar to the Scottish border; a\ncountry woman, perhaps, for in all of her communications there are only\ntwo or three references to the city, although her knowledge and love of\nthe drama may be a point against this assumption; a woman who had read\nmuch in an age when books were scarce, and women who could read rarer\nstill: for although she frequently expresses disdain of book learning,\nshe betrays a large accumulation of such learning, and a copious\nvocabulary, as well as a degree of skill in its use, that could only\nhave been acquired from much study of books. \u201cI have bought beads from a\npack,\u201d she says, \u201cbut ne\u2019er yet have I found a peddler of words.\u201d\n\nAnd then, after we have mentally materialized this woman, and given her\na habitation and a time, Patience speaks again, and all has vanished.\n\u201cNot so,\u201d she said to one who questioned her, \u201cI be abirthed awhither\nand abide me where.\u201d And again she likened herself to the wind. \u201cI be\nlike the wind,\u201d she said, \u201cwho leaveth not track, but ever \u2019bout, and\nyet like to the rain who groweth grain for thee to reap.\u201d At other times\nshe has indicated that she has never had a physical existence. I have\nquoted her saying: \u201cI do plod a twist o\u2019 a path and it hath run from\nthen till now.\u201d At a later time she was asked what she meant by that.\nShe answered:\n\n\u201cDidst e\u2019er to crack a stone, and lo, a worm aharded? (a fossil). \u2019Tis\nso, for list ye, I speak like ye since time began.\u201d\n\nIt is thus she reveals herself clearly to the mind, but when one\nattempts to approach too closely, to lay a hand upon her, as it were,\nshe invariably recedes into the unfathomable deeps of mysticism.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE POETRY\n\n              Am I a broken lyre,\n              Who, at the Master\u2019s touch,\n              Respondeth with a tinkle and a whir?\n              Or am I strung in full\n              And at His touch give forth the full chord?\n                                         \u2014PATIENCE WORTH.\n\n\nAs the reader will have observed, the poetry of Patience Worth is not\nconfined to a single theme, nor to a group of related themes. It covers\na range that extends from inanimate things through all the gradations of\nmaterial life and on into the life of spiritual realms as yet uncharted.\nIt includes poems of sentiment, poems of nature, poems of humanity; but\nthe larger number deal with man in relation to the mysteries of the\nbeyond. All of them evince intellectual power, knowledge of nature and\nhuman nature, and skill in construction. With the exception of one or\ntwo little jingles, the poems are rhymeless. Patience may not wholly\nagree with Milton that rhyme \u201cis the invention of a barbarous age to set\noff wretched matter and lame metre,\u201d but she seldom uses it, finding in\nblank verse a medium that suits all her moods, making it at will as\nlight and ethereal as a summer cloud or as solemn and stately as a\nWagnerian march. She molds it to every purpose, and puts it to new and\nstrange uses. Who, for example, ever saw a lullaby in blank verse? It\nis, I believe, quite without precedent in literature, and yet it would\nnot be easy to find a lullaby more daintily beautiful than the one which\nwill be presented later on.\n\nIn all of her verse, the iambic measure is dominant, but it is not\nmaintained with monotonous regularity. She appreciates the value of an\noccasional break in the rhythm, and she understands the uses of the\npause. But she declines to be bound by any rules of line measurement.\nMany of her lines are in accord with the decasyllabic standard of heroic\nverse, but in no instance is that standard rigidly adhered to: some of\nthe lines contain as many as sixteen syllables, others drop to eight or\neven six.\n\nIt should be explained, however, that the poetry as it comes from the\nouija board is not in verse form. There is nothing in the dictation to\nindicate where a line should begin or where end, nor, of course, is\nthere any punctuation, there being no way by which the marks of\npunctuation could be denoted. There is usually, however, a perceptible\npause at the end of a sentence. The words are taken down as they are\nspelled on the board, without any attempt, at the time, at versification\nor punctuation. After the sitting, the matter is punctuated and lined as\nnearly in accord with the principles of blank verse construction as the\nabilities of the editor will permit. It is not claimed that the line\narrangement of the verses as they are here presented is perfect; but\nthat is a detail of minor importance, and for whatever technical\nimperfections there may be in this particular, Patience Worth is not\nresponsible. The important thing is that every word is given exactly as\nit came from the board, without the alteration of a syllable, and\nwithout changing the position or even the spelling of a single one.\n\nAs a rule, Patience spells the words in accordance with the standards of\ntoday, but there are frequent departures from those standards, and many\ntimes she has spelled a word two or three different ways in the same\ncomposition. For example, she will spell \u201cspin\u201d with one n or two n\u2019s\nindifferently: she will spell \u201cfriend\u201d correctly, and a little later\nwill add an e to it; she will write \u201cboughs\u201d and \u201cbows\u201d in the same\ncomposition. On the other hand she invariably spells tongue \u201ctung,\u201d and\npositively refuses to change it, and this is true also of the word\nbosom, which she spells \u201cbusom.\u201d\n\nThere are indications that the poems and the stories are in course of\ncomposition at the time they are being produced on the ouija board.\nIndeed, one can almost imagine the author dictating to an amanuensis in\nthe manner that was necessary before stenography was invented, when\nevery word had to be spelled out in longhand. At times the little table\nwill move with such rapidity that it is very difficult to follow its\npoint with the eye and catch the letter indicated. Then there will be a\npause, and the pointer will circle around the board, as if the composer\nwere trying to decide upon a word or a phrase. Occasionally four or five\nwords of a sentence will be given, then suddenly the planchette will\ndart up to the word \u201cNo,\u201d and begin the sentence again with different\nand, it is to be presumed, more satisfactory words.\n\nSometimes, though rarely, Patience will begin a composition and suddenly\nabandon it with an exclamation of displeasure, or else take up a new and\nentirely different subject. Once she began a prose composition thus:\n\n\u201cI waste my substance on the weaving of web and the storing of pebbles.\nWhen shall I build mine house, and when fill the purse? Oh, that my\nfancy weaved not but web, and desire pricketh not but pebble!\u201d\n\nThere was an impatient dash across the board, and then she exclaimed:\n\n\u201cBah, \u2019tis bally reasoning! I plucked a gosling for a goose, and found\ndown enough to pad the parson\u2019s saddle skirts!\u201d\n\nAt another time she began:\n\n\u201cRain, art thou the tears wept a thousand years agone, and soaked into\nthe granite walls of dumb and feelingless races? Now\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nThere was a long pause and then came this lullaby:\n\n            Oh, baby, soft upon my breast press thou,\n            And let my fluttering throat spell song to thee,\n            A song that floweth so, my sleeping dear:\n            Oh, buttercups of eve,\n            Oh, willynilly,\n            My song shall flutter on,\n            Oh, willynilly.\n            I climb a web to reach a star,\n            And stub my toe against a moonbeam\n            Stretched to bar my way,\n            Oh, willynilly.\n            A love-puff vine shall shelter us,\n            Oh, baby mine;\n            And then across the sky we\u2019ll float\n            And puff the stars away.\n            Oh, willynilly, on we\u2019ll go,\n            Willynilly floating.\n\n\u201cThee art o\u2019erfed on pudding,\u201d she added to Mrs. Curran. \u201cThis sauce is\nbut a butter-whip.\u201d\n\nAnd now, having briefly referred to the technique of the poems, and\nexplained the manner in which they are transmitted we will make a more\nsystematic presentation of them. For a beginning, nothing better could\nbe offered than the Spinning Wheel lullaby heretofore referred to.\n\nIn it we can see the mother of, perhaps, the Puritan days, seated at the\nspinning wheel while she sings to the child which is supposed to lie in\nthe cradle by her side. One can view through the open door the\nold-fashioned flower garden bathed in sunlight, can hear the song of the\nbird and the hum of the bee, and through it all the sound of the wheel.\nBut!\u2014it is the song of a childless woman to an imaginary babe: Patience\nhas declared herself a spinster.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n              Ah, wee one,\n              Croon unto the tendrill tipped with sungilt,\n              Nodding thee from o\u2019er the doorsill there.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  My wheel shall sing to thee.\n              I pull the flax as golden as thy curl,\n              And sing me of the blossoms blue,\n              Their promise, like thine eyes to me.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  \u2019Tis such a merry tale I spinn.\n              Ah, wee one, croon unto the honey bee\n              Who diggeth at the rose\u2019s heart.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  My wheel shall sing to thee,\n              Heart-blossom mine. The sunny morn\n              Doth hum with lovelilt, dear.\n              I fain would leave my spinning\n              To the spider climbing there,\n              And bruise thee, blossom, to my breast.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  What fancies I do weave!\n              Thy dimpled hand doth flutter, dear,\n              Like a petal cast adrift\n              Upon the breeze.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  \u2019Tis faulty spinning, dear.\n              A cradle built of thornwood,\n              A nest for thee, my bird.\n              I hear thy crooning, wee one,\n              And ah, this fluttering heart.\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  How ruthlessly I spinn!\n              My wheel doth wirr an empty song, my dear,\n              For tendrill nodding yonder\n              Doth nod in vain, my sweet;\n              And honey bee would tarry not\n              For thee; and thornwood cradle swayeth\n              Only to the loving of the wind!\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  My wheel still sings to thee,\n              Thou birdling of my fancy\u2019s realm!\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  An empty dream, my dear!\n              The sun doth shine, my bird;\n              Or should he fail, he shineth here\n              Within my heart for thee!\n\n              Strumm, strumm!\n                  My wheel still sings to thee.\n\nWho would say that rhyme or measured lines would add anything to this\nunique song? It is filled with the images which are the essentials of\ntrue poetry, and it has the rhythm which sets the imagery to music and\ngives it vitality. \u201cThe tendrill tipped with sungilt,\u201d \u201cthe sunny morn\ndoth hum with lovelilt,\u201d \u201cthy dimpled hand doth flutter like a petal\ncast adrift upon the breeze\u201d\u2014these are figures that a Shelley would not\nwish to disown. There is a lightness and delicacy, too, that would seem\nto be contrary to our notions of the adaptiveness of blank verse. But\nthese are technical features. It is the pathos of the song, the\nexpression of the mother-yearning instinctive in every woman, which\ngives it value to the heart.\n\nAnd yet there is a pleasure expressed in this song, the pleasure of\nimagination, which makes the mind\u2019s pictures living realities. In the\npoem which follows Patience expresses the feelings of the dreamer who is\nrudely awakened from this delightful pastime by the realist who sees but\nwhat his eyes behold:\n\n             Athin the even\u2019s hour,\n             When shadow purpleth the garden wall,\n             Then sit thee there adream,\n             And cunger thee from out the pack o\u2019 me.\n             Yea, speak thou, and tell to me\n             What \u2019tis thou hearest here.\n\n             A rustling? Yea, aright!\n             A murmuring? Yea, aright!\n             Ah, then, thou sayest, \u2019tis the leaves\n             That love one \u2019pon the other.\n             Yea, and the murmuring, thou sayest,\n             Is but the streamlet\u2019s hum.\n\n             Nay, nay! For wait thee.\n             Ayonder o\u2019er the wall doth rise\n             The white faced Sister o\u2019 the Sky.\n             And lo, she beareth thee a fairies\u2019 wand,\n             And showeth thee the ghosts o\u2019 dreams.\n\n             Look thou! Ah, look! A one\n             Doth step adown the path! The rustle?\n             \u2018Tis the silken whisper o\u2019 her robe.\n             The hum? The love-note o\u2019 her maiden dream.\n             See thee, ah, see! She bendeth there,\n             And branch o\u2019 bloom doth nod and dance.\n             Hark, the note! A robin\u2019s cheer?\n\n             Ah, Brother, nay.\n             \u2019Tis the whistle o\u2019 her lover\u2019s pipe.\n             See, see, the path e\u2019en now\n             Doth show him, tall and dark, aside the gate.\n\n             What! What! Thou sayest\n             \u2019Tis but the rustle o\u2019 the leaves,\n             And brooklet\u2019s humming o\u2019er its stony path!\n             Then hush! Yea, hush thee!\n             Hush and leave me here!\n             The fairy wand hath broke, and leaves\n             Stand still, and note hath ceased,\n             And maiden vanished with thy word.\n\n             Thou, thou hast broke the spell,\n             And dream hath heard thy word and fled.\n             Yea, sunk, sunk upon the path,\n             They o\u2019 my dreams\u2014slain, slain,\n             And dead with but thy word.\n             Ah, leave me here and go,\n             For Earth doth hold not\n             E\u2019en my dreaming\u2019s wraith.\n\nIn previous chapters I have spoken of the wit and humor of Patience\nWorth. In only one instance has she put humor into verse, and that I\nhave already quoted; but at times her poetry has an airy playfulness of\nform that gives the effect of humor, even though the theme and the\nintent may be serious. Here is an example:\n\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind,\n       And whiffing on its way, doth blow a merry tale.\n       Where, in the fields all furrowed and rough with corn,\n       Late harvested, close-nestled to a fibrous root,\n       And warmed by the sun that hid from night there-neath,\n       A wee, small, furry nest of root mice lay.\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind.\n\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind.\n       I found this morrow, on a slender stem,\n       A glory of the morn, who sheltered in her wine-red throat\n       A tiny spinning worm that wove the livelong day,\u2014\n       Long after the glory had put her flag to mast\u2014\n       And spun the thread I followed to the dell,\n       Where, in a gnarled old oak, I found a grub,\n       Who waited for the spinner\u2019s strand\n       To draw him to the light.\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind.\n\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind!\n       I blew a beggar\u2019s rags, and loving\n       Was the flapping of the cloth. And singing on\n       I went to blow a king\u2019s mantle \u2019bout his limbs,\n       And cut me on the crusted gilt.\n       And tainted did I stain the rose until she turned\n       A snuffy brown and rested her poor head\n       Upon the rail along the path.\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind.\n\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind.\n       I blow me \u2019long the coast,\n       And steal from out the waves their roar;\n       And yet from out the riffles do I steal\n       The rustle of the leaves, who borrow of the riffle\u2019s song\n       From me at summer-tide. And then\n       I pipe unto the sands, who dance and creep\n       Before me in the path. I blow the dead\n       And lifeless earth to dancing, tingling life,\n       And slap thee to awake at morn.\n           Whiff, sayeth the wind.\n\nThere is a vivacity in this odd conceit that in itself brings a smile,\nwhich is likely to broaden at the irony in the suggestion of the wind\ncutting itself on the crusted gilt of a king\u2019s mantle. Equally spirited\nin movement, but vastly different in character, is the one which\nfollows:\n\n              Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going?\n          Art dawdling time away adown the primrose path\n          And wishing golden dust to fancied value?\n          Ah, catch the milch-dewed air, breathe deep\n          The clover-scented breath across the field,\n          And feed upon sweet-rooted grasses\n          Thou hast idly plucked.\n          Come, Brother, then let\u2019s on together.\n\n              Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going?\n          Is here thy path adown the hard-flagged pave,\n          Where, bowed, the workers blindly shuffle on;\n          And dumbly stand in gullies bound,\n          The worn, bedogged, silent-suffering beast,\n          Far driven past his due?\n          And thou, beloved, hast thy burden worn thee weary?\n          Come, Brother, then let\u2019s on together.\n\n              Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going?\n          Hast thou begun the tottering of age,\n          And doth the day seem over-long to thee?\n          Art fretting for release, and dost thou lack\n          The power to weave anew life\u2019s tangled skein?\n          Come, Brother, then let\u2019s on together.\n\nThe second line of this will at once recall Shakespeare\u2019s \u201cprimrose path\nof dalliance,\u201d and it is one of the rare instances in which Patience may\nbe said to have borrowed a metaphor; but in the line which follows, \u201cand\nwishing golden dust to fancied value,\u201d she puts the figure to better use\nthan he in whom it originated. Beyond this line there is nothing\nspecially remarkable in this poem, and it is given mainly to show the\nversatility of the composer, and as another example of her ability to\npresent vivid and striking pictures.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nReference has been made to the love of nature and the knowledge of\nnature betrayed in these poems. Even in those of the most spiritual\ncharacter nature is drawn upon for illustrations and symbols, and the\nlines are lavishly strewn with material metaphor and similes that open\nup the gates of understanding. This picture of winter, for example,\nbrings out the landscape it describes with the vividness and reality of\na stereoscope, and yet it is something more than a picture:\n\n                Snow tweaketh \u2019neath thy feet,\n            And like a wandering painter stalketh Frost,\n            Daubing leaf and lichen. Where flowed a cataract\n            And mist-fogged stream, lies silvered sheen,\n            Stark, dead and motionless. I hearken\n            But to hear the she-e-e-e of warning wind,\n            Fearful lest I waken Nature\u2019s sleeping.\n            Await ye! Like a falcon loosed\n            Cometh the awakening. Then returneth Spring\n            To nestle in the curving breast of yonder hill,\n            And sets to rest like the falcon seeketh\n            His lady\u2019s outstretched arm.\n\nAnd here is another picture of winter, painted with a larger brush and\nheavier pigment, but expressing the same thought, that life doth ever\nfollow death:\n\n              Dead, all dead!\n          The earth, the fields, lie stretched in sleep\n          Like weary toilers overdone.\n          The valleys gape like toothless age,\n          Besnaggled by dead trees.\n          The hills, like boney jaws whose flesh hath dropped,\n          Stand grinning at the deathy day.\n          The lily, too, hath cast her shroud\n          And clothed her as a brown-robed nun.\n          The moon doth, at the even\u2019s creep,\n          Reach forth her whitened hands and sooth\n          The wrinkled brow of earth to sleep.\n          Ah, whither flown the fleecy summer clouds,\n          To bank, and fall to earth in billowed light,\n          And paint the winter\u2019s brown to spangled white?\n          Where, too, have flown the happy songs,\n          Long died away with sighing\n          On the shore-wave\u2019s crest?\n          Will they take Echo as their Guide,\n          And bound from hill to hill at this,\n          The sleepy time of earth,\n          And waken forest song \u2019mid naked waste?\n          Ah, slumber, slumber, slumber on.\n          \u2019Tis with a loving hand He scattereth the snow,\n          To nestle young spring\u2019s offering,\n          That dying Earth shall live anew.\n\nHow different this from Thomson\u2019s pessimistic,\n\n             Dread winter spreads his latest glooms\n             And reigns tremendous o\u2019er the conquered year.\n\nThis poem seemed to present unusual difficulties to Patience. The words\ncame slowly and haltingly, and the indications of composition were more\nmarked than in any other of her poems. The third line was first dictated\n\u201cLike weary workmen overdone,\u201d and then changed to \u201cweary toilers,\u201d and\nthe eighteenth line was given: \u201cOn the shore-wavelet\u2019s breast,\u201d and\nafterwards altered to read \u201cthe shorewave\u2019s crest.\u201d\n\nPossibly it was because the poet has not the same zest in painting\npictures of winter that she has in depicting scenes of kindlier seasons,\nin which she is in accord with nearly all poets, and, for that matter,\nwith nearly all people. Her pen, if one may use the word, is speediest\nand surest when she presents the beautiful, whether it be the material\nor the spiritual. She expresses this feeling herself with beauty of\nphrase and rhythm in this verse, which may be entitled \u201cThe Voice of\nSpring.\u201d\n\n           The streamlet under fernbanked brink\n           Doth laugh to feel the tickle of the waving mass;\n           And silver-rippled echo soundeth\n           Under over-hanging cliff.\n           The robin heareth it at morn\n           And steals its chatter for his song.\n           And oft at quiet-sleeping\n           Of the Spring\u2019s bright day,\n           I wander me to dream along the brooklet\u2019s bank,\n           And hark me to a song of her dead voice,\n           That lieth where the snowflakes vanish\n           On the molten silver of the brooklet\u2019s breast;\n           And watch the stream,\n           Who, over-fearful lest she lose the right\n           To ripple to the chord of Spring\u2019s full harmony,\n           Doth harden at her heart\n           And catch the song a prisoner to herself;\n           To loosen only at the wooing kiss\n           Of youthful Winter\u2019s sun,\n           And fill the barren waste with phantom spring.\n\nOr, passing on to autumn, consider this apostrophe to a fallen leaf:\n\n             Ah, paled and faded leaf of spring agone,\n             Whither goest thou? Art speeding\n             To another land upon the brooklet\u2019s breast?\n             Or art thou sailing to the sea, to lodge\n             Amid a reef, and, kissed by wind and wave,\n             Die of too much love?\n             Thou\u2019lt find a resting place amid the moss,\n             And, ah, who knows! The royal gem\n             May be thine own love\u2019s offering.\n             Or wilt thou flutter as a time-yellowed page,\n             And mould among thy sisters, ere the sun\n             May peep within the pack?\n             Or will the robin nest with thee\n             At Spring\u2019s awakening? The romping brook\n             Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on.\n             And shouldst thou be impaled\n             Upon a thorny branch, what then?\n             Try not a flight. Thy sisters call thee.\n             Could crocus spring from frost,\n             And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die?\n             Nay, speed not, for God hath not\n             A mast for thee provided.\n\nAutumn, too, is the theme of this:\n\n               She-e-e! She-e-e! She-e-e-e!\n           The soughing wind doth breathe.\n           The white-crest cloud hath drabbed\n           At season\u2019s late. The trees drip leaf-waste\n           Unto the o\u2019erloved blades aneath,\n           Who burned o\u2019 love, to die.\n\n               \u2019Tis the parting o\u2019 the season.\n           Yea, and earth doth weep. The mellow moon\n           Stands high o\u2019er golded grain. The cot-smoke\n           Curleth like to a loving arm\n           That reacheth up unto the sky.\n           The grain ears ope, to grin unto the day.\n           The stream hath laden with a pack o\u2019 leaves\n           To bear unto the dell, where bloom\n           Doth hide in waiting for her pack.\n           The stars do glitter cold, and dance to warm them\n           There upon the sky\u2019s blue carpet o\u2019er the earth.\n\n               \u2019Tis season\u2019s parting.\n           Yea, and earth doth weep. The Winter cometh,\n           And he bears her jewels for the decking\n           Of his bride. A glittered crown\n           Shall fall \u2019pon earth, and sparkled drop\n           Shall stand like gem that flasheth\n           \u2019Pon a nobled brow. Yea, the tears\n           Of earth shall freeze and drop\n           As pearls, the necklace o\u2019 the earth.\n           \u2019Tis season\u2019s parting. Yea,\n           And earth doth weep.\n           \u2019Tis Fall.\n\nShe does not confine herself to the Seasons in her tributes to the\ndivisions of time. There are many poems which have the day for their\nsubject, all expressive of delight in every aspect of the changing\nhours. There is a p\u00e6an to the day in this:\n\n          The Morn awoke from off her couch of fleece,\n          And cast her youth-dampt breath to sweet the Earth.\n          The birds sent carol up to climb the vasts.\n          The sleep-stopped Earth awaked in murmuring.\n          The dark-winged Night flew past the Day\n          Who trod his gleaming upward way.\n          The fields folk musicked at the sun\u2019s warm ray.\n          Web-strewn, the sod, hung o\u2019er o\u2019 rainbow gleam.\n          The brook, untiring, ever singeth on.\n\n          The Day hath broke, and busy Earth\n          Hath set upon the path o\u2019 hours.\n          Mute Night hath spread her darksome wing\n          And loosed the brood of dreams,\n          And Day hath set the downy mites to flight.\n          Fling forth thy dreaming hours! Awake from dark!\n          And hark! And hark! The Earth doth ring in song!\n          \u2019Tis Day! \u2019Tis Day! \u2019Tis Day!\n\nThe close observer will notice in all of these poems that there is\nnothing hackneyed. The themes, the thoughts, the images, the phrasing,\nare almost if not altogether unique. The verse which follows is, I am\ninclined to believe, absolutely so:\n\n           Go to the builder of all dreams\n           And beg thy timbers to cast thee one.\n           Ah, Builder, let me wander in this land\n           Of softened shapes to choose. My hand doth reach\n           To catch the mantle cast by lilies whom the sun\n           Hath loved too well. And at this morrow\n           Saw I not a purple wing of night\n           To fold itself and bask in morning light?\n           I watched her steal straight to the sun\u2019s\n           Bedazzled heart. I claim her purpled gold.\n           And watched I not, at twi-hours creep,\n           A heron\u2019s blue wing skim across the pond,\n           Where gulf clouds fleeted in a fleecy herd,\n           Reflected fair? I claim the blue and let\n           My heart to gambol with the sky-herd there.\n           At midday did I not then find\n           A rod of gold, and sun\u2019s flowers,\n           Bounded in by wheat\u2019s betasseled stalks?\n           I claim the gold as mine, to cast my dream.\n           And then at stormtide did I catch the sun,\n           Becrimsoned in his anger; and from his height\n           Did he not bathe the treetops in his gore?\n           The red is mine. I weave my dream and find\n           The rainbow, and the rainbow\u2019s end\u2014a nothingness.\n\nAlmost equally weird is this \u201cBirth of a Song\u201d:\n\n                I builded me a harp,\n                And set asearch for strings.\n                Ah, and Folly set me \u2019pon a track\n                That set the music at a wail;\n                For I did string the harp\n                With silvered moon-threads;\n                Aye, and dead the notes did sound.\n                And I did string it then\n                With golden sun\u2019s-threads,\n                And Passion killed the song.\n                  Then did I to string it o\u2019er\u2014\n                And \u2019twer a jeweled string\u2014\n                A chain o\u2019 stars, and lo,\n                They laughed, and sorry wert the song.\n                And I did strip the harp and cast\n                The stars to merry o\u2019er the Night;\n                And string anew, and set athrob a string\n                Abuilded of a lover\u2019s note, and lo,\n                The song did sick and die,\n                And crumbled to a sweeted dust,\n                And blew unto the day.\n\n                Anew did I to string,\n                Astring with wail o\u2019 babe,\n                And Earth loved not the song.\n                I felled asorrowed at the task,\n                And still the Harp wert mute.\n                So did I to pluck out my heart,\n                And lo, it throbbed and sung,\n                And at the hurt o\u2019 loosing o\u2019 the heart\n                A song wert born.\n\nThat, however, is but a pretty play of fancy upon things within our ken,\nhowever shadowy and evanescent she may make them by her touch. But in\nthe poem which follows she touches on the border of a land we know not:\n\n            I\u2019d greet thee, loves of yester\u2019s day.\n            I\u2019d call thee out from There.\n            I\u2019d sup the joys of yonder realm.\n            I\u2019d list unto the songs of them\n            Who days of me know not.\n            I\u2019d call unto this hour\n            The lost of joys and woes.\n            I\u2019d seek me out the sorries\n            That traced the seaming of thy cheek,\n            O thou of yester\u2019s day!\n\n            I\u2019d read the hearts astopped,\n            That Earth might know the price\n            They paid as toll.\n            I\u2019d love their loves, I\u2019d hate their hates,\n            I\u2019d sup the cups of them;\n            Yea, I\u2019d bathe me in the sweetness\n            Shed by youth of yester\u2019s day.\n            Yea, of these I\u2019d weave the Earth a cloak\u2014\n            But ah, He wove afirst!\n            They cling like petal mold, and sweet the Earth.\n            Yea, the Earth lies wrapped\n            Within the holy of its ghost.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis but a drip o\u2019 loving,\u201d she said when she had finished this.\n\nNearly every English poet has a tribute to the Skylark, but I doubt if\nthere are many more exquisite than this:\n\n       I tuned my song to love and hate and pain\n       And scorn, and wrung from passion\u2019s heat the flame,\n       And found the song a wailing waste of voice.\n       My song but reached the earth and echoed o\u2019er its plains.\n       I sought for one who sang a wordless lay,\n       And up from \u2019mong the rushes soared a lark.\n       Hark to his song!\n       From sunlight came his gladdening note.\n       And ah, his trill\u2014the raindrops\u2019 patter!\n\n       And think ye that the thief would steal\n       The rustle of the leaves, or yet\n       The chilling chatter of the brooklet\u2019s song?\n       Not claiming as his own the carol of my heart,\n       Or listening to my plaint, he sings amid the clouds;\n       And through the downward cadence I but hear\n       The murmurings of the day.\n\nOne naturally thinks of Shelley\u2019s \u201cSkylark\u201d when reading this, and there\nare some passages in that celebrated poem that show a similarity of\nmetaphor, such as this:\n\n                       Sounds of vernal showers\n                       On the twinkling grass;\n                       Rain-awakened flowers;\n                       All that ever was\n                       Joyous and clear and fresh\n                       Thy music doth surpass.\n\nAnd there is something of the same thought in the lines of Edmund Burke:\n\n              Teach me, O lark! with thee to greatly rise,\n              T\u2019 exalt my soul and lift it to the skies;\n              To make each worldly joy as mean appear,\n              Unworthy care when heavenly joys are near.\n\nBut Patience nowhere belittles earthly joys that are not evil in\nthemselves; nor does she teach that all earthly passions are inherently\nwrong: for earthly love is the theme of many of her verses.\n\nHer expressions of scorn are sometimes powerful in their vehemence.\nThis, on \u201cWar,\u201d for example:\n\n               Ah, thinkest thou to trick?\n           I fain would peep beneath the visor.\n           A god of war, indeed! Thou liest!\n           A masquerading fiend,\n           The harlot of the universe\u2014\n           War, whose lips, becrimsoned in her lover\u2019s blood,\n           Smile only to his death-damped eyes!\n           I challenge thee to throw thy coat of mail!\n           Ah, God! Look thou beneath!\n           Behold, those arms outstretched!\n           That raiment over-spangled with a leaden rain!\n           O, Lover, trust her not!\n           She biddeth thee in siren song,\n           And clotheth in a silken rag her treachery,\n           To mock thee and to wreak\n           Her vengeance at thy hearth.\n           Cast up the visor\u2019s skirt!\n           Thou\u2019lt see the snakey strands.\n           A god of war, indeed! I brand ye as a lie!\n\nSuch outbreaks as this are rare in her poetry, but in her conversation\nshe occasionally gives expression to anger or scorn or contempt, though,\nas stated, she seldom dignifies such emotions in verse. Love, as I have\nsaid, is her favorite theme in numbers, the love of God first and far\nforemost, and after that brother love and mother love. To the love of\nman for woman, or woman for man, there is seldom a reference in her\npoems, although it is the theme of some of her dramatic works. There is\nan exquisite expression of mother love in the spinning wheel lullaby\nalready given, but for rapturous glorification of infancy, it would be\ndifficult to surpass this, which does not reveal its purport until the\nlast line:\n\n        Ah, greet the day, which, like a golden butterfly,\n        Hovereth \u2019twixt the night and morn;\n        And welcome her fullness\u2014the hours\n        \u2019Mid shadow and those the rose shall grace.\n        Hast thou among her hours thy heart\u2019s\n        Desire and dearest? Name thou then of all\n        His beauteous gifts thy greatest treasure.\n        The morning, cool and damp, dark-shadowed\n        By the frowning sun\u2014is this thy chosen?\n        The midday, flaming as a sword,\n        Deep-stained by noon\u2019s becrimsoned light\u2014\n        Is this thy chosen? Or misty startide,\n        Woven like a spinner\u2019s web and jeweled\n        By the climbing moon\u2014is this thy chosen?\n        Doth forest shade, or shimmering stream,\n        Or wild bird song, or cooing of the nesting dove,\n        Bespeak thy chosen? He who sendeth light\n        Sendeth all to thee, pledges of a bonded love.\n        And ye who know Him not, look ye!\n        From all His gifts He pilfered that which made it His\n        To add His fullest offering of love.\n        From out the morning, at the earliest tide,\n        He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried\n        Lest the dark should sorrow. And when the day was born,\n        The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud\n        And tinted soft by lingering night;\n        And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze;\n        The lily\u2019s satin cheek, and dove cooes,\n        And wild bird song, and Death himself\n        Is called to offer of himself;\n        And soft as willow buds may be,\n        He claimeth but the down to fashion this, thy gift,\n        The essence of His love, thine own first-born.\n\nIn brief, the babe concentrates within itself all the beauties and all\nthe wonders of nature. Its eyes, \u201ctwo lingering stars who tarried lest\nthe dark should sorrow,\u201d and in its face \u201cthe glow of sun flush veiled\nby gossamer cloud,\u201d \u201crose petals\u201d and the \u201clily\u2019s satin cheek\u201d; its\nvoice the dove\u2019s coo. \u201cFrom all His gifts He pilfered that which made it\nHis\u201d\u2014the divine essence\u2014\u201cto add His fullest offering of love.\u201d This is\nthe idealism of true poetry, and what mother looking at her own\nfirstborn will say that it is overdrawn?\n\nSo much for mother-love. Of her lines on brotherhood I have already\ngiven example. In only a few verses, as I have said, does Patience speak\nof love between man and woman. The poem which follows is perhaps the\nmost eloquent of these:\n\n           \u2019Tis mine, this gift, ah, mine alone,\n       To paint the leaden sky to lilac-rose,\n       Or coax the sullen sun to flash,\n       Or carve from granite gray a flaming knight,\n       Or weave the twilight hours with garlands gay,\n       Or wake the morning with my soul\u2019s glad song,\n       Or at my bitterest drink a sweetness cast,\n       Or gather from my loneliness the flower\u2014\n       A dream amid a mist of tears.\n       Ah, treasure mine, this do I pledge to thee,\n       That none may peer within thy land; and only\n       When the moon shines white shall I disclose thee;\n       Lest, straying, thou should\u2019st fade; and in the blackness\n       Of the midnight shall I fondle thee,\n       Afraid to show thee to the day.\n       When I shall give to Him, the giver,\n       All my treasure\u2019s stores, and darkness creeps upon me,\n       Then will I for this return a thank,\n       And show thee to the world.\n       Blind are they to thee, but ah, the darkness\n       Is illumined; and lo! thy name is burned\n       Like flaming torch to light me on my way.\n       Then from thy wrapping of love I pluck\n       My dearest gift, the memory of my dearest love.\n       Ah, memory, thou painter,\n       Who from cloud canst fashion her dear form,\n       Or from a stone canst turn her smile,\n       Or fill my loneliness with her dear voice,\n       Or weave a loving garland for her hair\u2014\n       Thou art my gift of God, to be my comrade here.\n\nNext to such love as this comes friendship, and she has put an estimate\nof the value of a friend in these words:\n\n         Of Earth there be this store of joys and woes.\n         Yea, and they do make the days o\u2019 me.\n         I sit me here adream that did I hold\n         From out the whole, but one, my dearest gift,\n         What then would it to be? Doth days and nights\n         Of bright and dark make this my store?\n         Nay. Do happy hours and woes-tide, then,\n         Beset this day of me and make the thing I\u2019d keep?\n         Nay. Doth metal store and jewelled string\n         Then be aworth to me? Nay. I set me here,\n         And dreaming, fall to reasoning for this,\n         That I would keep, if but one gift wert mine\n         Must hold the store o\u2019 all. Yea, must hold\n         The dark for light, yea, and hold the light for dark,\n         Aye, and hold the sweet for sours, aye, and hold\n         The love for Hate. Yea, then, where may I to turn?\n\n         And lo, as I adreaming sat\n         A voice spaked out to me: What ho! What ho!\n         And lo, the voice of one, a friend!\n\n         This, then, shall be my treasure,\n         And the Earth part I shall hold\n         From out all gifts of Him.\n\nLove of God, and God\u2019s love for us, and the certainty of life after\ndeath as a consequence of that love, are the themes of Patience\u2019s finest\npoetry, consideration of which is reserved for succeeding chapters. Yet\na taste of this devotional poetry will not be amiss at this point in the\npresentation of her works, as an indication of the character of that\nwhich is to come.\n\n         Lo, \u2019pon a day there bloomed a bud,\n         And swayed it at adance \u2019pon sweeted airs.\n         And gardens oped their green\u00e9d breast\n         To shew to Earth o\u2019 such an one.\n         And soft the morn did woo its bloom;\n         And nights wept \u2019pon its cheek,\n         And mosses crept them \u2019bout the stem,\n         That sun not scoarch where it had sprung.\n           And lo, the garden sprite, a maid,\n         Who came aseek at every day,\n         And kissed the bud, and cast o\u2019 drops\n         To cool the warm sun\u2019s rays.\n         And bud did hang it swaying there,\n         And love lept from the maiden\u2019s breast.\n\n         And days wore on; and nights did wrap\n         The bud to wait the morn;\n         And maid aseeked the spot.\n         When, lo, there came a Stranger\n         To the garden\u2019s wall,\n         Who knocked Him there\n         And bid the maiden come.\n\n         And up unto her heart she pressed her hand,\n         And reached it forth to stay the bud\u2019s soft sway,\n         And lo, the sun hung dark,\n         And Stranger knocked Him there.\n         And \u2019twere the maid did step most regal to the place.\n         And harked, and lo, His voice aspoke.\n         And she looked upon His face,\n         And lo, \u2019twere sorry sore, and sad!\n         And soft there came His word\n         Of pleading unto her:\n         \u201cO\u2019 thy garden\u2019s store do offer unto me.\u201d\n         And lo, the maid did turn and seek her out the bud,\n         And pluck it that she bear it unto Him.\n         And at the garden\u2019s ope He stood and waited her.\n         And forth her hand she held, therein the bud,\n         And lo, He took therefrom the bloom\n         And left the garden bare,\n         And maid did stand astripped\n         Of heart\u2019s sun \u2019mid her garden\u2019s bloom.\n         When lo, athin the wound there sunk\n         A warmpth that filled it up with love.\n         Yea, \u2019twere the smile o\u2019 Him, the price.\n\nBut she has given another form of poem which should be presented before\nthis brief review of her more material verse is concluded, and it is a\nform one would hardly expect from such a source. I refer to the \u201cpoem of\noccasion.\u201d A few days before Christmas, Mrs. Curran remarked as she sat\nat the board: \u201cI wonder if Patience wouldn\u2019t give us a Christmas poem.\u201d\nAnd without a moment\u2019s hesitation she did. Here it is:\n\n            I hied me to the glen and dell,\n            And o\u2019er the heights, afar and near,\n            To find the Yule sprite\u2019s haunt.\n            I dreamt me it did bide\n            Where mistletoe doth bead;\n            And found an oak whose boughs\n            Hung clustered with its borrowed loveliness.\n            Ah, could such a one as she\n            Abide her in this chill?\n            For bleakness wraps the oak about\n            And crackles o\u2019er her dancing branch.\n            Nay, her very warmth\n            Would surely thaw away the icy shroud,\n            And mistletoe would die\n            Adreaming it was spring.\n            I hied me to the holly tree\n            And made me sure to find her there.\n            But nay,\n            The thorny spines would prick her tenderness.\n            Ah, where then doth she bide?\n\n            I asked the frost who stood\n            Upon the fring\u00e9d grasses \u2019neath the oak.\n            \u201cI know her not, but I\n            Am ever bidden to her feast.\n            Ask thou the sparrow of the field.\n            He searcheth everywhere; perchance\n            He knoweth where she bides.\u201d\n\n            \u201cNay, I know her not,\n            But at her birthday\u2019s tide\n            I find full many a crumb\n            Cast wide upon the snow.\u201d\n\n            I found a chubby babe,\n            Who toddled o\u2019er the ice, and whispered,\n            Did she know the Yule sprite\u2019s haunt?\n            And she but turneth solemn eyes to me\n            And wags her golden head.\n\n            I flitted me from house to shack,\n            And ever missed the rogue;\n            But surely she had left her sign\n            To bid me on to search.\n            And I did weary of my task\n            And put my hopes to rest,\n            And slept me on the eve afore her birth,\n            Full sure to search anew at morn.\n\n            And then the morning broke;\n            And e\u2019er mine eyes did ope,\n            I fancied me a scarlet sprite,\n            With wings of green and scepter of a mistletoe,\n            Did bid me wake, and whispered me\n            To look me to my heart.\n            Soft-nestled, warm, I found her resting there.\n            Guard me lest I tell;\n            But, heart o\u2019erfull of loving,\n            Thee\u2019lt surely spill good cheer!\n\nThe following week, without request, she gave this New Year\u2019s poem,\nremarkable for the novelty of its treatment of a much worn theme:\n\n             The year hath sickened;\n             And dawning day doth show his withering;\n             And Death hath crept him closer on each hour.\n             The crying hemlock shaketh in its grief.\n             The smiling spring hath hollowed it to age,\n             And golden grain-stalks fallen\n             O\u2019er the naked breast of earth.\n             The year\u2019s own golden locks\n             Have fallen, too, or whitened,\n             Where they still do hold.\n\n             And do I sorrow me?\n             Nay, I do speed him on,\n             For precious pack he beareth\n             To the land of passing dreams.\n\n             I\u2019ve bundled pain and wishing\n             \u2019Round with deeds undone,\n             And packed the loving o\u2019 my heart\n             With softness of thine own;\n             And plied his pack anew\n             With loss and gain, to add\n             The cup of bitter tears I shed\n             O\u2019er nothings as I passed.\n\n             Old year and older years\u2014\n             My friends, my comrades on the road below\u2014\n             I fain would greet ye now,\n             And bid ye Godspeed on your ways.\n\n             I watch ye pass, and read\n             The aged visages of each.\n             I love ye well, and count ye o\u2019er\n             In fearing lest I lose e\u2019en one of you.\n             And here the brother of you, every one,\n             Lies smitten!\n\n             But as dear I\u2019ll love him\n             When the winter\u2019s moon doth sink;\n             And like the watery eye of age\n             Doth close at ending of his day.\n             And I shall flit me through his dreams\n             And cheer him with my loving;\n             And last within the pack shall put\n             A Hope and speed him thence.\n\n             And bow me to the New.\n             A friend mayhap, but still untried.\n             And true, ye say?\n             But ne\u2019er hath proven so!\n\n             Old year, I love thee well,\n             And bid thee farewell with a sigh.\n\nOne who reads these poems with thoughtfulness must be impressed by a\nnumber of attributes which make them notable, and, in some respects,\nwholly unique. First of all is the absence of conventionality, coupled\nwith skill in construction, in phrasing, in the compounding of words, in\nthe application to old words of new or unusual but always logical\nmeanings, in the maintenance of rhythm without monotony. Next is the\nabsolute purity, with the sometimes archaic quality, of the English. It\nis the language of Shakespeare, of Marlowe, of Fletcher, of Jonson and\nDrayton, except that it presents Saxon words or Saxon prefixes which had\nalready passed out of literary use in their time, while on the other\nhand it avoids nearly all the words derived directly from other\nlanguages that were habitually used by those great writers. There is\nrarely a word that is not of Anglo-Saxon or Norman birth. Nor are there\nany long words. All of these compositions are in words of one, two and\nthree syllables, very seldom one of four\u2014no \u201cmultitudinous seas\nincarnadine.\u201d Among the hundreds of words of Patience Worth\u2019s in this\nchapter there are only two of four syllables and less than fifty of\nthree syllables. Fully 95 per cent of her works are in words of one and\ntwo syllables. In what other writing, ancient or modern, the Bible\nexcepted, can this simplicity be found?\n\nBut the most impressive attribute of these poems is the weirdness of\nthem, an intangible quality that defies definition or location, but\nwhich envelops and permeates all of them. One may look in vain through\nthe works of the poets for anything with which to compare them. They are\nalike in the essential features of all poetry, and yet they are unalike.\nThere is something in them that is not in other poetry. In the profusion\nof their metaphor there is an etherealness that more closely resembles\nShelley, perhaps, than any other poet; but the beauty of Shelley\u2019s poems\nis almost wholly in their diction: there is in him no profundity of\nthought. In these poems there is both beauty and depth\u2014and something\nelse.\n\n\n\n\n                               THE PROSE\n\n              \u201cWord meeteth word, and at touch o\u2019 me, doth\n              spell to thee.\u201d\u2014PATIENCE WORTH.\n\n\nStrictly speaking, there is no prose in the compositions of Patience\nWorth. That which I have here classified as prose, lacks none of the\nessential elements of poetry, except a continuity of rhythm. The rhythm\nis there, the iambic measure which she favors being fairly constant, but\nit is broken by sentences and groups of sentences that are not metrical,\nand while it would not be difficult to arrange most of this matter in\nverse form, I am inclined to think that to the majority it will read\nsmoother and with greater ease as prose. Nevertheless, as will be seen,\nit is poetry. The diction is wholly of that order, and it is filled with\nstrikingly vivid and agreeable imagery. There is, however, this\ndistinction: most of the matter here classed as prose is dramatic in\nform and treatment, and each composition tells a story\u2014a story with a\ndefinite and well-constructed plot, dealing with real and strongly\nindividualized people, and mingling humor and pathos with much\neffectiveness. They bring at once a smile to the face and a tear to the\neye. They differ, too, from the poetry, in that they have little or no\napparent spiritual significance. They are stories, beautiful stories,\nunlike anything to be found in the literature of any country or any\ntime, but, except in the shadowy figure of \u201cThe Stranger,\u201d they do not\nrise above the things of earth. That is not to say, however, that they\nare not spiritual in the intellectual or emotional sense of the word, as\ndistinguished from the soul relation.\n\nAt the end of an evening a year and a half after Patience began her\nwork, she said: \u201cThy hearth is bright. I fain would knit beside its glow\nand spinn a wordy tale betimes.\u201d\n\nAt the next sitting she began the \u201cwordy tale.\u201d Up to that time she had\noffered nothing in prose form but short didactic pieces, such as will\nappear in subsequent chapters of this book, and the circle was lost in\nastonishment at the unfolding of this story, so different in form and\nspirit from anything she had previously given.\n\nHer stories are, as already stated, dramatic in form. Indeed they are\ncondensed dramas. After a brief descriptive introduction or prologue,\nall the rest is dialogue, and the scenes are shifted without explanatory\nconnection, as in a play. In the story of \u201cThe Fool and the Lady\u201d which\nfollows, the fool bids adieu to the porter of the inn, and in the next\nline begins a conversation with Lisa, whom he meets, as the context\nshows, at some point on the road to the tourney. It is the change from\nthe first to the second act or scene, but no stage directions came from\nthe board, no marks of division or change of scene, nor names of persons\nspeaking, except as indicated in the context. In reproducing these\nstories, no attempt has been made to put them completely in the dramatic\nform for which they were evidently designed, the desire being to present\nthem as nearly as possible as they were received; but to make them\nclearer to the reader the characters are identified, and shift of scene\nor time has been indicated.\n\n\n                         THE FOOL AND THE LADY\n\nAnd there it lay, asleep. A mantle, gray as monk\u2019s cloth, its covering.\nDim-glowing tapers shine like glowflies down the narrow winding streets.\nThe sounds of early morning creep through the thickened veil of heavy\nmist, like echoes of the day afore. The wind is toying with the\nthreading smoke, and still it clingeth to the chimney pot.\n\nThere stands, beyond the darkest shadow, the Inn of Falcon Feather, her\nsides becracked with sounding of the laughter of the king and\ngentlefolk, who barter song and story for the price of ale. Her windows\nsleep like heavy-lidded eyes, and her breath doth reek with wine, last\ndrunk by a merry party there.\n\nThe lamp, now blacked and dead, could boast to ye of part to many an\nundoing of the unwary. The roof, o\u2019er-hanging and bepeaked, doth \u2019mind\nye of a sleeper in his cap.\n\nThe mist now rises like a curtain, and over yonder steeple peeps the\nsun, his face washed fresh in the basin of the night. His beams now\nlight the dark beneath the palsied stair, and rag and straw doth heave\nto belch forth its baggage for the night.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cEh, gad! \u2019Tis morn, Beppo. Come, up, ye vermin; laugh and\nprove thou art the fool\u2019s. An ape and jackass are wearers of the cap and\nbells. Thou wert fashioned with a tail to wear behind, and I to spin a\ntale to leave but not to wear. For the sayings of the fool are purchased\nby the wise. My crooked back and pegs are purses\u2014the price to buy my\ngown; but better far, Beppo, to hunch and yet to peer into the clouds,\nthan be as strong as knights are wont to be, and belly, like a snake,\namongst the day\u2019s bright hours.\n\n\u201cHere, eat thy crust. \u2019Tis funny-bread, the earnings of a fool.\n\n\u201cI looked at Lisa as she rode her mount at yesternoon, and saw her skirt\nthe road with anxious eyes. Dost know for whom she sought, Beppo? Not\nme, who, breathless, watched behind a flowering bush to hide my\nugliness. Now laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool\u2019s!\n\n\u201cBut \u2019neath these stripes of color I did feel new strength, and saw me\nstrided on a black beside her there. And, Beppo, knave, thou didst but\nrattle at thy chain, and lo, the shrinking of my dream!\n\n\u201cBut we do limp quite merrily, and could we sing our song in truer\nmeasure\u2014thou the mimic, and I the fool? Thine eyes hold more for me than\nall the world, since hers do see me not.\n\n\u201cWe two together shall flatten \u2019neath the tree in yonder field and ride\nthe clouds, Beppo, I promise ye, at after hour of noon.\n\n\u201cSee! Tonio has slid the shutter\u2019s bolt! I\u2019ll spin a song and bart him\nfor a sup.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n(_Tonio_) \u201cSo, baggage, thou hast slept aneath the smell thou lovest\nbest!\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cOh, morrow, Tonio. The smell is weak as yester\u2019s unsealed\nwine. My tank doth tickle with the dust of rust, and yet methinks thou\nwould\u2019st see my slattern stays to rattle like dry bones, to please thee.\nSee, Beppo cryeth! Fetch me then a cup that I may catch the drops\u2014or,\nhere, I\u2019ll milk the dragon o\u2019er thy door!\u201d\n\n(_Tonio_) \u201cThou scrapple! Come within. \u2019Tis he who loveth not the fool\nwho doth hate his God.\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cI\u2019m loth to leave my chosen company. Come, Beppo, his words\nare hard, but we do know his heart.\n\n\u201cA health to thee, Antonio. Put in thy wine one taste of thy heart\u2019s\nbrew and I need not wish ye well.\n\n\u201cTo her, Beppo. Come, dip and take a lick.\n\n\u201cTonio, hast heard that at a time not set as yet the tournament will be?\nWho think ye rides the King\u2019s lance and weareth Lisa\u2019s colors? Blue,\nTonio, and gold, the heavens\u2019 garb\u2014stop, Beppo, thou meddling pest!\nAntonio, I swear those bits of cloth are but patches I have pilfered\nfrom the ragheap adown the alleyway. I knew not they were blue. And this\nis but a tassel dropt from off a lance at yester\u2019s ride. I knew not of\nits tinselled glint, I swear!\n\n\u201cSo, thou dost laugh? Ah, Beppo, see, he laughs! And we too, eh? But do\nwe laugh the same? Come, jump! Thy pulpit is my hump. Aday, Antonio!\u201d\n\n(_Antonio_) \u201cAday, thou fool, and would I had the wisdom of thy ape.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n                   (_On the Road to the Tournament._)\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cAday, fool!\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cAh, lady fair, hath lost the silver of thy laugh, and dost\nthee wish me then to fetch it thee?\u201d\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cYea, jester. Thou speaketh wisely; for may I ripple laughter\nfrom a sorry heart? Now tease me, then.\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cA crooked laugh would be thy gift should I tease it with a\ncrooked tale; and, lady, didst thee e\u2019er behold a crooked laugh\u2014one\nwhich holds within its crook a tear?\u201d\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cOh, thou art in truth a fool. I\u2019d bend the crook and strike\nthe tear away.\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cAye, lady, so thou wouldst. But thou hast ne\u2019er yet found thy\nlot to bear a crook held staunch within His hand! Spring rain would be\nthy tears\u2014a balm to buy fresh beauties. And the fool? Ah, his do dry in\ndust, e\u2019en before they fall!\u201d\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cPish, jester, thy tears would paint thy face to crooked lines,\nand thee wouldst laugh to see the muck. My heart doth truly sorry. Hast\nheard the King hath promised me as wages for the joust? And thee dost\nknow who rideth \u2019gainst my chosen?\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cAye, lady, the crones do wag, and I do promise ye they wear\ntheir necks becricked to see his palfrey pass. They do tell me that his\nsumpter-cloth doth trail like a ladies\u2019 robe.\u201d\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cYea, fool, and pledge me thy heart to tell it not, I did\nbroider at its hem a thrush with mine own tress\u2014a song to cheer his way,\na wing to speed him on.\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cHear, Beppo, how she prates! Would I were a posey wreath and\nBeppo here a fashioner of song. We then would lend us to thy hand to\noffer as a token. But thou dost know a fool and ape are ever but a fool\nand ape. I\u2019m off to chase thy truant laugh. Who cometh there? The dust\ndoth rise like storm-cloud along the road ahead, and \u2019tis shot with\nglinting. Oh, I see the mantling flush of morning put to shame by the\nflushing of thy cheek! See, he doth ride with helmet ope. Its golden\nbars do clatter at the jolt, and\u2014but stop, Beppo, she heareth not! We,\npoor beggars, thee and me\u2014an ape with a tail and a fool with a heart!\n\n\u201cSee, Beppo, I did tear a rose to tatters but to fling its petals \u2019neath\nher feet. They tell me that his lance doth bear a ribband blue and a\ncurling lock of gold\u2014and yet he treads the earth! Let\u2019s then away!\n\n                     The world may sorrow\n                           But the fool must laugh.\n                     \u2019Tis blessed grain\n                           That hath no chaff.\n                     To love an ape\n                           Is but to ape at love.\n                     I sought a hand,\n                           And found\u2014a glove!\n\n\u201cBeppo, laugh, and prove thyself the fool\u2019s! I fain would feel the yoke,\nlest I step too high.\n\n\u201cCome, we\u2019ll seek the shelt\u2019ring tree. I\u2019ve in my kit a bit of curd. Thy\nconscience need not prick. I swear that Tonio, the rogue, did see me\nstow it there!\n\n\u201cAh, me, \u2019tis such a home for fools, the earth. And they that are not\nfools are apes.\n\n\u201cI see the crowd bestringing \u2019long the road, and yonder clarion doth bid\nthe riders come. Well, Beppo, do we ride? Come, chere, we may tramp our\ncrooked path and ride astraddle of a cloud.\n\n\u201cShe doth love him, then; and even now the horn doth sound anew\u2014and she\nthe prize!\n\n\u201cI call the God above to see the joke that fate hath played; for I do\nswear, Beppo, that when he rides he carries on his lance-point this\nheart.\n\n\u201cI fret me here, but dare I see the play? Yea, \u2019tis a poor fool that\nloveth not his jest.\n\n\u201cI go, Beppo; I know not why, save I do love her so.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll bear my hunch like a badge of His colors and I shall laugh, Beppo,\nshall laugh at losing. He loves me well, else why didst send me thee?\n\n\u201cThe way seems over long.\n\n\u201cThey parry at the ring! I see her veil to float like cloud upon the\nbreeze.\n\n\u201cShe sees me not. I wonder that she heareth not the thumping of my\nheart. My eyes do mist. Beppo, look thou! Ah, God, to see within her\neyes the look of thine!\n\n\u201cThey rank! And hell would cool my brow, I swear. Beppo, as thou lovest\nme, press sorely on my hump! Her face, Beppo, it swayeth everywhere, as\na garden thick with bloom\u2014a lily, white and glistening with a rain of\ntears. My heart hath torn asunder, that I know.\n\n\u201cThe red knight now doth cast! O Heaven turn his lance!\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis put!\n\n\u201cAnd now the blue and gold! Wait, brother ape! Hold, in the name of God!\nStraight! \u2019Tis tie! Can I but stand?\n\n\u201cI\u2014ah, lady, he doth ride full well. May I but steady thee? My legs are\nwobbled but\u2014my hand, dear lady, lest ye sink.\n\n(\u201dBeppo, \u2019tis true she seeth me!)\n\n\u201cThy hand is cold. I wager you he wins. He puts a right too high. Thy\nthrush is singing; hear ye not his song? His wing doth flutter even now.\nAh, he is fitting thee\u2014\u2014\n\n\u201cI do but laugh to feel the tickle of a feathering jest. An age before\nhe puts! A miss! A tie! Ah, lady, should\u2019st thee win I\u2019ll laugh anew and\neven then will laugh at what thee knowest not.\n\n\u201cThe red knight! God weight his charger\u2019s hoof! (My God, Beppo, she did\nkiss my hand!)\n\n\u201cHe\u2019s off! Beppo, cling!\u201d\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cThe fool! Look ye, the fool and ape! Oh heaven stop their\nflight! He\u2019s well upon them! Blind me, lest I die! He\u2019s charged anew,\nbut missed! What, did his mantle fall? That shape that lieth! Come!\u201d\n\n(_Lisa, to her knight_) \u201cSo, thou, beloved, didst win me right! Where go\nthey with the litter?\u201d\n\n(_Knight_) \u201cThe fool, my lady, and a chattering ape, did tempt to jest a\ncharger in the field. We found them so. He lives but barely.\u201d\n\n                      (_Enter Fool upon litter._)\n\n(_Fool_) \u201cAday, my lady fair! And hast thee lost the silver of thy laugh\nand bid me fetch it thee? The world doth hold but fools and lovers,\nfolly sick.\u201d\n\n(_Lisa_) \u201cHis eye grows misty. Fool, I know thee as a knave and love\nthee as a man.\u201d\n\n(_Fool_) \u201c\u2019Tis but a patch, Beppo, a patch and tassel from a lance ...\nbut we did ride, eh? Laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the fool\u2019s! I\nlaugh anew, lest my friends should know me not. Beppo, I dream of new\nroads, but thou art there! And I do faint, but she ... did kiss my\nhand.... Aday ... L\u2014a\u2014d\u2014y.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nVery soon after the completion of this story Patience began another one,\na Christmas story, a weird, mystical tale of medieval England, having\nfor its central theme a \u201cStranger\u201d who is visible only to Lady Marye of\nthe Castle. The stranger is not described, nor does he speak a word, but\nhe is presumedly the Christ. There are descriptions of the preparations\nfor the Christmas feast at this lordly stronghold of baronial days, and\nthe coarse wit of the castle servants and the drunken profanity of their\nmaster, \u201cJohn the Peaceful,\u201d form a vivid contrast to the ethereal Lady\nMarye and the simple love of the herder\u2019s family at the foot of the\nhill. There are striking characters and many beautiful lines in this\nstory, but it is not as closely woven nor as coherent in plot as the\nstory of the fool and the lady.\n\n\n                              THE STRANGER\n\n\u2019Twas at white season o\u2019 the year, the shrouding o\u2019 spring and\nsummerstide.\n\nSteep, rugged, was the path, and running higher on ahead to\nturret-topped and gated castle o\u2019 the lordly state o\u2019 John the Peaceful,\nwhere Lady Marye whiled away the dragging day at fingering the regal.[2]\n\nFootnote 2:\n\n  Regal. A small portable pipe organ used in the sixteenth and\n  seventeenth centuries. It was played with one hand while the bellows\n  was worked with the other.\n\nFrom sheltered niche she looked adown the hillside stretching \u2019neath.\nThe valley was bestir. A shepherd chided with gentle word his flock, and\ngentle folk did speak o\u2019 coming Christ-time. Timon, the herder\u2019s hut,\nalready hung with bitter sweets, and holly and fir boughs set to spice\nthe air.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cTimon, man, look ye to the wee lambs well, for winter promiseth a\nsearching night.\u201d\n\nThus spake Leta, who stands, her babe astride her hip.\n\n\u201cAnd come ye then within. I have a brew that of a truth shall tickle at\nthy funny bone. Bring then a bundle o\u2019 brush weed that we may ply the\nfire. I vow me thy boots are snow carts, verily!\n\n\u201cHast seen the castle folk? And fetched ye them the kids? They breathe\nit here that the boar they roast would shame a heiffer. All of the\nsparing hours today our Leta did sniff her up the hill; nay, since the\ndawning she hath spread her smock and smirked.\n\n\u201cLeta, thou art such a joy! Thou canst wish the winter-painted bough to\nbloom, and like the plum flowers falls the snow. Fetch thee a bowl and\nput the bench to table-side. Thy sire wouldst sup. Go now and watch\naside the crib. Perchance thee\u2019lt catch a glimpse o\u2019 heaven spilled from\nTina\u2019s dream.\n\n\u201cTimon, man, tell me now the doings o\u2019 the day. I do ettle[3] for a\nspicey tale.\u201d\n\nFootnote 3:\n\n  Ettle. In this case, to have a strong desire.\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cWell, be it so then, minx. I did fell the kids at sun-wake,\nand thee\u2019lt find the skins aneath the cape I cast in yonder corner\nthere. And I did catch a peep aslaunch[4] at mad Lady Marye, who did\nplay the pipes most mournfully. They tell me she doth look a straining\nto this cot of ours. And what think ye, Leta? She doth only smile when\nshe doth see our wee one\u2019s curls to glint. And ever she doth speak of\nhim who none hath seen. \u2019Tis strange, think ye not?\u201d\n\nFootnote 4:\n\n  Aslaunch. Aslant or obliquely. As we would now say, \u201cOut of the corner\n  of the eye.\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cNay, Timon, I full oft do pause and peer on high to see her at\nthe summertide. Like a swan she bendeth, all white, amid her garden\n\u2019long the lake, and even \u2019tempts to come adown the path to us below. And\never at her heels the pea-fowl struts.\n\n\u201cShe ne\u2019er doth see my beckoning, but do I come with Tina at my breast\nshe doth smile and wave and sway her arms a-cradle-wise.\n\n\u201cThey tell, but breathlessly, that she doth sadly say the Stranger\nbideth here.\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cI\u2019ll pit my patch \u2019gainst purse o\u2019 gold, that \u2018Mad Marye\u2019\nfitteth her as surely as \u2018Peaceful John\u2019 doth fit her sire. Thee knowest\n\u2019peace\u2019 to him is of his cutting, and \u2019piece\u2019 doth patch his ripping.\n\n\u201cThey\u2019ve bid a feast at Christ-night, and ye shouldst see the stir! I\nfain would see Sir John at good dark on that eve, besmeared with boar\ngrease and soaked with ale, his mouth adrip with filth, and every\npeasant there who serves his bolts shall hit. And Lady Marye setteth\nlike a lily under frost!\n\n\u201cLeta, little one, thine eyes do blink like stars beshadowed in a cloudy\nveil. Come, bend thy knee and slip away to dream!\u201d\n\n(_Little Leta prays_) \u201cVast blue above, wherein the angels hide; and\nmoon, his lamp o\u2019 love; and cloud fleece white\u2014art thou the wool to\nswaddle Him? And doth His mother bide upon a star-beam that leadeth her\nto thee? I bless Thy name and pray Thee keep my sire to watch full well\nhis flock. And put a song in every coming day; my Tina\u2019s coo, and\nmother\u2019s song at eve. Goodnight, sweet night! I know He watcheth thee\nand me.\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cHe heareth thee, my Leta. Watch ye the star on high. See ye,\nit winketh knowingly. God rest ye, blest.\u201d\n\n                           (_At the Castle._)\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cAnd I the Lady Marye, o\u2019 the lord\u2019s estate! Jana, fetch\nme a goblet that I drink.\u201d\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cAye, lady. A wine, perchance?\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cNay, for yester thou didst fetch me wine, and I did cast\nit here upon the flags. Its stain thee still canst see. Shouldst thou\nfetch a goblet filled to brim with crystal drops, and I should cast it\nhere, the greedy stone would sup it up, and where be then the stain?\nThink ye the stone then the wiser o\u2019 the two?\n\n\u201cI but loosed my fancy from its tether to gambol at its will, and they\ndo credit me amiss. I weave not with strand upon a wheel. \u2019Tis not my\nstation. Nay, I dally through the day with shuttle-cock and regal\u2014a\nfitting play for yonder babe.\n\n\u201cJana, peer ye to the valley there. Doth see the Stranger? He knocketh\nat the sill o\u2019 yonder cot.\n\n\u201cI saw him when the cotter locked the sheep to tap a straying ewe who\nlagged, and he did enter as the cotter stepped within\u2014unbidden, Jana,\nthat I swear\u2014and now he knocketh there!\u201d\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cNay, lady, \u2019tis but a barish limb that reacheth o\u2019er the door.\nThe cotter heedeth not, ye see.\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cI do see him now to enter, and never did he turn! Jana,\nlook ye now! Doth still befriend a doubt?\u201d\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cCome, lady, look! Sirrah John hath sent ye this, a posey,\nwrought o\u2019 gold and scented with sweet oils.\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cAh, Jana, \u2019tis a hateful sight to me\u2014a posey I may keep!\nWhy, the losing o\u2019 the blossom doth but make it dear!\n\n\u201cStay! I know thee\u2019lt say \u2019twas proffered with his love. But, Jana, thou\nhast much to learn. What, then, is love? Can I then sort my tinder for\nits building and ply the glass to start its flame? The day is o\u2019er full\nnow of ones who tried the trade. Nay, Jana, only when He toucheth thee\nand bids thee come and putteth to thy hand His own doth love abide with\nthee.\n\n\u201cCome to the turret, then. I do find me whetted for a look within.\n\n\u201cHow cool the eve! \u2019Tis creepy to the marrow. Look ye down the hillside\nthere below. See ye the cotter\u2019s taper burning there? How white the\nnight! \u2019Tis put upon the earth a mantling shroud, and sailing in the\nsilver sky a fairy boat. Perchance it bringeth us the Babe.\n\n\u201cJana, see\u2019st thou the Stranger? He now doth count the sheep. Dare I\ntrust him there? I see him fondling a lamb and he doth hold it close\nunto his breast.\u201d\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cNay, lady, \u2019tis the shepherd\u2019s dog who skulketh now ahind the\nshelter wall.\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cAh, give me, spite o\u2019 this, the power to sing like Thine\nown bird who swayeth happily upon the forest bough and pours abroad his\nsong where no man heareth him.\n\n\u201cHear ye them below within the hall? They do lap at swine-broth. Their\ncups do clank. At morrow\u2019s eve they feast and now do need to stretch\ntheir paunches. Full often have I seen my ladye mother\u2019s white robe\nstained crimson for a jest, and oftener have I been gagged to swallow\nit. But, Jana, I do laugh, for the greatest jest is he who walloweth in\nslime and thinketh him a fish.\u201d\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cSee, Lady Marye! This, thy mother\u2019s oaken chest, it still doth\nbear a scent o\u2019 her. And this, thy gown o\u2019 her own fashioning.\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cYea, Jana, and this o\u2019 her, a strand wound to a ball for\nmine own casting. And this! I tell thee, \u2019tis oft and oft she did press\nme to her own breast and chide me with her singing voice: \u2018My Marye,\n\u2019tis a game o\u2019 buff, this living o\u2019 these days o\u2019 ours o\u2019 seeking\nhappiness. When ye would catch the rogue he flitteth on.\u2019\n\n\u201cSee, these spots o\u2019 yellowed tears\u2014the rusting of her heart away! Stay,\nJana, I\u2019ll teach thee a trick o\u2019 tripping, for she full oft did say a\nheart could hide aneath a tripping.\n\n\u201cThee shouldst curtsey so; and spread thy fan. \u2019Tis such a shield to\nhide ahind. Then shouldst thy heart to flutter, trip out its measure,\nso. See, I do laugh me now\u2014nay, \u2019tis ne\u2019er a tear, Jana, \u2019tis the mist\no\u2019 loving! Doth see the moon hath joined the dance? Or, am I swooning?\n\u2019Tis fancy. See, the cotter\u2019s taper still doth flicker from the shutter.\nWhat\u2019s then amiss? The stranger, Jana! See! He entereth the shelter\nplace! Come, I fear me lest I see too much? Lend me thy hand. I\u2019ve\nplayed the jane-o-apes till the earth doth seem awry.\n\n\u201cHear ye the wine-soaked song, and aye, the feed-drunkened? My sire,\nJana, my sire! I do grow hateful of myself, but mark ye, at the setting\no\u2019 the feast I do wage him war at words! A porridge pot doth brew for\nbabes; I promise ye a full loaf. Do drop the curtain now, I weary me\nwith reasoning.\u201d\n\n                    (_Morning at the Castle Gate._)\n\n(_Tito_) \u201cAho, within! Thine eyes begummed and this the Christ-eve and\nmornin\u2019 come? Scatter! Petro, stand ahand! I do fetch ye sucklings\nagagged with apples red. Ye gad, my mouth doth slime! To whiff a\nhungerfull would make the sages wag.\u201d\n\n(_Petro_) \u201cAmorrow, Tito. Thee\u2019lt wear thee white as our own Lady long\nafore ye e\u2019en canst dip thy finger in the drip.\u201d\n\n(_Tito_) \u201cPst! Petro, I did steal the brain and tung. Canst leave me\nhave a peep now to the hall? Jesu! What a breeder o\u2019 sore bellies. I\u2019d\npay my price to heaven to rub Sir John a briskish rub with mullien o\u2019er\nthe back.\n\n\u201cThey do tell me down below that trouble bideth Timon. His Tina layeth\ndull and Leta doth little but mumble prayer.\u201d\n\n(_Petro_) \u201cTito, thee art a chanter of sad lays at this Christ-time. Go\nthou to the turret and play ye at the pipes. Put thee the sucklings to\nthe kitchen, aside the fire dogs there. And Tito, thee\u2019lt find a pudding\npan ahind the brushbox. Go thee and lick it there!\u201d\n\n(_To Sir John_) \u201cAye, I do come, my lord. \u2019Tis but the sucklers come. I\nknow not where in the castle she doth bide, but hark ye and ye\u2019ll surely\nhear the pipes.\u201d\n\n(_Sir John_) \u201cBah! Damn the drivelling pipes! I do hear them late and\nearly. \u2019Tis a fine bird for a lordly nest! Go, fetch her here! But no,\nI\u2019d tweak her at a vaster sitting. Get thee, thou grunting swine! And\ntake this as thy Christ-gift. I\u2019d deal thee thrice the measure wert not\nto save these lordly legs. Here, fetch me a courser. I\u2019d ride me to the\nhounds. And strip him of his foot cloth, that I do waste me not a blow.\nDost like the smart? Or shall I ply it more? Thee\u2019lt dance to tune, or\ndamn ye, run from cuts!\n\n\u201cHo, Timon, how goes it with the brat? The world\u2019s o\u2019erfull o\u2019 cattle\nnow!\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cYea, sire, so did my Leta say when she did see thee come.\n\u2019Tis with our Tina as a bird behovered in the day. Aday, and God forgive\nthee.\u201d\n\n                      (_In Lady Marye\u2019s Chamber._)\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cJana, morn hath come. \u2019Tis Christ-tide and He not here!\nMy limbs do fail, and how do I then to stand me thro\u2019 the day? The\nfeast, the feast, yea, the feast! The day doth break thro\u2019 fog in truth!\n\n\u201cMy mother\u2019s bridal robe! Go, Jana, fetch it me, and one small holly\nbough. Lend me a hand. I fain would see the cot.\n\n\u201cSee thou! The sun doth love it, too, and chooseth him to rise him o\u2019er\nits roof! Hath thee seen the herder yet to buckle loose the shelter\nplace? And, Jana, did all seem well to thee? Nay, the Stranger, Jana!\nSee, he still doth hold the lamb! \u2018My Marye, \u2019tis a game o\u2019 buff, this\nliving o\u2019 these days o\u2019 ours.\u2019 In truth, \u2019tis put.\n\n\u201cJana, I did dream me like a babe the night hours through; a dream so\nsweet, o\u2019 vast blue above wherein the angels hid, and I did see the\nChrist-child swaddled in a cloud; and Mary, maid of sorrows, led to him\nadown a silver beam.\n\n\u201cThen thee dost deem my fitful fancy did but play me false? Stay thou,\nmy tears, and, heart o\u2019 me, who knoweth He doth watch o\u2019er thee and me?\n\n\u201cHer robe! Ah, Fancy, \u2019tis thy right that thou art ever doubted. For\nthou art a conjurer, a trickster, verily. What chamming[5] joy didst\nthee then offer her?\n\nFootnote 5:\n\n  Obsolete form of \u201cchamping.\u201d Used here figuratively.\n\n\u201cThou cloud of billowed lace, a shield befitting her pure heart! And I\nthe flowering of the bud! Hear me, all this o\u2019 her! I love thee well,\nand should the day but offer a bitter draft to quaff, \u2019tis but to whet\nme for a sweeter drink. And mother, heart o\u2019 me, hearken and do believe.\nI love my sire, Sir John.\n\n\u201cCome, Jana. Hear ye the carolers? Their song doth filter thro\u2019 my heart\nand lighten it. The snow doth tweak aneath their feet like pipes to\n\u2019company them. Cast ye a bit o\u2019 holly and a mistletoe.\n\n\u201cThe feasters come to whet them with a pudding whiff. See, my sire doth\nride him up the hill and o\u2019er his saddle front a fallow deer. Hear thee\nthe cheering that he comes! Her loved, my Jana, and her heart doth beat\nthrough me!\n\n\u201cChrist-love to thee, my sire! Dost hear me here? And I do pledge it\nthee upon His precious drops caught by the holly tree. He seeth not, but\nshe doth know!\u201d\n\n                           (_Christmas Eve._)\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cMy lady, who doth come a knocking at the door? \u2019Tis Petro,\ncome to bid ye to the feast.\u201d\n\n(_Petro_) \u201cThe candles are long since lit and Sirrah John hath wearyed\nhim with jest. The feasting hath not yet begun, for he doth wait thee to\ndrink a health to feasters in the hall.\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cYea, Petro, say unto my sire, the Lady Marye comes. And\nsay ye more, she bids the feasters God-love. And say thee more, she doth\nbear the blessings of her Lady Mother who wisheth God\u2019s love to them\nall. And fetch ye candle trees to scores, and fetch the dulcimer and one\nwho knocketh on its strings, and let him patter forth a lively tune, for\nLady Marye comes.\n\n\u201cJana, look ye once again to the valley there. The tapers burn not for\nChrist-night. Nay, a sickly gleam, and see, the Stranger, how he doth\nhold the lamb! And o\u2019er his face a smile\u2014or do my eyes beblur, and doth\nhe weep?\u201d\n\n(_Jana_) \u201cNay, lady, all is dark. \u2019Tis but the whitish snow and shadow\npitted by the tapers\u2019 light.\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cFetch me then my fan. I go to meet my Lord. Doth hear?\nAlready they do play. I point me thus, and trip my heart\u2019s full\nmeasure.\u201d\n\n                            (_In the Hall._)\n\n(_Sir John_) \u201cSo, lily-lip, thee\u2019lt scratch! Thy silky paw hath claws,\neh? Egad! A phantom! A ghoulish trick! My head doth split and where my\ntung? Get ye! Why sit like grinning asses! And where thy tungs? My God!\nWhat scent o\u2019 graves she beareth with that shroud!\u201d\n\n(_Lady Marye_) \u201cGod cheer, my lord, and doth my tripping suit thee well?\nThese flags are but my heart and hers, and do I bruise them well for\nthee? Ah, aha! See, I do spread my fan. To shield my tears, ye think?\nNay, were they to fall like Mayday\u2019s rain and thee wert buried \u2019neath a\nstone, as well then could\u2019st thou see! And yet I love thee well. See\nthee, my sire, I pour this to thee!\n\n\u201cLook ye, good people at the feast; the boar is ready to slip its bones.\n\n(_Aside_) \u201cGod, send Thy mantling love here to Thine own! For should I\njudge, when Thou I know dost love the saint and sinner as Thine own?\n\n\u201cTo thee, my sire, to thee!\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd gusted wind did flick the tapers out and they did hear her murmuring\n\u201cThe Stranger! He doth bid me come!\u201d\n\nAnd to this day they tell that Lady Marye cast the wine into a suckler\u2019s\nmouth and never did she drink!\n\n\u201cBy all the saints! Do thee go and search!\u201d\n\nThus spake her sire, Sir John. And all the long night thro\u2019 the torches\ngleamed, but all in vain. And they do say that Sirrah John did shake him\nin a chilling and flee him to a friar, while still the search did last.\n\n                          (_In Timon\u2019s Cot._)\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cTimon, waken ye! Our Leta still doth court her dreams and I do\nweary me. The long night thro\u2019 the feasters cried them thro\u2019 the hills\nand none but Him could shield our Tina from their din.\n\n\u201cTake heart, my lad, I fear me yet to look within the crib. Hold thou my\nhand, man. Nay, not yet! Come, waken Leta that she then do feed thy\nlambs.\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cCome, Leta, wake! The sun hath tipped the crown o\u2019 yonder\nhill and spread a blush adown her snow-white side.\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cYea, sire. And Tina, how be she?\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cA fairy, sleeping, Tad.\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cAh, sire, but I did dream the dark o\u2019 yesterday away. And,\nmother, she doth strain unto the sun! I see her eyes be-glistened. See,\nthe frost-cart dumped beside our door, and look ye! he, the Frost man,\nput a cap upon the chimney pot. I\u2019ll fetch a brush and fan away his\ncloak. My Christ-gift, it would be my Tina\u2019s smile. She did know me not\nat late o\u2019 night; think ye it were the dark? Stay, sire! I\u2019ll cast the\nstraw and put the sheep aright!\u201d (_Exit._)\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cMy Leta, come! Thy Christ-gift bideth o\u2019er our Tina\u2019s lips\nand she doth coo!\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cTimon, call aloud, that she heareth thee. Leta! Leta! Little\none! Dost hear thy sire to call? Why, what\u2019s amiss with thee? Thy\nstaring eyes, my child! Speak thou!\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cSh-e-e-e! Sire, His mother\u2019s come! And, ah, my heart! All\nwhite she be an\u2019 crushed unto her breast a holly bough, and one white\narm doth circle o\u2019er a lamb! See, sire, the snow did drift it thro\u2019 and\nweave a fairy robe to cover her.\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cWho leaveth by the door; a stranger?\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cNay, He bideth here.\u201d\n\n(_Timon_) \u201cThe Lady Marye, on my soul! Leta, drop ye here thy tears, for\nmadness bideth loosed upon the earth! And shouldst\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n(_Leta_) \u201cNay, sire! Who cometh there?\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd searchers there did find the Lady Marye, dead, amid the lambs and\nsnow\u2014a flowering o\u2019 the rose upon a bush o\u2019 thorn.\n\nAnd hark ye! At the time when winter\u2019s blast doth sound, thee\u2019lt hear\nthe wailing o\u2019 the Lady Marye\u2019s pipes, and know the Stranger bideth o\u2019er\nthe earth.\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\nThe two dramatic stories presented here were but a paving of the way for\nlarger work. \u201cThe Stranger\u201d had been hardly completed when Patience\nannounced, \u201cThee\u2019lt sorry at the task I set thee next.\u201d And then she\nbegan the construction of a drama that in its delivery consumed the time\nof the sittings for several weeks, and it contained when finished some\n20,000 words. It is divided into six acts, each with a descriptive\nprologue, and three of the acts have two scenes each, making nine scenes\nin all. It, like the two shorter sketches, is medieval in scene, and the\npictures which it presents of the customs and costumes and manners of\nthe thirteenth or fourteenth century (the period is not definitely\nindicated) are amazingly vivid. It has a somewhat intricate plot, which\nis carried forward rapidly and its strands skillfully interwoven until\nthe nature of the fabric is revealed in the sixth act. This play is much\nmore skillfully constructed in respect of stage technique than the two\nplaylets that preceded it, and it could, no doubt, be produced upon the\nstage with perhaps a little alteration to adapt it to modern conditions.\nSome idea of its beauty, its sprightliness and its humor may be obtained\nfrom the prologue to the first act, which follows:\n\n\n    Wet earth, fresh trod.\n\n    Highway cut to wrinkles with cart wheels born in with o\u2019erloading. A\n    flank o\u2019 daisy flowers and stones rolled o\u2019er in blanketing o\u2019 moss.\n    Brown o\u2019 young oak-leaves shows soft amid the green. Adown a steep\n    unto the vale, hedged in by flowering fruit and threaded through\n    with streaming silver o\u2019 the brook, where rushes shiver like to\n    swishing o\u2019 a lady\u2019s silk.\n\n    Moss-lipped log doth case the spring who mothereth the brook, and\n    ivy hath climbed it o\u2019er the trunk and leafless branch o\u2019 yonder\n    birch, till she doth stand bedecked as for a folly dance.\n\n                           Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!\n                           Rat-a-tat! Sh-h-h-h!\n\n    From out the thick where hides the logged and mud-smeared shack.\n\n              Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat!\n                      Sh-h-h-h!\n    And hark ye, to the tanner\u2019s song!\n\n                     Up, up, up! and down, down, down!\n                     A hammer to smite\n                       And a hand to pound!\n                     A maid to court,\n                       And a swain to woo,\n                     A heiffer felled\n                       And I build a shoe!\n                     A souse anew in yonder vat,\n                       And I\u2019ll buy my lady\n                     A feathered hat!\n\nThe play then begins with the tanner and his apprentice, and the action\nsoon leads to the royal castle, where the exquisite love story is\ndeveloped, without a love scene. There is no tragedy in the story. It is\nall sentiment, and humor. And it is filled with poetry. Consider, for\nexample, this description of Easter morn, from the prologue to the sixth\nact:\n\n    The earth did wake with boughs aburst. A deadened apple twig doth\n    blush at casting Winter\u2019s furry coat, to find her naked blooms abath\n    in sun. The feathered hosts, atuned, do carol, \u201cHe hath risen!\u201d E\u2019en\n    the crow with envy trieth melody and soundeth as a brass; and\n    listening, loveth much his song. Young grasses send sweet-scented\n    damp through the hours of risen day. The bell, atoll, doth bid the\n    village hence. E\u2019en path atraced through velvet fields hath flowered\n    with fringing bloom and jeweled drops, atempting tarriers. The sweet\n    o\u2019 sleep doth grace each venturing face. The kine stand knee depth\n    within the silly-tittered brook, or deep in bog awallow. Soft breath\n    ascent and lazy-eyed, they wait them for the stripping-maid.\n\nThe play is permeated with rich humor, and to illustrate this I give a\nbit of the dialogue between Dougal, the page, and Anne, the castle cook.\nTo appreciate it one must know a little of the story. The hand of the\nPrincess Ermaline is sought by Prince Charlie, a doddering old rake,\nwhom she detests, but whom for reasons of state she may be compelled to\naccept. However, she vows she will not speak while he is at court, nor\ndoes she utter a word, in the play, until the end of the last act. She\nhas fallen in love with a troubadour, who has come from no one knows\nwhere, but who by his grace and his wit and his intelligence has made\nhimself a favorite with all the castle folk. Anne has a roast on the\nspit, and is scouring a pot with sand and rushes, when Dougal enters the\nkitchen.\n\n    _Dougal._\u2014\u201cAnne, goody girl, leave me but suck a bone. My sides have\n    withered and fallen in, in truth.\u201d\n\n    _Anne._\u2014\u201cGet ye, Dougal! Thy footprints do show them in grease like\n    to the Queen\u2019s seal upon my floor!\u201d\n\n    _Dougal._\u2014\u201cThe princess hath bidden me to stay within her call, but\n    she doth drouse, adrunk on love-lilt o\u2019 the troubadour, and Prince\n    of Fools (Prince Charlie) hath gone long since to beauty sleep. He\n    tied unto his poster a posey wreath, and brushed in scented oils his\n    beauteous locks, and sung a lay to Ermaline, and kissed a scullery\n    wench afore he slept.\u201d\n\n    _Anne._\u2014\u201cThe dog! I\u2019d love a punch to shatter him! And Ermaline hath\n    vowed to lock her lips and pass as mute until his going.\u201d\n\n    _Dougal._\u2014\u201cYea, but eye may speak, for hers do flash like lightning,\n    and though small, her foot doth fall most weighty to command.\n\n    \u201cYester, the Prince did seek her in the throne room. He\u2019d tied his\n    kerchief to a sack and filled it full o\u2019 blue-bells, and minced him\n    \u2019long the halls astrewing blossoms and singing like to a frozen\n    pump.\n\n    \u201cWithin the chamber, Ermaline did hide her face in dreading to\n    behold him come, but at the door he spied the dear and bounded like\n    a puppy \u2019cross the flags, apelting her with blooms and sputtering\n    \u2019mid tee-hees. She, tho\u2019, did spy him first, and measured her his\n    sight and sudden slipped her \u2019neath the table shroud. And he, Anne,\n    I swear, sprawled him in his glee and rose to find her gone. And\n    whacked my shin, the ass, acause I heaved at shoulders.\u201d\n\n    _Anne._\u2014\u201cAh, Dougal, \u2019tis a weary time, in truth. Thee hadst best to\n    put it back, to court thy mistress\u2019 whim. Good sleep, ye! And\n    Dougal, I have a loving for the troubadour. Whence cometh he?\u201d\n\n    _Dougal._\u2014\u201cPut thy heart to rest, good Anne; he\u2019s but a piper who\n    doth knock the taber\u2019s end and coaxeth trembling strings by which to\n    sing. He came him out o\u2019 nothing, like to the night or day. We waked\n    to hear him singing \u2019neath the wall.\u201d\n\n    _Anne._\u2014\u201cAye, but I do wag! For surely thee doth see how Ermaline\n    doth court his song.\u201d\n\n    _Dougal._\u2014\u201cNay, Anne, \u2019tis but to fill an empty day.\u201d\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\nWhen Patience had finished this she preened herself a little. \u201cDid I not\nthen spin a lengthy tale?\u201d she asked. But immediately she began work\nupon another, a story of such length that it alone will make a book. It\ndiffers in many respects from her other works, particularly in the\nlanguage, and from a literary standpoint is altogether the most amazing\nof her compositions. This, too, is dramatic in form, but scene often\nmerges into scene without division, and it has more of the\ncharacteristics of the modern story. It is, however, medieval, but it is\na tale of the fields, primarily, the heroine, Telka, being a farm lass,\nand the hero a field hand. Perhaps this is why the obscure dialectal\nforms of rural England of a time long gone by are woven into it. In this\nPatience makes an astonishingly free use of the prefix \u201ca,\u201d in place of\na number of prefixes, such as \u201cbe\u201d and \u201cwith,\u201d now commonly used, and\nshe attaches it to nouns and verbs and adjectives with such frequency as\nto make this usage a prominent feature of the diction. Let me introduce\nTelka in the words of Patience:\n\n    \u201cDewdamp soggeth grasses laid low aneath the blade at yester\u2019s\n    harvest, and thistle-bloom weareth at its crown a jewelled spray.\n\n    \u201cBrown thrush, nested \u2019neath the thick o\u2019 yonder shrub, hath preened\n    her wings full long aneath the tender warmth o\u2019 morning sun.\n\n    \u201cAfield the grasses glint, and breeze doth seeming set aflow the\n    current o\u2019 a green-waved stream.\n\n    \u201cSoft-footed strideth Telka, bare toes asink in soft earth and bits\n    o\u2019 green acling, bedamped, unto her snowy limbs. Smocked brown and\n    aproned blue, she seemeth but a bit o\u2019 earth and sky alight amid the\n    field. Asplit at throat, the smock doth show a busom like to a sheen\n    o\u2019 fleecy cloud aveiling o\u2019er the sun\u2019s first flush.\n\n    \u201cBetanned the cheek, and tresses bleached by sun at every twist of\n    curl. Strong hands do clasp a branch long dead and dried, at end\n    bepronged, and casteth fresh-cut blades to heap.\u201d\n\nSuch is Telka in appearance. \u201cShe seemeth but a bit o\u2019 earth and sky\nalight amid the field.\u201d Seemeth, yes, but there is none of the sky in\nTelka. She is of the earth, earthy, an intensely practical young woman,\nindustrious, economical, but with no sense of beauty whatever, no\nimagination, no thought above the level of the ground. \u201cI fashioned jugs\no\u2019 clay,\u201d her father complained, \u201cand filled with bloom, and she\nbecracked their necks and kept the swill therein.\u201d Add to this a hot\ntemper and a sharp tongue, and the character of Telka is revealed.\nFranco, the lover, on the other hand, is an artist and poet, although a\nfield worker. He has been reared, as a foundling, by the friars in the\nneighboring monastery, and they have taught him something of the arts of\nmosaics and the illumination of missals. Between these two is a constant\nconflict of the material and the spiritual, and the theme of the story\nis the spiritual regeneration or development of Telka.\n\n    \u201cSee,\u201d says Franco, \u201cYonder way-rose hath a bloom! She be a thrifty\n    wench and hath saved it from the spring.\u201d\n\n    _Telka._\u2014\u201cI hate the thorned thing. Its barb hath pricked my flesh\n    and full many a rent doth show it in my smock.\u201d\n\n    _Franco._\u2014\u201cAh, Telka, thine eyes do look like yonder blue and\n    shimmer like to brooklet\u2019s breast.\u201d\n\n    _Telka._\u2014\u201cThe brooklet be bestoned, and muddied by the swine. Thy\n    tung doth trip o\u2019er pretty words.\u201d\n\n    _Franco._\u2014\u201cBut list, Telka, I would have thee drink from out my\n    cup!\u201d\n\n    _Telka._\u2014\u201cAh, show me then the cup.\u201d\n\nAnd Telka\u2019s father, a wise old man, cautions Franco:\n\n    \u201cThee hadst best to take a warning, Franco. She be o\u2019 the field and\n    rooted there; and thee o\u2019 the field, but reaped, and bound to free\n    thee of the chaff by flailing of the world. She then would be to\n    thee but straw and waste to cast awhither.\u201d\n\nBut an understanding of the nature of this strange tale and its peculiar\ndialect requires a longer extract. The \u201cStory of the Judge Bush\u201d will\nserve, better perhaps than anything else, to convey an idea of the\ncharacters of Telka and Franco, as well as to illustrate the language;\nand the episode is interesting in itself. The dialogue opens with Telka,\nFranco and Marion on their way to Telka\u2019s hut. Marion is Telka\u2019s dearest\nfriend, although one gets a contrary impression from Telka\u2019s caustic\nremarks in this excerpt; but unlike Telka, she can understand and\nappreciate the poetic temperament of Franco. To show her contempt for\nFranco\u2019s aspirations, Telka has taken his color pots and buried them in\na dung-heap, and this characteristic act is the foundation of the \u201cStory\nof the Judge Bush.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cCome, we do put us to a-dry. \u2019Tis sky aweep, and \u2019tis a\n    gray day from now. I tell thee, Telka, we then put us to hearth, and\n    spin ye shall. And thou, Marion, shalt bake an ash loaf and put o\u2019\n    apples for to burst afore the fire. \u2019Tis chill, the whine-wind o\u2019\n    the storm. We then shall spin a tale by turn; and Telka, lass, I\n    plucked a sweet bloom for thee to wear. Thine eye hath softened, eh,\n    my lass? Here, set thy nose herein and thou canst ne\u2019er to think a\n    tho\u2019t besoured.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cAh, \u2019tis a wise lad I wed, who spendeth o\u2019 his stacking\n    hours to pluck weed, and thee wouldst have me sniff the dung-dust\n    from their leaf. Do cast them whither, and \u2019pon thy smock do wipe\n    thy hand. It be my fancy for to waste the gray hours aside the\n    fire\u2019s glow,\u2014but, Franco, see ye, the wee pigs asqueal! \u2019Tis nay\n    liking the wet. Do fetch them hence. Here, Marion, cast my cape\n    about thee, since thou dost wear thy pettiskirt and Sabboth smock.\n    Gad! Blue maketh thee to match a plucked goose. Thy skin already\n    hath seamed, I vow. And, Marion, \u2019tis \u2019deed a flash to me thy tress\n    be red! Should I to bear a red top I\u2019d cast it whither.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cTelka, Telka, drat thy barbed tung! Cast thou the bolt.\n    Gad! What a scent o\u2019 browning joint!\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cDo leave me for to turn the spit that I may lick the\n    finger-drip. Thy nose, Franco, doth trick thee. Thou canst sniff o\u2019\n    dung-dust and scoff at drip. Go, roll the apples o\u2019er in yonder\n    pile. They then would suit thee well!\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cTelka, I bid thee to wash away such tunging. Here, I set\n    them so. Now do I to fetch thy wheel. Nay, Marion, do cast thy\n    blush. \u2019Tis but the Telka witch. Do thou to start thee at thy tale\n    aspin.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cAye, Marion, thou then, since ne\u2019er truth knoweth thee,\n    thou shouldst ne\u2019er to lack for story. Story do I say? Aye, or lie,\n    \u2019tis brothers they be. And, Franco, do thou to spin, \u2019twill suit thy\n    taste to feed \u2019pon maid\u2019s fare. I be the spinner o\u2019 the tale afirst.\n    But, Franco, I fain would have thee fetch a pair o\u2019 harkers. Didst\n    deem to fret me that thee dumped the twain aneath the stack? Go thou\n    and fetch. \u2019Tis well that thee shouldst bed with swine lest thee be\n    preening for a swan.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cUgh, Telka! Thou art like to a vat o\u2019 wine awork.\n    Thou\u2019lt fetch the swine do ye seek to company them.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cSo well, Polly, I do go, for \u2019tis swine o\u2019 worth amore\n    than color daub. Set thee, since thou be wench.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cLook ye, Telka, \u2019tis here I cast the cloak and show thee\n    metal abared. Thou hast ridden \u2019pon a high nag for days, and I do\n    kick his hock and set him at a limp. Do thou to clip thy words\n    ashort or I do cast a stone athro\u2019 thy bubble.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cAh, Franco, \u2019tis nay meaning! Put here. Do spin thy tale,\n    but do ye first to leave me fetch the wee-squeals. Then I do be a\n    tamed dove. See ye?\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cAway, then, and fetch thee back ahurry.\u201d (_Exit Telka._)\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cMarion, \u2019tis what that I should put as path to tread?\n    She be awronged but do I feed the fires, or put a stop?\u201d\n\n    (_Marion_) \u201cFranco, \u2019tis a pot and stew she loveth. Think ye to coax\n    thy dream-forms from out the pot? Telka arounded and awrathed be\n    like unto a thunder-storm, but Telka less the wrath and round, be\n    Winter\u2019s dreary.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cNot so, Marion, I shall then call forth the ghosts o\u2019\n    painted pots and touch the dreary abloom. Didst thou e\u2019er to slit\n    thy eye and view thro\u2019 afar? Dost thou then behold the motes? So,\n    then, shall I to view the Telka maid. Whist! Here she be! Aback,\n    Telka? Come, I itch for to spin a tale. Sit thee here and dry the\n    wet sparkles from thy curls. List, do!\n\n    \u201c\u2019Twere a peddle-packer who did stroll adown the blade-strewn path\n    along the village edge, abent. And brow-shagged eye did hide a\n    twinkle-mirth aneath\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n    \u201cE-e-ek! E-e-e-k!\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cLook, Franco, see they \u2019e-e-e-k\u2019 do I to pull their tails\n    uncurl!\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cDo ye then wish thee, Telka, for to play upon their\n    one-string lyre, or do I put ahead?\u201d\n\n    \u201cBestrung, aborder o\u2019 the road, the cots send smoke-wreathes up to\n    join the cloud. \u2019Twere sup-hour, and drip afrazzle soundeth thro\u2019\n    the doors beope, like to a water-cachit aslipping thro\u2019 dry leaf to\n    pool aneath. Do I then put it clear?\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cYea, Franco, what hath he in his pack? I\u2019d put a gander\n    for a frock!\u201d\n\n    (_Marion_) \u201cOn, Franco, thy tale hath a lilt.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cAwag-walk he weaveth to the door afirst-hand. The wee\n    lads and lass do cluster \u2019bout the door, and twist atween their\n    finger and thumb their smock-hem, or chew thereon. But he doth seem\n    aloth to cast of pack or ope, and standeth at apeer to murmur\u2014then\n    to cast.\u201d\n\n    \u201cE-e-e-k! E-e-e-k!\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cNay, Franco, \u2019twere not my doing, I swear. \u2019Twere he who\n    sat upon a fire-spark. Do haste! I hot for sight athin the pack.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cWhat, Telka, thou awag and pig asqueak, and me the tail!\n    Do put quiet!\n\n    \u201cThe dame and sire do step them out from gray innards o\u2019 the hut,\n    and pack-tipper beggeth for a mug o\u2019 porridge, and showeth o\u2019 the\n    strand-bound pack. Wee lads and lass aquiver, tip-topple at a peep,\n    and dame doth fetch the brew, but shaketh nay at offering o\u2019 gift,\n    and spake it so: \u2018A porridge pot doth hold a mug, and one amore for\n    he who bideth \u2019thout a brew. Nay, drink ye, and thank the morrow\u2019s\n    sun. \u2019Tis stony path thee trod, and dust choketh. Do rest, and bide\n    thee at our sill till weariness awarn away.\u2019\n\n    \u201cThink ye, Marion, that peddle-man did leave and cast not pence?\n    What think ye, Telka?\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cI did hear thee tell o\u2019 his fill, but tell thee o\u2019 fill\n    o\u2019 pack.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cA time, Telka. Nay, he did drink and left as price an\n    ancient jug o\u2019 clay, and thick and o\u2019 a weight, to thank and\n    wag-weave hence.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cDid he then to pack anew and off \u2019thout a peep?\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cYea, and dark did yawn and swallow him. But morrow\n    bringeth tale that peddle-packer had paid to each o\u2019 huts a beg, and\n    what think ye? Left a jug where\u2019er, he supped!\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201c\u2019Twere a clayster, and the morrow findeth him afollow for\n    price, egh?\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cNay, Telka, not so. And jugs ashaken soundeth like to a\n    wine; but atip did show nay drop. Marion, do tweak the Telka\u2014she be\n    aslumber.\u201d\n\n    (_Marion_) \u201cWake thee, Telka, the jugs be now to crack.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cNay, \u2019tis a puddle o\u2019 a tale\u2014a packster and a\n    strand-bound pack, aweary.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cBut list thee! For \u2019twere eve that found the dames awag.\n    For tho\u2019 they set the jugs aright, there be but dust where they did\n    stand. Yea, all, Telka maid, save that the peddle-man did give to\n    dame at first hand. The gabble put it so, that \u2019twere the porridge\n    begged that dames did fetch but for a hope o\u2019 price, where jugs\n    ashrunk.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cBut \u2019twere such a scurvey, Franco! I wage the jug aleft\n    doth leak. What think ye I be caring \u2019bout jug or peddle-packer?\u201d\n\n    (_Marion_) \u201cSnip short thy word, Telka. Leave Franco for to tell. I\n    be aprick for scratch to ease the itch o\u2019 wonder. On, lad, and tie\n    the ends o\u2019 weave-strand.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201c\u2019Tis told the dame did treasure o\u2019 the jug, and sire did\n    shew abroad the wonder, and all did list unto the swish o\u2019 \u2019nothing\n    wine,\u2019 and thirsted for asup, and each did tip its crook\u2019d neck and\n    shake, but ne\u2019er a drop did slip it through. And wonder, Marion, the\n    sides did sweat like to a damp within! So \u2019twere. The townsmen shook\n    awag their heads and feared the witch-work or the wise man\u2019s cunger,\n    and they did bid the sire to dig a pit and put therein the jug.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201c\u2019Twere waste they wrought, I vow, for should ye crack\n    away its neck \u2019twould then be fit for holding o\u2019 the swill. There be\n    a pair ahind the stack.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cNay, Telka, not as this, for they did dig a pit and\n    plant jug therein, and morrow showed from out the fresh-turned earth\n    a bush had sprung, and on its every branch a bud o\u2019 many colored hue\n    alike to rainbow\u2019s robe. And lo, the dames and sires did cluster\n    \u2019bout, and each did pluck a twig aladen with the bud, but as \u2019twere\n    snapped, what think ye? There be in the hand a naught\u2014save when the\n    dame who asked not price did pluck. And \u2019tis told that to this day\n    the townsmen fetch unto the bush and force apluck do they make\n    question o\u2019 their brotherman. And so \u2019tis with he who fashions o\u2019\n    the rainbow\u2019s robe a world to call his own, and fetcheth to the\n    grown bush his brother for to shew, and he seeth not, \u2019tis so he\n    judge.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cO, thou art a story-spinner o\u2019 a truth, and peddle-packer\n    too, egh? And thou dost deem that thou hast planted o\u2019 thy pot to\n    force thy bush by which ye judge. Paugh! Thou art a fool, Franco,\n    and thy pots o\u2019 color be not aworth thy pains. So thou dost think\n    then I be plucking o\u2019 naught aside thy bush. Well, I do tell thee\n    this. Thy pots ne\u2019er as the jug shall spring. Nay, for morn found me\n    adig, and I did cast them here to the fire, afearing they should\n    haunt.\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201c\u2019Tis nuff, Telka, I leave them to the flame. But thou\n    shouldst know the bush abud doth show in every smouldering blaze.\u201d\n\n    (_Telka_) \u201cSee, Franco, I be yet neck ahead, for I do spat upon the\n    flame and lo, thy bush be naught!\u201d\n\n    (_Franco_) \u201cAye, \u2019tis so, but there be ahid a place thou ne\u2019er hast\n    seen. Therein I put what be mine own\u2014the love for them. Thou art a\n    butterfly, Telka, abeating o\u2019 thy wing upon a thistle-leaf. Do hover\n    \u2019bout the blooms thou knowest best and leave dream-bush and\n    thistle-leaf.\u201d\n\nIt is a remarkable story. Many lines are gems of wit or wisdom or\nbeauty, and it contains some exquisite poetry. There are many characters\nin it, all of them lovable but Telka, and she becomes so ere the end.\n\nA curious and interesting fact in this connection is that after\nbeginning this story Patience used its peculiar form of speech in her\nconversation and in her poems. Previously, as I have pointed out, there\nwas a natural and consistent difference between her speech and her\nwritings, and it would seem that in this change she would show that she\nis not subject to any rules, nor limited to the dialect of any period or\nany locality. Scattered through this present volume are poems, prose\npieces and bits of her conversation, in which the curious and frequent\nuse of the prefix a-, the abbreviation of the word \u201cof\u201d and the strange\ntwists of phrase of the Telka story are noticeable. All of these were\nreceived after this story was begun.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut there is another form of prose composition that Patience has given\nto us. While she is writing a story she does not confine herself to that\nwork, but precedes or follows it with a bit of gossip, a personal\nmessage, a poem or something else. Sometimes she stops in the midst of\nher story to deliver something entirely foreign to it that comes into\nher mind. During one week, while \u201cTelka\u201d was being received, she\npresented three parables, all in the peculiar language of that story. I\nreproduce them here and leave it to the reader to ponder o\u2019er their\nmeaning.\n\n    \u201cLong, yea, long agone, aside a wall atilt who joined unto a\n    brother-wall and made atween a gap apoint abacked, there did upon\n    the every day, across-leged, sit a bartmaker, amid his sacks\n    aheaped. And ne\u2019er a buy did tribesmen make. Nay, but \u2019twere the\n    babes who sought the bartman, and lo, he shutteth both his eyes and\n    babes do pilfer from the sacks and feed thereon, till sacks asink.\n    And still at crosslegs doth he sit.\n\n    \u201cYea, and days do follow days till Winter setteleth \u2019pon his locks\n    its snow. Aye, and lo, at rise o\u2019 sun \u2019pon such an day as had\n    followed day since first he sat, they did see that he had ashrunked\n    and they did wag that \u2019twere the wasting o\u2019 his days at sitting at\n    crossleg.\n\n    \u201cAnd yet the babes did fetch for feast and wert fed. Till last a day\n    did dawn and gap ashowed it empty and no man woed; but babes did\n    sorry \u2019bout the spot \u2019till tribesmen marveled and fetched alongside\n    and coaxed with sweets their word. But no man found answer in their\n    prate. And they did ope remaining sacks and lo, there be anaught\n    save dry fruit, and babes did reach forth for it and wert fed, and\n    more, it did nurture them, and they went forth alater to the fields\n    o\u2019 earth astrengthened and fed \u2019pon\u2014what, Brother? List ye. \u2019Pon\n    truth.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \u201cThere be aside the market\u2019s place a merchant and a brother\n    merchant. Aye, and one did put price ahigh, and gold aclinketh and\n    copper groweth mold atween where he did store. And his brother\n    giveth measure full and more, for the pence o\u2019 him who offereth but\n    pence, at measure that runneth o\u2019er to full o\u2019 gold\u2019s price.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, they do each to buy o\u2019 herds, and he who hath full price\n    buyeth but the shrunk o\u2019 herd, and he who hath little, buyeth the\n    full o\u2019 herd. And time maketh full the sacks o\u2019 him who hoardeth\n    gold, and layeth at aflat the sacks o\u2019 him who maketh poor price.\n    And lo, he who hath plenty hoardeth more, and he who had little\n    buyed o\u2019 seed and sowed and reaped therefrom. And famine crept it\n    nearer and fringed \u2019pon the land and smote the land o\u2019 him who\n    asacketh o\u2019 gold and crept it \u2019pon the land o\u2019 him o\u2019 pence.\n\n    \u201cAnd herds did low o\u2019 hunger and he who hath but gold hath naught to\n    feed thereon. For sacks achoked \u2019pon gold. And he who had but pence\n    did sack but grain and grass and fed the herd. And lo, they fattened\n    and did fill the emptied sacks with gold, while he who hath naught\n    but gold did sick, and famine wasted o\u2019 his herd and famine\u2019s sun\n    did rise to shine \u2019pon him astricken \u2019pon gold asacked.\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n    \u201cThere wert a man and his brother and they wrought them unalike.\n    Yea, and one did fashion from wood, and ply till wonderwork astood,\n    a temple o\u2019 wood. And his brother fashioneth o\u2019 reeds and worketh\n    wonder baskets. And he who wrought o\u2019 wood scoffeth. And the\n    tribesmen make buy o\u2019 baskets and wag that \u2019tis a-sorry wrought the\n    temple, and spake them that the Lord would smite, and lay it low.\n    For he who wrought did think him o\u2019 naught save the high and wide o\u2019\n    it, and looked not at its strength or yet its stand \u2019pon earth. And\n    they did turn the baskets \u2019bout and put to strain, and lo, they did\n    hold. And it were the tribesmen, who shook their heads and murmured,\n    \u2018Yea, yea, they be a goodly.\u2019\n\n    \u201cSo \u2019tis; he who doth fashion from wood o\u2019 size doth prosper not,\n    and he who doth fashion o\u2019 reed and small, doth thrive verily.\u201d\n\nThese are all somewhat cryptic, although their interpretation is not\ndifficult, but that which follows on the magic of a laugh needs no\nexplanation. \u201cI do fashion out a tale for babes,\u201d said Patience, when\nshe presented this parable of the fairy\u2019s wand, and in it she gives\nexpression to another one of her characteristics, one that is intensely\nhuman, the love of laughter, which she seems to like to hear and often\nto provoke.\n\n    \u201cLo, at a time thou knowest not, aye, I, thy handmaid, knowest not,\n    there wert born unto the earth a babe. And lo, the dame o\u2019 this babe\n    wert but a field\u2019s woman. And lo, days and days did pass until the\n    fullness of the babe\u2019s days, and it stood in beauty past word o\u2019me.\n\n    \u201cYea, and there wert a noble, and he did pass, and lo, his brow was\n    darked, and smile had forsook his lips. And he came unto the cot and\n    there stood the babe, who wert now a maid o\u2019 lovely. And he spaked\n    unto her and said:\n\n    \u201c\u2018Come thou, and unto the lands of me shall we make way. Thou art\n    not o\u2019 the fields, but for the nobles.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd she spake not unto his word. And lo, the mother of the babe\n    came forth and this man told unto her of this thing, that her babe\n    wert not of the field but for the nobled. And, at the bidding of the\n    noble, she spake, yea, the maid should go unto his lands.\n\n    \u201cAnd time and time after the going, lo, no word came unto the\n    mother. And within the lands of the noble the maid lived, and lo,\n    the days wert sorry, and the paths held but shadows, and nay smiles\n    shed gold unto the hours. And she smiled that this noble did offer\n    unto her much of royal stores. Yea, gems, and gold, and all a maid\n    might wish, and she looked in pity unto the noble and spake:\n\n    \u201c\u2018What hast thou? Lo, thou hast brought forth of thy store and given\n    unto me, and what doth it buy? Thy lips are ever sorry and thy hours\n    dark. Then take thou these gifts and keep within such an day as\n    thine, for, hark ye, my dame, the field\u2019s woman, hath given unto me\n    that which setteth at a naught thy gifts; for hark ye: mid thy dark\n    o\u2019 sorry I shall spill a laugh, and it be a fairies\u2019 wand, and\n    turneth dust to gold.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd she fled unto the sun\u2019s paths of the fields.\n\n    \u201cVerily do I to say unto thee, this, the power of the fairies\u2019 wand,\n    is thine, thy gift of thy field-mother, Earth. Then cast out that\n    which earth-lands do offer unto thee and flee with thy gift.\u201d\n\nIt is somewhat difficult to select an ending for this chapter on the\nprose of Patience: the material for it is so abundant and so varied, but\nthis \u201cParable of the Cloak\u201d may perhaps form a fitting finish:\n\n    \u201cThere wert a man, and lo, he did to seek and quest o\u2019 sage, that\n    which he did mouth o\u2019ermuch. And lo, he did to weave o\u2019 such an\n    robe, and did to clothe himself therein. And lo, \u2019twer sun ashut\n    away, and cool and heat and bright and shade.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, still did he to draw \u2019bout him the cloak, and \u2019twer o\u2019 the\n    mouthings o\u2019 the sage. And lo, at a day \u2019twer sent abroad that Truth\n    should stalk \u2019pon Earth, and man, were he to look him close,\n    shouldst see.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, the man did draw \u2019bout him the cloak, and did to wag him\n    \u2018Nay\u2019 and \u2018Nay, \u2019twer truth the sages did to mouth and I did weave\n    athin the cloak o\u2019 me.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd then \u2019twer that Truth did seek o\u2019 Earth, and she wert clad o\u2019\n    naught, and seeked the man, and begged that he would cast the cloak\n    and clothe o\u2019 her therein. And lo, he did to draw him close the\n    cloak, and hid his face therein, and wag him \u2019Nay,\u2019 he did to know\n    her not.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, she did to fetch her unto him athrice, and then did he to\n    wag him still a \u2018Nay! Nay! Nay!\u2019 And lo, she toucheth o\u2019 the cloth\n    o\u2019 sage\u2019s mouths and it doth fall atattered and leave him clothed o\u2019\n    naught, and at a wishing. And he did seek o\u2019 Truth, aye, ever, and\n    when he did to find, lo, she wagged him nay, and nay, and nay.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                             CONVERSATIONS\n\n\u201cThis be bread. If man knoweth not the grain from which \u2019twer fashioned,\nwhat then? \u2019Tis bread. Let man deny me this.\u201d\u2014PATIENCE WORTH.\n\n\nBut after all, perhaps the truest conception of the character and\nversatility of Patience can be acquired from her \u201cconversations.\u201d The\nword \u201cconversation\u201d I here loosely apply to all that comes from her in\nthe course of an evening, excepting the work on her stories. The poems\nand parables are usually woven into her remarks with a sequence that\nsuggests extemporaneous production for the particular occasion, although\nas a rule they are of general application. Almost invariably they are\nbrought out by something she or someone else has said, or as a tribute,\na lesson or a comfort to some person who is present. Her songs, as she\ncalls her poems, are freely given, apparently without a thought or a\ncare as to what may become of them. They seem to come spontaneously,\nwithout effort, with no pause for thought, no groping for the right\nword, and to fall into their places as part of the spoken rather than\nthe written speech. So it is that the term \u201cconversation\u201d in this\nconnection is made to include much that ordinarily would not fall within\nthat designation.\n\nOne of the pleasures of an evening with Patience is the uncertainty of\nthe form of the entertainment. Never are two evenings alike in the\ngeneral nature of the communications. She adapts herself to\ncircumstances and to the company present, serious if they are bent on\nserious subjects, merry if they are so; but seldom will the serious\nescape without a little of the merry, or the merry without a little of\nthe serious. Sometimes her own feelings seem to have an influence.\nAlways, however, she is permitted to take her own course, except in the\ncase of a formal examination, to which she readily responds if conducted\nwith respect. She may devote the evening largely to poetry, possibly\nvarying the themes, as on one evening when she gave a nature poem, one\nof a religious character, a lullaby, a humorous verse and a prayer,\ninterspersed with discussion. She may talk didactically with little or\nno interruption. She may submit to a catechism upon religion,\nphilosophy, philology, or any subject that may arise. She may devote an\nevening to a series of little personal talks to a succession of sitters,\nor she may elect just to gossip. \u201cI be dame,\u201d she says, and therefore\nnot averse to gossip. But rarely will she neglect to write something on\nwhatever story she may have in hand. She speaks of such writing as\n\u201cweaving.\u201d \u201cPut ye to weave,\u201d she will say, and that means that\nconversation is to stop for a time until a little real work is\naccomplished.\n\nThe conversations which follow are selected to illustrate the variety of\nform referred to, as well as to introduce a number of interesting\nstatements that throw light on the character of the phenomena.\n\nUpon a certain evening the Currans had two visitors, Dr. and Mrs. W.\nWith Dr. W. and Mrs. C. at the board and Mrs. W. leaning over it,\nPatience began:\n\n    \u201cAh, hark! Here abe athree; yea, love, faith and more o\u2019 love! Thee\n    hast for to hark unto word I do put o\u2019 them, not ye.\u201d\n\nAnd then she told this tale of the Mite and the Seeds:\n\n    \u201cHark! Aneath the earth fell a seed, and lay aside a Mite, a winged\n    mite, who hid from cold. Yea, and the Mite knew o\u2019 the day o\u2019er the\n    Earth\u2019s crust, and spake unto the Seed, and said:\n\n    \u201c\u2018The hours o\u2019 day show sun and cloud, aye, and the Earth\u2019s crust\n    holdeth grass and tree. Aye, and men walk \u2019pon the Earth.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAye, and the Seed did say unto the Mite:\n\n    \u201c\u2018Nay, there be a naught save Earth and dark, for mine eye hath not\n    beheld what thou tellest of.\u2019\n\n    \u201cYea, and the Mite spake it so:\n\n    \u201c\u2018\u2019Tis dark and cold o\u2019er the crust o\u2019 Earth, and thou and me awarm\n    and close ahere.\u2019\n\n    \u201cBut the Seed spake out: \u2018Nay, this be the time I seek me o\u2019er the\n    Earth\u2019s crust and see the Day thou tellest of.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, he sent out leaf, and reached high. And lo, when the leaf\n    had pushed up from \u2019neath the crust, there were snow\u2019s cut and cold,\n    and it died, and knew not the Day o\u2019 the Mite: for the time was not\n    riped that he should seek unto new days.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, the Stalk that had sent forth the Seed, sent forth amore,\n    and lo, again a one did sink aside the Mite. And he spake to it of\n    the Day o\u2019 Earth and said: \u2018Thy brother sought the Day, and it wert\n    not time, and lo, he is no more.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd he told of the days of Earth unto the seed, and it spaked unto\n    him and said: \u2018This day o\u2019 thee meaneth naught to me. Lo, I shall\n    spring not a root, nor shall I to seek me the days o\u2019 Earth. Nay, I\n    shall lay me close and warm.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd e\u2019en though the Mite spake unto the Seed at the time when it\n    wert ripe that it should seek, lo, it lay, and Summer\u2019s tide found\n    it a naught, for it feeded \u2019pon itself, and lo, wert not.\n\n    \u201cAnd at a later tide did a seed to fall, and it harked unto the Mite\n    and waited the time, and when it wert riped, lo, it upped and sought\n    the day. And it wert so as the Mite had spaked. And the Seed grew\n    into a bush.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, the winged Mite flew out: for it had brought a brother out\n    o\u2019 the dark and unto the Day, and the task wert o\u2019er.\n\n    \u201cThese abe like unto them who seek o\u2019 the words o\u2019 me.\n\n    \u201cNow aweave thou.\u201d\n\nPatience then wrote about two hundred words of a story, after which Mrs.\nW. inquired of Mr. C:\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you ever try to write on the board?\u201d To which he replied\nfacetiously, \u201cNo, I\u2019m too dignified.\u201d\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cYea, he smirketh unto swine and kicketh the nobles.\u201d\n\nThen seeming to feel that the visitors were wanting something more\npersonal than the \u201cTale\u201d she said:\n\n    \u201cAlawk, they be ahungered, and did weave a bit. Then hark. Here be.\n\n    \u201cWhat think ye, man? They do pucker much o\u2019er the word o\u2019 me, and\n    spat forth that thou dost eat and smack o\u2019 liking. Yea, but hark!\n    Who shed drop for Him but one o\u2019 His, yea, the Son o\u2019 Him? Think ye\n    this abe the pack o\u2019 me? Nay, and thou and thou and thou shalt shed\n    drops in loving for the pack, for it be o\u2019 Him. Now shall I to sing:\n\n               How doth the Mise-man greed,\n               And lay unto his store,\n               And seek him out the pence of Earth,\n               Wherein the hearts do rust?\n\n               How doth the Muse-man greed,\n               And seek him o\u2019 the Day,\n               And word that setteth up a wag\u2014\n               While hearts o\u2019 Earth are filthed?\n\n               How doth the See-man greed?\n               Yea, and how he opeth up his eye,\n               And seeth naught and telleth much\u2014\n               While hearts of earth are hurt.\n\n               How doth the Good-man greed,\n               Who dealeth o\u2019 the Word?\n               He eateth o\u2019 its flesh and casts but bone,\n               While hearts o\u2019 Earth are woed.\n\n               How doth the Man-man greed?\n               He eateth o\u2019 the store, yet holdeth ope\n               His hands and scattereth o\u2019 bread\n               And hearts o\u2019 Earth are fed.\n\n               This then abe, and yet will be\n               Since time and time, and beeth ever.\u201d\n\nAs soon as this was read, she followed with another song:\n\n                Drink ye unto me.\n                Drink ye deep, to me.\n                Yea, and seek ye o\u2019 the Brew ye quaff,\n                For this do I to beg.\n                Seek not the wine o\u2019 Summer\u2019s sun,\n                That hid \u2019mid purpled vine,\n                And showeth there amid the Brew\n                Thou suppest as the Wine.\n                Seek not the drops o\u2019 pool,\n                Awarmed aneath the sun,\n                And idly lapping at the brink\n                Of mosses\u2019 lips, to sup.\n                Seek not o\u2019 vintage Earth doth hold.\n                Nay, unto thee this plea shall wake\n                The Wine that thou shouldst quaff.\n                For at the loving o\u2019 this heart\n                The Wine o\u2019 Love shall flow.\n                Then drink ye deep, ah, drink ye deep,\n                And drink ye deep o\u2019 Love.\n\n                \u201cYea, thine unto me, and mine to thee.\u201d\n\nAfter which she explained:\n\n    \u201cI did to fashion out a brew for her ayonder and him ahere. And they\n    did eat o\u2019 it. Yea, for they know o\u2019 Him and know o\u2019 the workings o\u2019\n    Him and drinked o\u2019 the love o\u2019 me as the love o\u2019 Him. Yea, and hark,\n    there abe much athin this pack for thee.\u201d\n\nThis, it will be observed, is rather a discourse than a conversation,\nand it is often so, Patience filling the evening with her own words; not\nas exclusively so, however, as this would indicate: for there is always\nmore or less conversation among the party, which it would profit nothing\nto reproduce.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next sitting is somewhat more varied. There were present Dr. X., a\nteacher of anatomy, Mrs. X., Mrs. W. and Miss B. Dr. X. sat at the board\nwith Mrs. Curran:\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cEh, gad! Here be a one who taketh Truth unto him and\n    setteth the good dame apace that she knoweth not the name o\u2019 her. I\n    tell thee \u2019tis he who knoweth her as a sister, and telleth much o\u2019\n    her, and naught he speaketh oft holdeth her, and much he speaketh\n    holdeth little o\u2019 her, and yet ever he holdeth her unto him. He\n    taketh me as truth, yea, he knoweth he taketh naught and buildeth\n    much, and much and buildeth little o\u2019 it. I track me unto the door\n    o\u2019 him and knock and he heareth me.\u201d\n\nThis, of course, referred to Dr. X. and his work, and it aroused some\ndiscussion, after which Patience asked, \u201cWould ye I sing?\u201d The answer\nbeing in the affirmative, she gave this little verse, also directed to\nDr. X.:\n\n              Out \u2019pon the sea o\u2019 learning,\n              Floateth the barque o\u2019 one aseek.\n              Out \u2019pon troubled waters floateth the craft,\n              Abuilded staunch o\u2019 beams o\u2019 truth.\n              And though the waves do beat them high\n              And wash o\u2019er and o\u2019er the prow,\n              Fear thee not, for Truth saileth on.\n              Set thy beacon, then, to crafts not thine,\n              For thou hast a light for man.\n\n    \u201cThere, thou knowest me. I tell thee I speak unto him who hath truth\n    for his very own. Set thee aweave.\u201d\n\nThe sitters complied and received about six hundred words of the story,\nafter which Mrs. X. took the board, remarking as she did so that she was\nafraid, which elicited this observation from Patience:\n\n    \u201cShe setteth aside the stream and seeth the craft afloat and be at\n    wishing for to sail, and yet she would to see her who steereth.\u201d\n\nMrs. X. gave up her place to Miss B., a teacher of botany, to whom\nPatience presented this tribute:\n\n    \u201cThe eye o\u2019 her seeth but beauties and shutteth up that which\n    showeth darked, that that not o\u2019 beautie setteth not within the see\n    o\u2019 her. Yea, more; she knoweth how \u2019tis the dark and what showeth\n    not o\u2019 beauty, at His touching showeth lovely for the see o\u2019 her.\n\n    \u201cSuch an heart! Ah, thou shouldst feast hereon. I tell thee she\n    giveth unto multitudes the heart o\u2019 her; and such as she dealeth\n    unto earth, earth has need for much. She feasteth her \u2019pon dusts and\n    knoweth dust shall spring forth bloom. Hurt hath set the heart o\u2019\n    her, and she hath packed up the hurt with petals.\u201d\n\nPatience then turned her attentions again to Dr. X. \u201cHe yonder,\u201d she\nsaid, \u201chath much aneath his skull\u2019s-cap that he wordeth not.\u201d\n\nThus urged, Dr. X. inquired:\n\n\u201cDoes Patience prepare the manuscript she gives in advance? It rather\nseems that she reads the material to Mrs. Curran.\u201d\n\n\u201cSee ye,\u201d cried Patience, \u201che hath spoke a thing that set aneath his\nskull\u2019s-cap!\u201d And then, in answer to his question:\n\n    \u201cShe who afashioneth loaf doth shake well the grain-dust that husks\n    show not. Then doth she for to brew and stir and mix, else the loaf\n    be not afit for eat.\u201d\n\nBy grain-dust she means flour or meal, and she uses the word brew in its\nobsolete sense of preparation for cooking. The answer may be interpreted\nthat she arranges the story in her mind before its dictation, and as to\nher formal work she has said many things to indicate that such is her\nmethod. Dr. X. then asked:\n\n\u201cAre these stories real happenings?\u201d\n\nTo which Patience replied:\n\n    \u201cWithin the land o\u2019 here [her land] be packed the days o\u2019 Earth, and\n    thy day hath its sister day ahere, and thy neighbor\u2019s day and thy\n    neighbor\u2019s neighbor\u2019s day. And I tell thee, didst thou afashion tale\n    thou couldst ne\u2019er afashion lie, for all thou hast athin thy day\n    that thy put might show from the see o\u2019 thee hath been; at not thy\n    time, yea, but it hath been.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d asked Dr. X., \u201cshould you have transmitted through one who spoke\nanother language you would have used their tongue?\u201d\n\nPatience answered:\n\n\u201cI pettiskirt me so that ye know the me of me. Yea, and I do to take me\no\u2019 the store o\u2019 her that I make me word for thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cPettiskirt\u201d is a common expression of hers to mean dress, in either a\nliteral or a figurative sense. The answer does not mean that she is\nlimited by Mrs. Curran\u2019s vocabulary, but is an affirmative response to\nthe question.\n\nThe word \u201cput\u201d in the preceding answer is one that requires some\nexplanation, for it is frequently used by her, and makes some of her\nsayings difficult to understand. She makes it convey a number of\nmeanings now obsolete, but it usually refers to her writings, her words,\nher sayings. She makes a noun of it, it will be noticed, as well as a\nverb. In the foregoing instance it means \u201ctale,\u201d and it has a relation\nto the primary meaning of the verb, which is to place. The words that\nare put down become a \u201cput,\u201d and the writer becomes a \u201cputter.\u201d To a\nlady who told her that she had heard a sound like a bell in her ear, and\nasked if it was Patience trying to communicate with her, she answered\ndryly: \u201cThink ye I be a tinkler o\u2019 brass? Nay. I be a putter o\u2019 words.\u201d\nFurther to illustrate this use of the word, and also to throw an\ninteresting light upon her method of communication and the reason for\nit, I present here a part of a conversation in which a Dr. Z. was the\ninterrogator.\n\n    _Dr. Z._\u2014\u201cWhy isn\u2019t there some other means you could use more easy\n    to manipulate than the ouija board?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThe hand o\u2019 her (Mrs. Curran) do I to put (write) be\n    the hand o\u2019 her, and \u2019tis ascribe (the act of writing) that setteth\n    the one awhither by eyes-fulls she taketh in.\u201d\n\nBy this she seems to mean that if Mrs. Curran tried to write for\nPatience with a pen or pencil, the act, being always associated with\nconscious thought, would set her consciousness to work, and put Patience\n\u201cawhither.\u201d\n\n    _Dr. Z._\u2014\u201cHow did you know this avenue was open?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cI did to seek at crannies for to put; aye, and \u2019twer\n    the her o\u2019 her who tireth past the her o\u2019 her, and slippeth to a\n    naught o\u2019 putting; and \u2019twer the me o\u2019 me at seek, aye, and find.\n    Aye, and \u2019twer so.\u201d\n\nAt the time Patience first presented herself to Mrs. Curran, she (Mrs.\nCurran) was very tired, and was sitting at the board with Mrs.\nHutchings, with her head, as she expresses it, absolutely empty.\n\n    _Dr. Z._\u2014\u201cDid you go forth to seek, or were you sent?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThere be nay tracker o\u2019 path ne\u2019er put thereon by\n    sender.\u201d\n\n    _Dr. Z._\u2014\u201cDid you know of the ouija board and its use before?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cNay, \u2019tis not the put o\u2019 me, the word hereon. \u2019Tis the\n    put o\u2019 me at see o\u2019 her.\n\n    \u201cI put athin the see o\u2019 her, aye and \u2019tis the see o\u2019 ye that be\n    afulled o\u2019 the put o\u2019 me, and yet a put thou knowest not.\n\n    \u201cThat which ye know not o\u2019 thy day hath slipped it unto her, and\n    thence unto thee. And thee knowest \u2019tis not the put o\u2019 her; aye, and\n    thee knowest \u2019tis ne\u2019er a putter o\u2019 thy day there be at such an put.\n    Aye, and did he to put, \u2019twould be o\u2019 thy day and not the day o\u2019 me.\n    And yet ye prate o\u2019 why and whence and where. I tell thee \u2019tis thee\n    that knowest that which ye own not.\u201d\n\n    _Dr. Z._\u2014\u201cWhy don\u2019t we own it, Patience?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201c\u2019Tis at fear o\u2019 gab.\u201d\n\nIt is no easy task to untangle that putting of puts, but, briefly, it\nseems to mean that Patience does not put her words on the board direct,\nwith the hands of Mrs. Curran, but transmits her words through the mind\nor inner vision of Mrs. Curran, and yet it is the word of Patience and\nnot of Mrs. Curran that is recorded. This accords with Mrs. Curran\u2019s\nimpressions. And thou knowest, Patience farther says, that it is not the\nlanguage of her, and no writer of thy day would or could write in such a\nlanguage as I make use of.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nReturning to Dr. X. and his party. They were present again a few days\nafter the interview just given, having with them a Miss J., a newspaper\nwriter from an Ohio city. Dr. X. in the meantime had thought much upon\nthe phenomena, and Patience immediately directed her guns upon the\nanatomist, in this manner:\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cHark ye, lad, unto thee I do speak. Thou hast a sack o\u2019\n    the wares o\u2019 me, and thou hast eat therefrom. Yea, and thou hast\n    spat that which thou did\u2019st eat, and eat it o\u2019er. And yet thou art\n    not afulled.\n\n    \u201cHark! Here be a trick that shall best thee at thine own trick. Lo,\n    thou lookest upon flesh and it be but flesh. Yea, thou lookest unto\n    thy brother, and see but flesh. And yet thy brother speakest word,\n    and thou sayest: \u2018Yea, this is a man, aye, the brother o\u2019 me.\u2019 Then\n    doth death lay low thy brother, and he speak not word unto thee,\n    thou sayest: \u2018Nay, this is no man; nay, this is but clay.\u2019 Then\n    lookest thou unto thy brother, and thou seest not the him o\u2019 him.\n    Thou knowest not the him o\u2019 him (the soul) but the flesh o\u2019 him\n    only.\n\n    \u201cMore I tell thee. Thy very babe wert not flesh; yea, it were as\n    dead afore the coming. Yet, at the mother\u2019s bearing, it setteth\n    within the flesh. And thou knowest it and speak, yea, this is a man.\n    And yet I tell thee thou knowest not e\u2019en the him o\u2019 him! Then doth\n    it die, \u2019tis nay man, thou sayest. Yet, at the dying and afore the\n    bearing, \u2019twer what? The him o\u2019 him wert then, and now, and ever.\n\n    \u201cYea, I speak unto thee not through flesh, and thou sayest: This is\n    no man, yea, for thine eyes see not flesh, yet thou knowest the me\n    o\u2019 me, and I speak unto thee with the me o\u2019 me. And thou art where\n    upon thy path o\u2019 learning!\u201d\n\nThere was some discussion following this argument in which Dr. X.\nadmitted that he accepted only material facts and believed but what he\nsaw.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cMan maketh temples that reach them unto the skies, and\n    yet He fashioneth a gnat, and where be man\u2019s learning!\n\n    \u201cThe earth is full o\u2019 what the blind in-man seeth not. Ope thine\n    eye, lad. Thou art athin dark, and yet drink ye ever o\u2019 the light.\u201d\n\n    _Dr. X._\u2014\u201cThat\u2019s all right, Patience, and a good argument; but tell\n    me where the him o\u2019 him of my dog is.\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThou art ahungered for what be thine at the hand o\u2019\n    thee. Thy dog hath far more o\u2019 Him than thy brothers who set them as\n    dogs and eat o\u2019 dog\u2019s eat. The One o\u2019 One, the All o\u2019 All, yea, all\n    o\u2019 life holdeth the Him o\u2019 Him, thy Sire and mine! \u2019Tis the breath\n    o\u2019 Him that pulses earth. Thou asketh where abides this thing.\n    Aneath thy skull\u2019s arch there be nay room for the there or where o\u2019\n    this!\u201d\n\nMiss J. then took the board and Patience said:\n\n    \u201cShe taketh it she standeth well athin the sight o\u2019 me that she\n    weareth the frock o\u2019 me.\u201d\n\nThis caused a laugh, for it was then explained by the visitors that Miss\nJ. had chosen to wear a frock somewhat on the Puritan order, having a\ngray cape with white cuffs and collar, and had said she thought Patience\nwould approve of it.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cHere be a one aheart ope, and she hath the in-man who\n    she proddeth that he opeth his eyes. Yea, she seest that which be\n    and thou seest not.\u201d\n\nIt was remarked that Patience was evidently trying to be very nice to\nMiss J.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cNay, here be a one who tickleth with quill, I did hear\n    ye put. Think ye not a one who putteth as me, be not a love o\u2019 me?\n    Yea, she be. And I tell thee a something that she will tell unto ye\n    is true. Oft hath she sought for word that she might put, and lo,\n    from whence she knoweth not it cometh.\u201d\n\nMiss J. said this was true.\n\n_Patience._\u2014\u201cShall I then sing unto thee, wench?\u201d\n\nMiss J. expressed delight, and the song followed.\n\n             Ah, how do I to build me up my song for thee?\n             Yea, and tell unto thee of Him.\n             I\u2019d shew unto thee His loving,\n             I\u2019d shew unto thee His very face.\n             Do then to list to this my song.\n\n             Early hours, strip o\u2019 thy pure,\n             For \u2019tis the heart of Him.\n             Earth, breathe deep thy busom,\n             Yea, and rock the sea,\n             For \u2019tis the breath of Him.\n             Fields, burst ope thy sod,\n             And fling thee loose thy store,\n             For \u2019tis the robe of Him.\n             Skies, shed thou thy blue,\n             The depth of heaven,\n             For \u2019tis the eyes of Him.\n             Winter\u2019s white, stand thou thick\n             And shed thy soft o\u2019er earth,\n             For \u2019tis the touch of Him.\n             Spring, shed thou thy loosened\n             Laughter of the streams,\n             For \u2019tis the voice of Him.\n             Noon\u2019s heat, and tire o\u2019 earth,\n             Shed thou of rest to His,\n             For \u2019tis the rest of Him.\n             Evil days of earth,\n             Stride thou on and smite,\n             For \u2019tis the frown of Him.\n\n             Earth, this, the chant o\u2019 me,\n             May end, as doth the works o\u2019 man,\n             But hark ye; Earth holdeth all\n             That hath been;\n             And Spring\u2019s ope, and sowing\n             O\u2019 the Winter\u2019s tide,\n             Shall bear the Summer\u2019s full\n             Of that that be no more.\n\n             For, at the waking o\u2019 the Spring,\n             The wraiths o\u2019 blooms agone\n             Shall rise them up from out the mould\n             And speak to thee of Him.\n\n             Thus, the songs o\u2019 me,\n             The works o\u2019 thee,\n             The Earth\u2019s own bloom,\n             Are HIM.\n\nThe interest of Dr. X. in this phenomenon brought an eminent\npsychologist, associated with one of the greatest state universities in\nthe country, some distance from Missouri, for an interview with\nPatience. He shall be known here as Dr. V. With him and Dr. X. was Dr.\nK., a physician. Dr. V. sat at the board first, and Patience said to\nhim:\n\n    \u201cHere be a one, verily, that hath a sword. Aye, and he doth to wrap\n    it o\u2019er o\u2019 silks. Yea, but I do say unto thee, he doth set the cups\n    o\u2019 measure at aright, and doth set not the word o\u2019 me as her ahere\n    (Mrs. Curran). Nay, not till he hath seen and tasted o\u2019 the loaf o\u2019\n    me; and e\u2019en athen he would to take o\u2019 the loaf and crumb o\u2019 it to\n    bits and look unto the crumb and wag much afore he putteth. And he\n    wilt be assured o\u2019 the truth afore the putting.\u201d\n\nThis was discussed as a character delineation.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cI\u2019d set at reasoning. Since the townsmen do fetch\n    aforth for the seek o\u2019 me, and pry aneath the me o\u2019 me, then do thou\n    alike. Yea, put thou unto me.\u201d\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cWhy fear Death?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThou shouldst eat o\u2019 the loaf (her writings). Ayea,\n    \u2019tis right and meet that flesh shrinketh at the lash.\u201d\n\nDr. V. was told of her poems on the fear of death.\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cWhat do you think of the attempts to investigate you? Is it\nright?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cAyea. And thou hast o\u2019 me the loaf o\u2019 the me o\u2019 me, and\n    thou hast o\u2019 it afar more than thou hast o\u2019 thy brother o\u2019 earth,\n    and yet they seek o\u2019 me and seek ever.\u201d\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cHave you ever lived?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cWhat! Think ye that I be a prater o\u2019 thy path and ne\u2019er\n    atrod? Then thou art afollied, for canst thou tell o\u2019 here?\u201d\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cWhen did you live on earth?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cA seed aplanted be watched for grow. Ayea, but the seed\n    held athin the palm be but a seed, and Earth hath seeds not aplanted\n    that she casteth forth, e\u2019en as she would to cast forth me, do I not\n    to cloak me much.\u201d\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cI understand; but can you not answer a little clearer the\nquestion I put?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThe time be not ariped for the put o\u2019 this.\u201d\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cWhat does Lethe mean?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThis be a tracker! Ayea, \u2019tis nay a word o\u2019 thy day or\n    yet the word o\u2019 thy brother, that meaneth unto me. I be a maker o\u2019\n    loaf for the hungered. Eat thou. \u2019Tis not aright that thou shouldst\n    set unto the feast athout thou art fed.\u201d\n\nBy this she seemed to mean that she wanted him to read her writings and\nsee what it is she is endeavoring to do. She continued:\n\n    \u201cBrother, this be not a trapping o\u2019 thy sword, the seeking o\u2019 me.\n    Nay, \u2019tis ahind a cloak I do for to stand, that this word abe, and\n    not me.\u201d\n\nMr. Curran here stated that this had ever been so; that Patience had\nobscured herself so that her message could not be clouded.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cAright. I do sing.\n\n             Gone! Gone! Ayea, thou art gone!\n             Gone, and earth doth stand it stark.\n             Gone! Gone! The even\u2019s breath\n             Doth breathe it unto me\n             In echo soft; yea, but sharped,\n             And cutting o\u2019 this heart.\n\n             Gone! Gone! Aye, thou art gone!\n             The day is darked, and sun\n             Hath sorried sore and wrapped him in the dark.\n             Gone! Gone! This heart doth drip o\u2019 drops\n             With sorry singing o\u2019 this song.\n\n             Gone! Gone! Yea, thou art gone!\n             And where, beloved, where?\n             Doth yonder golden shaft o\u2019 light\n             That pierceth o\u2019 the cloud\n             Then speak unto this heart?\n             Art thou athin the day\u2019s dark hours?\n             Hast thou then hid from sight o\u2019 me,\n             And yet do know mine hour?\n\n             Gone! Gone! What then hath Earth?\n             What then doth day to bring\n             To this the sorry-laden heart o\u2019 me,\n             That weepeth blood drops here?\n\n             Gone! Gone! Yea, but hark!\n             For I did trick the sorry, loved;\n             For where e\u2019er thou art am I.\n             Yea, this love o\u2019 me shall follow thee\n             Unto the Where, and thou shalt ever know\n             That though this sorry setteth me\n             I be where\u2019er thou art.\u201d\n\nAfter this Dr. K., who resides in St. Louis, took the board.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cHere abe a townsman. Aye, a Sirrah who knoweth men and\n    atruth doth ne\u2019er acloak the blade o\u2019 him as doth brother ayonder.\n    Ayea, ahind a chuckle beeth fires.\n\n    \u201cThere abe weave \u2019pon the cloth o\u2019 me, yea, but \u2019tis nay ariped the\n    time that I do weave. Yea, thou hast a pack o\u2019 tricks. Show unto me,\n    then, thine.\u201d\n\nHere Dr. V. asked: \u201cDo you know Dr. James?\u201d\n\nThis referred to the late Dr. William James, the celebrated psychologist\nof Harvard.\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cI telled a one o\u2019 the brothers and the neighbors o\u2019 thy\n    day, and he doth know.\u201d\n\nShe had given such an answer to a frequent visitor who had inquired as\nto her knowledge of several eminent men long since dead. It was\nconsidered an affirmative answer.\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cHave you associated with Dr. James?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cHark! Unto thee I do say athis; \u2019tis the day\u2019s break\n    and Earth shall know, e\u2019en athin thy day, much o\u2019 the Here.\n\n    \u201cThis, the brother o\u2019 ye, the seeker o\u2019 the Here, hath set a promise\n    so, and \u2019tis for to be, I say unto thee. Thou knowest \u2019tis the word\n    o\u2019 him spaked in loving. Yea, for such a man as the man o\u2019 him wert,\n    standeth as a beacon unto the Here.\u201d\n\n_Dr. V._\u2014\u201cCould Dr. James, by seeking as you did, communicate with\nsomeone here as you are doing?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cThis abe so; he who seeketh abe alike unto thee and\n    thee. Ayea, thee and thy brother do set forth with quill, and thou\n    dost set aslant, and with thy hand at the right o\u2019 thee. And thy\n    brother doth trace with the hand at the left of him. And \u2019tis so,\n    thou puttest not as him. This, the quill o\u2019 me, be for the put o\u2019\n    me, and doth he seek and know the trick o\u2019 tricks o\u2019 sending out a\n    music with the quill o\u2019 me, it might then be so.\u201d\n\nThis was interpreted as meaning that if Dr. James could find one who had\nthe conditions surrounding Mrs. Curran, and was able to master the\nrhythm which Patience uses to give the matter to her, then he could do\nit.\n\nWhen the record of the foregoing interview was being copied, Mrs. Curran\nfelt an impulse to write. Taking the board, Patience indicated that she\nhad called, and at once set forth, apparently for Dr. V., the following\nexplanation of her method of communication and the principle upon which\nit is based:\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cAye, \u2019tis a tickle I be. Hark, there be a pulse\u2014Nay,\n    she (Mrs. Curran) putteth o\u2019 the word! Alist.\u2014There abe a throb;\n    yea, the songs o\u2019 Earth each do throb them, like unto the throbbing\n    o\u2019 the heart that beareth them. Yea, and there be a kinsman o\u2019 the\n    heart that beareth them. Yea, and there be a kinsman o\u2019 thee who\n    throbbeth as dost thou. Yea, and he knoweth thee as doth nay brother\n    o\u2019 thee whose throb be not as thine. So \u2019tis, the drop that falleth\n    athin the sea, doth sound out a silvered note that no man heareth.\n    Yet its brother drops and the drop o\u2019 it do to make o\u2019 the sea\u2019s\n    voice. Aye, and the throb o\u2019 the sea be the throb o\u2019 it. So, doth\n    thy brother seek out that he make word unto thee from the Here, he\n    then falleth aweary. For thee of Earth do hark not unto the throb.\n    And be the one aseeked not attuned unto the throb o\u2019 him he findeth,\n    \u2019tis nay music. So \u2019tis, what be the throb o\u2019 me and the throb o\u2019\n    her ahere, be nay a throb o\u2019 music\u2019s weave for him aseek.\n\n    \u201cI tell thee more. The throb hath come unto thy day long and long.\n    Yea, they be afulled o\u2019 throb, and yet nay man taketh up the\n    throbbing as doth the sea. The drop o\u2019 me did seek and find, and\n    throb met throb o\u2019 loving. Yea, and even as doth the sea to throb\n    out the silvered note o\u2019 drop, even so doth she to throb out the\n    love o\u2019 me.\u201d\n\nThis seems, in effect, a declaration that communications of this\ncharacter are a matter of attunement, possible only between two natures\nof identical vibrations, one seeking and the other receptive. It\nindicates too that her rhythmical speech has an influence upon the\nfacility of her utterances. At another time she described her own\nseeking in this verse:\n\n             How have I sought!\n             Yea, how have I asought,\n             And seeked me ever through the earth\u2019s hours,\n             Amid the damp, cool moon, when winged scrape\n             Doth sound and cry unto the day\n             The waking o\u2019 the hosts!\n             Yea, and \u2019mid the noon\u2019s heat,\n             When Earth doth wither \u2019neath the sun,\n             And rose doth droop from sun\u2019s-kiss,\n             That stole the dew; and \u2019mid the wastes\n             O\u2019 water where they whirl and rage,\n             And seeked o\u2019 word that I\n             Might put to answer thee.\n             Ayea, from days have I then stripped\n             The fulness of their joys, and pryed\n             The very buds that they might ope for thee.\n             Aye, and sought the days apast,\n             That I might sing them unto thee.\n             And ever, ever, cometh unto me\n             Thy song o\u2019 why? why? why?\n             And then, lo, I found athin this heart\n             The answer to thy song.\n             Aye, it chanteth sweet unto this ear,\n             And filleth up the song.\n             Do hark thee, hark unto the song,\n             For answer to thy why? why? why?\n             I sing me Give! Give! Give!\n             Aye, ever Give!\n\nWhen the foregoing verse was received, Dr. X. was again present, this\ntime with his wife and two physicians, Dr. R. and Dr. P. It will have\nbeen observed that many doctors of many kinds have \u201csat at the feet\u201d of\nPatience Worth, but all, as I have said, have come as the friends of\nfriends of Mrs. Curran, upon her invitation, or upon that of Mr. Curran.\nOn this occasion Patience began:\n\n    \u201cThey do seek o\u2019 me, ever; that they do see the pettiskirt o\u2019 me,\n    and eat not o\u2019 the loaf! (More interested in the phenomenon than the\n    words.) Ayea, but he ahere (Dr. R.) hath a wise pate. Aye, he\n    seeketh, and deep athin the heart o\u2019 him sinketh seed o\u2019 the word o\u2019\n    me. Aye, even though he doth see the me o\u2019 me athrough the sage\u2019s\n    eye o\u2019 him, still shall he to love the word o\u2019 me.\u201d\n\nAfter due acknowledgments from Dr. R., she continued:\n\n    \u201cYea, brother, hark unto the word o\u2019 me, for thou dost seek amid the\n    fields o\u2019 Him! Aye, and \u2019tis, thou knowest, earth\u2019s men that be afar\n    amore awry athin the in-man than in the flesh. And \u2019tis the in-man\n    o\u2019 men thou knowest.\u201d\n\nDr. R., a neurologist, gave hearty assent.\n\n    \u201cPut thou unto me. (Question me.) \u2019Tis awish I be that ye weave.\u201d\n\n_Dr. R._\u2014\u201cDo you see through Mrs. Curran\u2019s eyes and hear through her\nears?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cEven as thou hast spoke, it be. Aye, and yet I say me\n    \u2019tis the me o\u2019 me that knoweth much she heareth and seeth not.\u201d\n\nThen to a question had she ever talked before with anyone, she said:\n\u201cAnaught save the flesh o\u2019 me.\u201d\n\n\u201cFetch ye the wheel,\u201d she commanded, \u201cthat I do sit and spin.\u201d\n\nThis was one of her ways of saying that she desired to write on her\nstory, and she dictated several hundred words of it, after which Dr. P.\ntook the board and she said:\n\n    \u201cWhat abe ahere? A one who seeth sorry and maketh merry! Yea, a one\n    who leaveth the right hand o\u2019 him unto its task, and setteth his\n    left at doing awry o\u2019 the task o\u2019 its brothers. Aye, he doeth the\n    labors o\u2019 his brother, aye, and him. Do then, aweave.\u201d\n\nIn compliance some more of the story was written, and then Dr. R.\n\u201cwondered\u201d why he could not write for Patience, to which she answered:\n\n    \u201cHark unto me, thou aside. Thou shalt put (say) \u2019tis her ahere\n    (_i.e._, Mrs. Curran, who does it); ayea, and say much o\u2019 word, and\n    e\u2019en set down athin thy heart thy word o\u2019 what I be, and yet I tell\n    thee, I be me! Aye, ever, and the word o\u2019 me shall stand, e\u2019en when\n    thou and thou art ne\u2019er ahere!\n\n    \u201cE\u2019en he who doth know not o\u2019 the Here hath felt the tickle o\u2019 my\n    word, and seeketh much this hearth.\n\n    \u201cThen eat thee well and fill thee up, and drink not o\u2019 the brew o\u2019\n    me and spat forth the sup. Nay, fill up thy paunch. \u2019Twill merry\n    thee!\u201d\n\nDr. P. asked her a question about her looks.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a piddle he putteth,\u201d she said.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd now we come to a sitting of a lighter character. There were present\nat this Dr. and Mrs. D., Mr. and Mrs. M. and Mrs. and Miss G.\n\n    \u201cAflurry I be!\u201d cried Patience. \u201cAye, for the pack o\u2019 me be afulled\n    o\u2019 song and weave, and e\u2019en word to them ahere.\n\n    \u201cYea, but afirst there be a weave, for the thrift-bite eateth o\u2019\n    me.\u201d (The bite of her thrifty nature.)\n\nSome of the story followed and then she said to Mrs. M., who sat at the\nboard:\n\n    \u201cHere be aone who doth to lift up the lid o\u2019 the brew\u2019s pot, that\n    she see athin! Aye, Dame, there abe but sweets athin the brew for\n    thee. Amore, for e\u2019en tho\u2019 I do brew o\u2019 sweets and tell unto thee, I\n    be a dealer o\u2019 sours do I to choose! Ayea, and did I to put the\n    spatting o\u2019 thee athin the brew, aye verily \u2019twould be asoured a\n    bit!\u201d Then deprecatingly: \u201c\u2019Tis a piddle I put!\n\n    \u201cYea, for him aside who sitteth that he drink o\u2019 this brew do I to\n    sing; fetch thee aside, thee the trickster o\u2019 thy day!\u201d\n\nThere being so many \u201ctricksters\u201d in the room, they were at a loss to\nknow which one she meant. Mr. C. asked if she meant Dr. D., but Patience\nsaid:\n\n    \u201cThinkest thou he who setteth astraight the wry doth piddle o\u2019 a\n    song? Anay, to him who musics do I to sing.\u201d\n\nThis referred to Mr. G., who is a musician and a composer, and he took\nthe board. Patience at once gave him this song:\n\n        Nodding, nodding, \u2019pon thy stem,\n        Thou bloom o\u2019 morn,\n        Nodding, nodding to the bees,\n        Asearch o\u2019 honey\u2019s sweet.\n        Wilt thou to droop and wilt the dance o\u2019 thee,\n        To vanish with the going o\u2019 the day?\n        Hath the tearing o\u2019 the air o\u2019 thy sharped thorn\n        Sent musics up unto the bright,\n        Or doth thy dance to mean anaught\n        Save breeze-kiss \u2019pon thy bloom?\n\n        Hath yonder songster harked to thee,\n        And doth he sing thy love?\n        Or hath he tuned his song of world\u2019s wailing o\u2019 the day?\n        Doth morn shew thee naught save thy garden\u2019s wall\n        That shutteth thee away, a treasure o\u2019 thy day?\n        Doth yonder hum then spell anaught,\n        Save whirring o\u2019 the wing that hovereth\n        O\u2019er thy bud to sup the sweet?\n\n        Ah, garden\u2019s deep, afulled o\u2019 fairies\u2019 word,\n        And creeped o\u2019er with winged mites,\n        Where but the raindrops\u2019 patter telleth thee His love\u2014\n        Doth all this vanish then, at closing o\u2019 the day?\n        Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here,\n        And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets,\n        And of these weaveth garland for the earth.\n        From off his lute doth drip the day of Him.\n\nPatience then turned her attention to Mr. M., saying:\n\n    \u201cAyea, he standeth afar from the feasting place and doth to smack\n    him much!\u201d\n\nMr. M. took the board, and she began to talk to him in an intimate way\nabout the varying attitudes of people toward her and her work, and what\nthey say of her:\n\n    \u201cI be a dame atruth,\u201d she said, \u201cand I tell thee the word o\u2019 wag\n    that shall set thy day, meaneth anaught but merry to me. Hark! I put\n    a murmur o\u2019 thy day, for at the supping o\u2019 this cup the earth shall\n    murmur so:\n\n    \u201c\u2019Tis but the chatter o\u2019 a wag! Aye, the putting o\u2019 the mad! \u2019Tis\n    piddle! Yea, the trapping o\u2019 a fool! Yea, \u2019tis but the dreaming o\u2019\n    the waked! Aye, the word o\u2019 a wicked sprite! Yea, and telleth naught\n    and putteth naught!\n\n    \u201cAnd yet, do harken unto me. They then shall seek to taste the brew\n    and sniff the whiffing o\u2019 the scent; ayea, and stop alonger that\n    they feast! And lo, \u2019twill set some asoured, and some asweet; aye\n    and some, ato (too), shall fill them upon the words THEY do to put\n    o\u2019 me, and find them filled o\u2019 their own put, and lack the room for\n    eat o\u2019 the loaf o\u2019 me. \u2019Tis piddle, then! Aye, and yet I say me so,\n    \u2019tis bread, and bread be eat though it be but sparrows that do seek\n    the crumb. Then what care ye? For bake asurely shall be eat!\u201d\n\nThis is a point she often makes, and strives earnestly to impress\u2014that\nwhatever she may be, whatever the world may think she is, there is\nsubstance in her words. It is bread, and will be eaten, if only by the\nsparrows. So, she is content. She has put this thought, somewhat\npathetically, into the little verse which follows:\n\n                Loth as Night to dark o\u2019 Day,\n                Loth do I to sing.\n                Aye, but doth the Day aneed a song,\n                \u2019Tis they, o\u2019 Him,\n                The songsters o\u2019 the Earth,\n                Do sing them on, to Him.\n                What though \u2019tis asmiled? And what\n                Though \u2019tis nay aseeked o\u2019 such a song?\n                Aye, what though \u2019tis sung \u2019mid dark?\n                \u2019Tis I would sing,\n                Do thee to list, or nay.\n\n\u201cI be a dame who knoweth o\u2019 the hearth. Aye, and do to know o\u2019 the\nhearts o\u2019 men,\u201d she said to Mrs. D., who next took the place with Mrs.\nCurran. \u201cAyea, and do to put o\u2019 that athin the hearts o\u2019 them that doth\ntickle o\u2019 their merry! This be a tale for her ahere.\u201d\n\n\n                         THE STORY OF THE HERBS\n\n    \u201cLo, there wert a dame and her neighbor\u2019s dame and her neighbor\u2019s\n    dame. And they did to plant them o\u2019 their gardens full. And lo, at a\n    day did come unto the garden\u2019s ope a stranger, who bore him of a\n    bloom-topped herb. And lo, he spaked unto the dame who stood athin\n    the sun-niche that lay at the garden\u2019s end, and he did tell unto her\n    of the herb he bore. And lo, he told that he would give unto her one\n    of these, and to her neighbor dame a one, atoo (also), and to her\n    neighbor dame a one atoo, and he then would leave the garden\u2019s place\n    and come at the fulling o\u2019 the season-tide when winter\u2019s bite did\n    sear, and that he then would seek them out, and they should shew\n    unto him the fulling o\u2019 the herb.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, he went him out unto the neighbor\u2019s dame and telled unto\n    her the same, and to her neighbor\u2019s dame the same, and they did seek\n    one the other and tell o\u2019 all the stranger had told unto them. And\n    each had sorry, for feared \u2019twer the cunger o\u2019 the wise men, and\n    each aspoke her that she would to care and care for this the herb he\n    did to leave, and that she would have at the fulling o\u2019 the season\n    the herb that stood at the fullest bloom. And each o\u2019 the dames did\n    speak it that this herb o\u2019 her should be the one waxed stronger at\n    the fulling. And lo, none told unto the other o\u2019 how this would to\n    be.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, the first o\u2019 dames did plant her herb adeep and speak\n    little, and lo, her neighbor dames did word much o\u2019 the planting,\n    and carried drops from out the well that the herbs might full. And\n    lo, they did pluck o\u2019 the first bud that them that did follow should\n    be afuller. And lo, the dame afirst o\u2019 the garden the stranger did\n    to seek, did look with sunked heart at the thriving o\u2019 the herbs o\u2019\n    the neighbor dames. And lo, she wept thereon, and \u2019twer that her\n    well did dry, and yet she seeked not the wells of her sisters. Nay,\n    but did weep upon the earth about the herb, and lo, it did to spring\n    it up. And lo, she looked not with greed upon her sister\u2019s herb;\n    nay, for at the caring for the bloom, lo, she loved its bud and wept\n    that she had nay drop to give as drink unto it.\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, at a certain day the stranger came and did seek the dames,\n    and came him unto her garden where the herb did stand, and he bore\n    the herbs of her sisters, and they wert tall and full grown and\n    filled o\u2019 bloom. And he did to put the herb o\u2019 her sisters anext the\n    herb o\u2019 her, and lo, the herb o\u2019 her did spring it up, and them o\u2019\n    her sisters shrunked to but a twig. And he did call unto the dames\n    and spake:\n\n    \u201c\u2018Lo, have ye but fed thy herb that it be full o\u2019 bloom, that thou\n    shouldst glad thee o\u2019er thy sister? And lo, the herb o\u2019 her hath\n    drunked her tears shed o\u2019 loving, and standeth sweet-bloomed from\n    out the tears o\u2019 her.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, the herb did flower aneath their very eyes. And lo, the\n    flowering wert fulled o\u2019 dews-gleam, and \u2019twer the sweet o\u2019 her\n    heart, yea, the dew o\u2019 heaven.\u201d\n\nFollowing this pretty parable someone spoke of a newspaper article that\nhad appeared that day, and Patience remarked:\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a gab o\u2019 fool. Aye, and the gab o\u2019 fool be like unto a spring that\nbe o\u2019erfull o\u2019 drops, \u2019tis ne\u2019er atelling when it breaketh out its\nbounds.\u201d\n\nWith this sage observation she dismissed the \u201cfool\u201d as unworthy of\nfurther consideration, and gave this poem:\n\n           Do I to love the morn,\n           When Earth awakes, and streams\n           Aglint o\u2019 sun\u2019s first gold,\n           As siren\u2019s tresses thred them through the fields;\n           When sky-cup gleameth as a pearl;\n           When sky-hosts wake, and leaf bowers\n           Wave aheavied with the dew?\n           Do I to love the eve,\n           When white the moon doth show,\n           And frost\u2019s sweet sister, young night\u2019s breath,\n           Doth stand aglistened \u2019pon the blades;\n           When dark the shadow deepeth,\n           Like to the days agone that stand\n           As wraiths adraped o\u2019 black\n           Along the garden\u2019s path;\n           When sweet the nestlings twitter\n           \u2019Neath the wing of soft and down\n           That hovereth it there within\n           The shadows deep atop the tree?\n\n           Do I to love the mid-hours deep\u2014\n           The royal color o\u2019 the night?\n           For earth doth drape her purpled,\n           And jeweled o\u2019er athin this hour.\n\n           Do I to love these hours, then,\n           As the loved o\u2019 me?\n           Nay, for at the morn,\n           Lo, do I to love the eve!\n           And at the eve,\n           Lo, do I to love the morn!\n           And at the morn and eve,\n           \u2019Tis night that claimeth me.\n\nA little of the reasoning of Patience upon Earth questions may\nappropriately come in here. The Currans, with a single visitor, had\ntalked at luncheon of various things, beginning with music and ending\nwith capital punishment, the latter suggested by an execution which at\nthe moment was attracting national attention. When they took the board,\nafter luncheon, Patience said:\n\n    \u201cList thee. Earth sendeth up much note. Yea, and some do sound them\n    at wry o\u2019 melody, and others sing them true. And lo, they who sing\n    awry shall mingle much and drown in melody. And I tell thee, o\u2019er\n    and above shall sound the note o\u2019 me!\u201d\n\nAnd then she gave them to understand that she had listened to their\ndiscussion!\n\n    \u201cYe spake ye of eye for eye. Yea, and tooth for tooth. Yea, but be\n    thy brother\u2019s eye not the ope o\u2019 thine, then \u2019tis a measure less the\n    full thou hast at taking o\u2019 the eye o\u2019 him. Yea, and should the\n    tooth o\u2019 him put crave for carrion, and thine for sweets, then how\n    doth the tooth o\u2019 him serve thee?\u201d\n\nHere the sitters asked: \u201cHow about a life for a life, Patience?\u201d\n\n    _Patience._\u2014\u201cYe fill thy measure full o\u2019 sands that trickle waste at\n    each and every putting. I tell thee thou hast claimed life; aye, and\n    life be not thine or yet thy brother\u2019s for the taking or giving.\n    Yea, and such an soul hath purged at the taking or giving, and rises\n    to smile at thy folly.\n\n    \u201cAye, and more. List! The earth\u2019s baggage, hate, and might, and\n    scorn, fall at earth\u2019s leave, a dust o\u2019 naught, like the dust o\u2019 thy\n    body crumbleth.\n\n    \u201cThou canst strip the body, yea, but the soul defieth thee!\u201d\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe visitor referred to in the preceding talk is a frequent guest of the\nCurrans, and is one of the loved ones of Patience. This visitor, who is\na widow, remarked one evening that Patience was deep and lived in a deep\nplace.\n\n    \u201cAye,\u201d said Patience, \u201ca deeper than word. There be ahere what thou\n    knowest abetter far than word o\u2019 me might tell. (This seems to refer\n    to the visitor\u2019s husband.) Ayea thou hungereth, and bread be thine,\n    for from off lips that spaked not o\u2019 the land o\u2019 here in word o\u2019\n    little weight, thou hast supped of love, and know the path that be\n    atrod by him shall be atrod even so by thee, e\u2019en tho\u2019 thou shouldst\n    find the mountain\u2019s height and pits o\u2019 depth past Earth\u2019s tung.\n\n    \u201cShouldst thou at come o\u2019 here to hark unto the sound of this voice,\n    thinkest thou that heights, aye or depths, might keep thee from\n    there? And even so, doth not the one thou seeketh too, haste e\u2019en\n    now to find the path and waiteth?\n\n    \u201cThen thinkest thou this journey be lone? Nay, I tell thee, thou art\n    areach e\u2019en past the ye o\u2019 ye, and he areach ato. Then shall the\n    path\u2019s ope be its end and beginning. In love is the end and\n    beginning of things.\n\n    \u201cYea, yea, yea, the earth suppeth o\u2019 the word o\u2019 me, and e\u2019en at the\n    supping stoppeth and speaketh so. What that one not o\u2019 me doth brew.\n    Thou knowest this, dame. Aye, but what then? And why doth not the\n    blood o\u2019 me speak unto me?\n\n    \u201c\u2019Tis a merry I be. Lo, have I not fetched forth unto a day that\n    holdeth little o\u2019 the blood o\u2019 me, that I might deal alike unto my\n    brother and bring forth word that be ahungered for aye, and they\n    speak them o\u2019 her ahere and wag and hark not? Yea, and did the blood\n    o\u2019 them spake out unto their very ears I vow me \u2019twould set the\n    earth ariot o\u2019 fearing. Yea, man loveth blood that hath not flowed,\n    but sicketh o\u2019er spilled blood. Yea, then weave.\u201d\n\nThere was some discussion following this, to the effect that whatever\nexplanations might be given of this phenomenon, many would believe in\nPatience Worth as an independent personality, which brought from her the\nfollowing discourse which may well conclude these conversations:\n\n    \u201cYea, the tooth o\u2019 him who eateth up the flesh I did to cloak me\n    athin, shall rot and he shalt wither. Aye, and the word o\u2019 me shalt\n    stand. Fires but bake awell.\n\n    \u201cSweet hath the sound of the word o\u2019 Him asounded unto the ears o\u2019\n    Earth that hark not.\n\n    \u201cYea, and He hath beat upon the busom of Earth and sounded out a\n    loud noise, and Earth harkened not.\n\n    \u201cAnd He hath sung thro\u2019 the mother\u2019s songs o\u2019 Earth, and Earth\n    harkened not.\n\n    \u201cYea, and He hath sent His own with word, and Earth harkened not.\n\n    \u201cThen \u2019tis Earth\u2019s own folly that batheth her.\n\n    \u201cYea, and Folly cometh astreaming ribbands, and showering color, and\n    grinning \u2019pon his way.\n\n    \u201cYea, but Folly masketh and leadeth Earth and man assuredly unto\n    Follies pit\u2014self. And self is blind.\n\n    \u201cThen whence doth Earth to turn for aid? For Folly followeth not the\n    blind, and the voice of him who falleth unto the pit of Folly\n    soundeth out a loud note. Yea, and it echoeth \u2019self.\u2019\n\n    \u201cAnd lo, the Earth filled up o\u2019 self, hearketh not unto the words of\n    Him, the King of Wisdom.\n\n    \u201cYea, and I say unto thee, though them o\u2019 Him fall pierced and rent\n    athin the flow o\u2019 their own blood thro\u2019 the self-song o\u2019 his\n    brother, he doeth this for Him.\n\n    \u201cAnd the measuring rod shall weight out for him who packeth the\n    least o\u2019 self athin him, afull o\u2019 measure, and light for him who\n    packeth heavy o\u2019 self.\n\n    \u201cAyea, and more. I speak me o\u2019 lands wherein the high estate be\n    self. Yea, yea, yea, o\u2019 thy lands do I to speak. Woe unto him who\n    feareth that might shall slay! Self may wield a mighty blow, but it\n    slayeth never.\n\n    \u201c\u2019Tis as the dame who watcheth o\u2019er her brood, and lo, this one hath\n    sorry, and that one hath sorry. And she flitteth here and yon, and\n    lo, afore she hath fetched out the herbs, they sleep them peaceful.\n    So shall it be at this time. The herbs shall be fetched forth but\n    lo, the lands shall sleep them peaceful.\n\n    \u201cYea, for Folly leadeth, and Wisdom warreth Folly.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                                RELIGION\n\n                        \u201cTeach me that I be Ye.\u201d\n\n\nAnd now we well may ask: What is the purpose of all this? Here we appear\nto have an invisible intelligence, speaking an obsolete language,\nproducing volumes of poetry containing many evidences of profound\nwisdom. So far as I have been able to find out, no such phenomenon has\noccurred before since the world began. Do not misunderstand that\nassertion. There is nothing extraordinary in the manner of its coming,\nas I have said before. The publications of the Society for Psychical\nResearch are filled with examples of communications received in the same\nor a similar way. The fact that makes this phenomenon stand out, that\naltogether isolates it from everything else of an occult nature, is the\ncharacter and quality of its literature. Literature is something\ntangible, something that one can lay hands on, so to speak. It is in a\nsense physical; it can be seen with the eyes. And this literature is the\nphysical evidence which Patience Worth presents of herself as a separate\nand distinct personality.\n\nBut why is it contributed? Is there in it any intimation or assertion of\na definite purpose?\n\nIf we may assume that Patience is what she seems to be\u2014a voice from\nanother world, then indeed we may discern a purpose. She has a message\nto deliver, and she gives the impression that she is a messenger.\n\n\u201cDo eat that which I offer thee,\u201d she says. \u201c\u2019Tis o\u2019 Him. I but bear the\npack apacked for the carry o\u2019 me by Him.\u201d\n\nConstantly she speaks of herself as bearing food or drink in her words.\n\u201cI bid thee eat,\u201d she said to one, \u201cand rest ye, and eat amore, for \u2019tis\nthe wish o\u2019 me that ye be filled.\u201d The seed, the loaf, the cup, are\nfrequently used symbolically when referring to her communications.\n\n\u201cThere be a man who buyeth grain and he telleth his neighbor and his\nneighbor\u2019s neighbor, and lo, they come asacked and clamor for the grain.\nAnd what think ye? Some do make price, and yet others bring naught. But\nI be atelling ye, \u2019tis not a price I beg. Nay, \u2019tis that ye drink my\ncup.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis truth o\u2019 earth that \u2019tis the seed aplanted deep that doth cause\nthe harvester for to watch. For lo, doth he to hold the seed athin\n(within) his hand, \u2019tis but a seed. And aplanted he doth watch him in\nwondering. Verily do I say, \u2019tis so with me. I be aplanted deep; do thee\nthen to watch.\u201d\n\nAnd with greater significance she has exclaimed: \u201cMorn hath broke, and\nye be the first to see her light. Look ye wide-eyed at His workings. He\nhath offered ye a cup.\u201d\n\nIt is thus she announces herself to be a herald of a new day, a bearer\nof tidings divinely commissioned.\n\nWhat, then, is her message? For answer it may be said that it is at once\na revelation, a religion and a promise. Whatever we may think of the\nnature of this phenomenon, Patience herself is a revelation, and there\nare many revelations in her words. The religion she presents is not a\nnew one. It is as old as that given to the world nineteen centuries ago;\nfor fundamentally it is the same. It is that religion, stripped of all\nthe doctrines and creeds and ceremonials and observances that have grown\nup about it in all the ages since His coming, and paring it down to the\npoint where it can be expressed by the one word\u2014Love. Love, going out to\nfellow man, to all nature and overflowing toward God.\n\nIn the consideration of this religion let us begin at the beginning, at\nthe ground, so to speak, with this expression of love for the loveless:\n\n             Ah, could I love thee,\n             Thou, the loveless o\u2019 the earth,\n             And pry aneath the crannies\n             Yet untouched by mortal hand\n             To send therein this love o\u2019 mine\u2014\n             Thou creeping mite, and winged speck,\n             And whirled waters o\u2019 the mid o\u2019 sea\n             Where no man seeth thee?\n             And could I love thee, the days\n             Unsunned and laden with hate o\u2019 sorrying?\n             Ah, could I love thee,\n             Thou who beareth blight;\n             And thou the fruit bescorched\n             And shrivelling, to fall unheeded\n             \u2019Neath thy mother-stalk?\n\n             Ah, could I love thee, love thee?\n             Aye, for Him who loveth thee,\n             And blightest but through loving;\n             Like to him who bendeth low the forest\u2019s king\n             To fashion out a mast.\n\nLove for everything is the essence of her thought and of her song. And\nas she thus sings for the loveless, so she sings for the wearied ones\nand the failures of the earth:\n\n            I\u2019d sing.\n            Wearied word adropped by weary ones,\n            And broked mold afashioned out by wearied hands;\n            A falter-song sung through tears o\u2019 wearied one;\n            A fancied put o\u2019 earth\u2019s fair scene\n            Afallen at awry o\u2019 weariness. Love\u2019s task\n            Unfinished, aye, o\u2019ertaken by sore weariness\u2014\n            O\u2019 thee I\u2019d sing.\n\n            Aye, and put me such an songed-note\n            That earth, aye, and heaven, should hear;\n            And thou, aye all o\u2019 ye, the soul-songs\n            O\u2019 my brothers, be afinished,\n            At the closing o\u2019 my song.\n\n            Aye, and wearied, aye and wearied, I\u2019d sing.\n            I\u2019d sing for them, the loved o\u2019 Him,\n            And brothers o\u2019 thee and me. Amen.\n\nThis is the prelude and now comes the song:\n\n                  I choose o\u2019 the spill\n                  O\u2019 love and word and work,\n                  The waste o\u2019 earth, to build.\n\n                  Ye hark unto the sages,\n                  And oft a way-singer\u2019s song\n                  Hath laden o\u2019erfull o\u2019 truth,\n                  And wasteth \u2019pon the air,\n                  And falleth not unto thine ear.\n\n                  Think ye He scattereth whither\n                  E\u2019en such an grain? Nay.\n                  And do ye seek o\u2019 spill\n                  And put unto thy song,\n                  \u2019Twill fill its emptiness.\n\n                  Ye seek to sing but o\u2019 thy song,\n                  And \u2019tis an empty strain. \u2019Tis need\n                  O\u2019 love\u2019s spill for to fill.\n\nThe spill of earth, the love that goes unnoticed and unappreciated, the\nwords that are unheard or unheeded, the work that seems to be for\nnaught\u2014none of these is waste. A song it is for the wearied ones, the\nheart-sick and discouraged, \u201cthe loved of Him and brothers of thee and\nme.\u201d\n\n                             --------------\n\nAnd yet she calls them waste but to show that they are not. \u201cThe waste\nof earth,\u201d she says, \u201cdoth build the Heaven,\u201d and this is the theme of\nmuch of her song.\n\n           Earth hath filled it up o\u2019 waste and waste.\n           The sea\u2019s fair breast, that heaveth as a mother\u2019s,\n           Beareth waste o\u2019 wrecks and wind-blown waste.\n               The day doth hold o\u2019 waste.\n           The smiles that die, that long to break,\n           The woes that burden them already broke,\n               \u2019Tis waste, ah yea, \u2019tis waste.\n           And yet, and yet, at some fair day,\n           E\u2019en as the singing thou dost note\n           Doth bound from yonder hill\u2019s side green\n           As echo, yea, the ghost o\u2019 thy voice;\n           So shall all o\u2019 this to sound aback\n           Unto the day.\n           Of waste, of waste, is heaven builded up.\n\nIt is to the waste of earth that she speaks in this message of love and\nsympathy:\n\n           Ah, emptied heart! The weary o\u2019 the path!\n           How would I to fill ye up o\u2019 love!\n           I\u2019d tear this lute, that it might whirr\n           A song that soothed thy lone, awearied path.\n           I\u2019d steal the sun\u2019s pale gold,\n           And e\u2019en the silvered even\u2019s ray,\n           To treasure them within this song\n           That it be rich for thee.\n           From out the wastes o\u2019 earth I\u2019d seek\n           And catch the woe-tears shed,\n           That I might drink them from the cup\n           And fill it up with loving.\n           From out the hearts afulled o\u2019 love\n           Would I to steal the o\u2019er-drip\n           And pack the emptied hearts of earth.\n           The bread o\u2019 love would I to cast\n           Unto thy bywayed path, and pluck me\n           From the thorn\u00e8d bush that traileth o\u2019er\n           The stepping-place, the thorn, that brothers\n           O\u2019 the flesh o\u2019 me might step \u2019pon path acleared.\n           Yea, I\u2019d coax the songsters o\u2019 the earth\n           To carol thee upon thy ways,\n           And fill ye up o\u2019 love and love and love.\n\nAnd a message of cheer and encouragement she gives to those who sorrow,\nin this:\n\n    \u201cThe web o\u2019 sorrow weaveth \u2019bout the days o\u2019 earth, and \u2019tis but\n    Folly who plyeth o\u2019 the bobbin. I tell thee more, the bobbins stick\n    and threads o\u2019 day-weave go awry. But list ye; \u2019tis he who windeth\n    o\u2019 his web \u2019pon smiles and shuttleth \u2019twixt smiles and woe who\n    weaveth o\u2019 a day afull and pleantious. And sorrow then wilt rift and\n    show a light athrough.\u201d\n\nSmiles amid sorrows. He who windeth of his web upon smiles not only\nrifts his own woes but those of others, as she expresses it in this\nverse:\n\n           The smile thou cast today that passed\n           Unheeded by the world; the handclasp\n           Of a friend, the touch of baby palms\n           Upon its mother\u2019s breast\u2014\n           Whither have they flown along the dreary way?\n               Mayhap thy smile\n           Hath fallen upon a daisy\u2019s golden head,\n           To shine upon some weary traveler\n           Along the dusty road, and cause\n           A softening of the hard, hard way.\n           Perchance the handclasp strengthened wavering love\n           And lodged thee in thy friend\u2019s regard.\n           And where the dimpled hands caress,\n           Will not a well of love spring forth?\n           Who knows, but who will tell\n           The hiding of these fleeting gifts!\n\nAnd she gives measure to the same thought in this:\n\n              Waft ye through the world sunlight;\n              Throw ye to the sparrows grain\n              That runneth o\u2019er the heaping measure.\n              Scatter flower petals, like the wings\n              Of fluttering butterflies, to streak\n              The dove-gray day with daisy gold,\n              And turn the silver mist to fleece of gold.\n              Hath the king a noble who is such\n              An wonder-worker? Or hath his jester\n              Such a pack of tricks as thine?\n\nBoth of these last have to do with the hands and with the use of the\nhands in the expression of love for others, but in the following poem\nPatience pays a tender and yet somewhat mystical tribute to the hands\nthemselves, empty hands filled with the gifts of Him, the power to build\nand weave and soothe:\n\n           Hands. Hands. The hands o\u2019 Earth;\n           Abusied at fashioning, Aye,\n           And put o\u2019 this, aye, and that.\n           Hands. Hands upturned at empty.\n           Hands. Hands untooled, aye, but builders\n           O\u2019 the soothe o\u2019 Earth.\n\n           Hands. Hands aspread, aye, and sending forth\n           That which they do hold\u2014the emptiness.\n           Aye, at empty they be, afulled o\u2019 the give o\u2019 Him.\n           At put at up, aye, and down, \u2019tis at weave\n           O\u2019 cloth o\u2019 Him they be.\n\n           Hands. Hands afulled o\u2019 work o\u2019 Him;\n           Aye, and ever at a spread o\u2019 doing in His name.\n           Aye, and at put o\u2019 weave\n           For naught but loving.\n\nThere are no doubt such hands on earth, many of them \u201cever at a spread\nof doing in His name,\u201d but not often have their work and their mission\nbeen so beautifully and so fittingly expressed as in this strange verse\nwhich, to me at least, grows in wonder at every reading. And this not so\nmuch because of the quaintness of the words and the singularity of the\nconstruction, as for the thought. This, however, is characteristic of\nall of her work. There is always more in it than appears upon the\nsurface. And yet when one analyzes it, one finds that whatever may be\nthe nature or the subject of the composition, in nearly every instance\nlove is the inspiration.\n\nThe love that she expresses is universal. It goes out to nature in all\nits forms, animate and inanimate, lovely and unlovely. It is manifested\nin all her references to humanity, from the infant to doddering age; and\nher compositions are filled with appeals for the application of love to\nthe relations between man and man. But it is when she sings of God that\nshe expresses love with the most tender and passionate fervency\u2014His love\nfor man, her love for Him. \u201cFor He knoweth no beginning, no ending to\nloving,\u201d she says, \u201cand loveth thee and me and me and thee ever and\nafore ever.\u201d \u201cSighing but bringeth up heart\u2019s weary; tears but wash the\ndays acleansed; hands abusied for them not thine do work for Him;\nprayers that fall \u2019pon but the air and naught, ye deem, sing straight\nunto Him. Close, close doth He to cradle His own to Him.\u201d She gives\npoetic expression to this divine love in the song which follows:\n\n              Brother, weary o\u2019 the plod,\n              Art sorried sore o\u2019 waiting?\n              Brother, bowed aneath the pack o\u2019 Earth,\n              Art seeking o\u2019 the path\n              That leadest thee unto new fields\n              O\u2019 green, and breeze-kissed airs?\n              Art bowed and bent o\u2019 weight o\u2019 sorry?\n              Art weary, weary, sore?\n              Then come and hark unto this song o\u2019 Him.\n\n              Hast thou atrodden \u2019pon the Earth,\n              And worn the paths o\u2019 folly\n              Till thou art foot-sore?\n              And hast the day grinned back to thee,\n              A folly-mask adown thy path\n              That layeth far behind thee?\n              Thy heart, my brother, hast thou then\n              Alost it \u2019pon the path?\n              And filled thee up o\u2019 word and tung\n              O\u2019 follysingers long the way?\n\n                Ah, weary me, ah, weary me!\n              Come thou unto this breast.\n              For though thou hast suffered o\u2019 the Earth,\n              And though thy robe be stained\n              O\u2019 travel o\u2019er the stoney way,\n              And though thy lips deny thy heart,\n              Come thou unto this breast,\n              The breast o\u2019 Him.\n              For He knoweth not the stain.\n              Aye, and the land o\u2019 Him doth know\n              No stranger \u2019mid its hosts.\n              Ayea, and though thou comest mute,\n              This silence speaketh then to Him,\n              And He doth hold Him ope His arms.\n\n              So come thou brother, weary one,\n              To Him, for \u2019tis but Earth and men\n              Who ask thee WHY.\n\nShe pours out her love for God in many verses of praise and prayer.\n\n                  Bird skimming to the south,\n                    Bear thou my song,\n                  Sand slipping to the wave\u2019s embrace,\n                    Do thou but bear it too!\n                  And, shifting tide, take thou\n                    Unto thy varied paths\n                  The voicing of my soul!\n\n                  I\u2019d build me such an endless\n                    Chant to sing of Him\n                  That days to follow days\n                    Would be but builded chord\n                  Of this my lay.\n\nStill more ardently does she express her love in these lines:\n\n             Spring, thou art but His smile\n             Of happiness in me, and sullen days\n             Of weariness shall fall when Spring is born\n             In winds of March and rains of April\u2019s tears.\n             Methinks \u2019tis weariness of His that I,\n             His loved, should tarry o\u2019er the task\n             And leave life\u2019s golden sheaves unbound.\n             And, Night, thou too art mine, of Him.\n             Thy dim and veiled stars are but the eyes\n             Of Him that through the curtained mystery\n             Watch on and sever dark from me.\n             And, Love, thou too art His,\n             His words of wooing to my soul.\n             Should I, then, crush thee in embrace,\n             And bruise thee with my kiss,\n             And drink thy soul through mine?\n             What, then! \u2019Tis He, \u2019tis He, my love,\n             That gave me thee, and while my love is thine,\n             What wonder is it causeth here\n             This heart of mine to stifle so\n             And seek expression in a prayer of thanks?\n\nWith equal fervency of devotion and gratitude she sings this tribute to\nthe day:\n\n           Ah, what a day He hath made, He hath made!\n           It flasheth abright and asweet, and asweet.\n           It showeth His love and His smile, yea, His smile.\n\n           The hills stand abrown, aye astand brown,\n           And peaked as a monk in his cowl, aye, his cowl!\n           The grass it hath seared, aye, hath seared\n           And scenteth asweet, yea, asweet.\n           Ayonder a swallow doth whirl, aye, doth whirl,\n           And skim mid the grey o\u2019 the blue,\n                       Aye, the grey o\u2019 the blue.\n           The young wave doth lap \u2019pon the sands,\n                       Yea, lap soft and soft \u2019pon the sands.\n           The field\u2019s maid doth seek, yea, doth seek,\n           And send out her song to the day,\n                       Yea, send out her song to the day.\n\n           My heart it is full, yea, \u2019tis full,\n           For the love of Him batheth the day,\n                       Yea, the love of Him batheth the day.\n\n           Ah, what a day He hath made,\n                       Yea, He hath made it for me!\n\nHer prayers are not appeals for aid; they are not begging petitions.\nThey are outpourings of love and trust and gratitude.\n\nTo an old couple, friends of Mr. and Mrs. Curran, who passed a\nround-eyed evening with Patience, she said:\n\n              Keep ye within thy heart a song\n              And murmur thou this prayer:\n\n              \u201cMy God, am I then afraid\n              Of heights or depths?\n              And doth this dark benumb my quaking limbs?\n              And do I stop my song in fear\n              Lest Thee do then forsake me?\n              Nay, for I do love Thee so,\n              I fain would choose a song\n              Built from my chosen tung,\n              And though it be but chattering\n              Of a soul bereft of reasoning,\n              I know Thou would\u2019st love it as Thine own,\n              For I do love Thee so!\u201d\n\nThis was not given for another, but is her own cry:\n\n              I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught!\n              But cry aloud unto the sunlight\n              Who bathes the earth in gold\n              And boldly breaketh into crannies\n              Yet unseen by man:\n              Flash thou in flaming sheen!\n              Mine own song of love doth falter\n              And my throat, it is afail!\n\n              And thou, the greening shrub along the way,\n              And earth at bud-season,\n              Do thou then spurt thy shoots\n              And pierce the air with loving!\n              And age-wabbled brother\u2014\n              I do love thee for thy spending,\n              And I do gaze in loving at thy face,\n              Whereon I find His peace,\n              And trace the withered cheek\n              For record of His love.\n              Around thy lips doth hang\n              The child-smile of a trusting heart;\n              And world hath vanished\n              From thine eyes, bedimmed\n              To gard thee at awakening.\n              Thou, too, art of my song of love.\n\n              I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught.\n              These hands are Thine for loving,\n              And this heart, already Thine,\n              Why offer it?\n              I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught.\n\nThis one does ask for something, but only to know Him:\n\n               Teach me, O God,\n               To say, \u201c\u2019Tis not enough.\u201d\n               Aye, teach me, O Brother,\n               To sing, and though the weight\n               Be past this strength,\n               Teach me, O God, to say,\n               \u201c\u2019Tis not enough\u2014to pay!\u201d\n\n               Teach me, O God, for I be weak.\n               Teach me to learn\n               Of strength from Thee.\n\n               Teach me, O God, to trust, and do.\n               Teach me, O God, no word to pray.\n               Teach me, O God, the heart Thou gavest me.\n               Teach me, O God, to read thereon.\n               Teach me, O God, to waste not word.\n               Teach me that I be Ye!\n\nThat last line presents the most impressive principle of the religion\nshe expresses, and which, we might almost say, she embodies. \u201cWho are\nyou?\u201d she was once asked abruptly.\n\n\u201cI be Him,\u201d she replied; \u201calike to thee. Ye be o\u2019 Him.\u201d\n\nAt another time she said:\n\n\u201cI be all that hath been, and all that is, all that shalt be, for that\nbe He.\u201d\n\nTaken alone this would seem to be a declaration that she herself was\nGod, but when it is read in connection with the previous affirmation it\nis readily understood.\n\n\u201cThou art of Him,\u201d she said again, \u201caye, and I be of Him, and ye be of\nHim, and He be all and of all.\u201d\n\nIn this prayer, where she says \u201cTeach me, O God, no word to pray,\u201d it is\nevident from her other prayers that she uses the word pray in the sense\nof \u201cto beg.\u201d Her prayers are merely expressions of love and gratitude.\n\nShe herself interprets the line, \u201cTeach me, O God, to waste not word,\u201d\nin this verse:\n\n              Speak ye a true tongue,\n              Or waste ye with words the Soul\u2019s song?\n              A damning evidence is with wasted words;\n              For need I prate to yonder star\n              When hunger fills the world wherein I dwell?\n              Cast I a glance so precious as His\n              Which wakes at every dawn?\n              Speak I a tongue one half so true\n              As sighing winds who sing amid\n              Aeolian harps strung with siren tress?\n              For lo, the sea murmureth a thousand tones,\n              Wrung from its world within,\n              But telleth only of Him,\n              And so His silence keeps.\n\nIn the order in which we have chosen to present these poems, they are\nmore and more mystical as we go on. We trust, then, that the reader\nmeeting them for the first time will feel no impertinence in increasing\nattempts at elucidation from one who has read them often and pondered\nthem much.\n\nThere is another and a very interesting phase of these communications in\nthe place Christ holds in them. Patience\u2019s attitude toward the Savior is\none of deep and loving reverence.\n\n\u201cDidst thou then,\u201d she says, \u201cwith those drops so worth, buy the\nthrobbing at thy memory set aflutter? And is this love of mine so freely\nthine by that same purchase, or do I love thee for thy love of me? And\ndo I, then, my father\u2019s tilling for love of Him, like thee to shed my\nblood and tears for reapers in an age to come, because He wills it so?\nGod grant \u2019tis so!\u201d\n\nNor does she hesitate to assert His divinity with definiteness. \u201cThink\nye,\u201d she cries, \u201cthat He who doth send the earth aspin athrough the blue\ndepth o\u2019 Heaven, be not a wonder-god who springeth up where\u2019er He doth\nset a wish! Yea, then doth He to spring from out the dust a lily; so\nalso doth He to breathe athin (within) the flesh, and come unto the\nearth, born from out flesh athout the touch o\u2019 man. \u2019Tis so, and from\noff the lute o\u2019 me hath song aflowed that be asweeted o\u2019 the blood o\u2019\nHim that shed for thee and me.\u201d\n\nAnd she puts the same assertion of His divine birth into this tribute to\nthe Virgin:\n\n         Mary, mother, thou art the Spring\n         That flowereth, though nay man aplanteth thee.\n         Mary, mother, the song of thee\n         That lulled His dreams to come,\n         Sing them athrough the earth and bring\n         The hope of rest unto the day.\n\n         Mary, mother, from out the side of Him\n         That thou didst bear, aflowed the crimson tide\n         That doth to stain e\u2019en unto this day\u2014\n         The tide of blood that ebbed the man\n         From out the flesh and left the God to be.\n\n         Mary, mother, wilt thou then leave me catch\n         These drops, that I do offer them as drink\n         Unto the brothers of the flesh of me of earth?\n         Mary, mother of the earth\u2019s loved!\n         Mary, bearer of the God!\n         Mary, that I might call thee of a name befitting thee,\n         I seek, I seek, I seek, and none\n         Doth offer it to me save this:\n         Mother! Mother! Mother of the Him;\n         The flesh that died for me.\n\n\n\n\n                        THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY\n\n\u201cEarth! Earth, the mother of us all! Aye, the mother of us all! How\nloth, how loth, like to a child we be, to leave and seek \u2019mid\ndark!\u201d\u2014PATIENCE WORTH.\n\n\nIf the personality of Patience Worth and the nature and quality of her\nliterary productions are worthy of consideration as evidences of the\ntruth of her claim to a spiritual existence, then in the sufficiency of\nthe proof may be found an answer to the world-old question: Is there a\nlife after death? To what extent the facts that have been presented in\nthis narrative may be accepted as proof, is for the reader to determine.\nBut Patience has not been content to reveal a strange personality and a\nunique literature; she has had much to say upon this question of\nimmortality. There is more or less spiritual significance in nearly all\nof her poetry and in some of her prose, and while her references to the\nafter life are usually veiled under figures of speech, they nevertheless\ngive assurances of its existence. She makes it clear, however, that she\nis not permitted to reveal the nature of that life beyond the veil, but\nshe goes as far apparently as she dares, in the repeated assertion,\nthrough metaphor and illustration, of its reality.\n\n    \u201cMy days,\u201d she cries, \u201cI have scattered like autumn leaves, whirled\n    by raging winds, and they have fallen in various crannies \u2019long the\n    way. Blown to rest are the sunny spring-kissed mornings of my youth,\n    and with many a sigh did I blow the sobbing eves that melted into\n    tear-washed night. Blow on, thou zephyr of this life, and let me\n    throw the value of each day to thee. Blow, and spend thyself, till,\n    tired, thou wilt croon thyself to sleep. Perchance this casting of\n    my day may cease, and thou wilt turn anew unto thy blowing and reap\n    the casting of the world.\n\n    \u201cWhat then is a sigh? Ah, man may breathe a sorrow. Doth then the\n    dumbness of his brother bar his sighing? Nay\u2014and hark! The sea doth\n    sigh, and yonder starry jasmine stirreth with a tremorous sigh; and\n    morning\u2019s birth is greeted with the sighing of the world. For what?\n    Ah, for that coming that shall fulfill the promise, and change the\n    sighing to a singing, and loose the tongue of him whom God doth know\n    and, fearful lest he tell His hidden mysteries, hath locked his\n    lips.\u201d\n\nAnd again she asks: \u201cNeedest thou see what God himself sealeth thine\neyes to make thee know?\u201d Meaning, undoubtedly, that only through the\nprocess of death can the soul be brought to an understanding of that\nother life; and she declares that even if we were shown, we could not\ncomprehend. \u201cIf thou should\u2019st see His face on morrow\u2019s break,\u201d she\nsays, \u201c\u2019twould but start a wagging,\u201d a discussion. And she continues:\n\u201cAh, ope the tabernacle, but look thou not on high, for when the filmy\nveil shall fade away\u2014ah, could\u2019st thou but know that He who waits hath\nlooked, aye looked, on thee, and thou hast looked on Him since time\nbegan!\u201d This enigmatical utterance is in itself sufficient to start a\n\u201cwagging,\u201d but Patience evidently feels that the solution is beyond our\npowers: for she repeatedly asserts that the key to the mystery is within\nour reach if we could but grasp it. \u201cFleet as down blown from its\nmoorings, seeking the linnet who dropped her seed, so drift ye,\u201d she\nsays, \u201cever seeking, when at the root still rests the seed pod.\u201d And\nagain: \u201cKnowest thou that fair land to which the traveler is loath to\ngo, but loath, so loath, to leave? Ah, the mystery of the snail\u2019s shell\nis far deeper than this.\u201d\n\nYet she tells us again and again that Nature itself is the proof of\nanother life. \u201cWhy live,\u201d she asks, \u201cthe paltry span of years allotted\nthee, in desolation, while all about thee are His promises? Thou art,\nindeed, like a withered hand that holds a new-blown rose.\u201d The truth,\nshe says, is not to be found in \u201cbooks of wordy filling,\u201d but in the\ninfant\u2019s smile and in the myriad creations and resurrections that are\never within our cognizance. \u201cI pipe of learning,\u201d she cries, \u201cand fall\nsilent before the fool who singeth his folly lay.\u201d\n\nThe natural evidences she points out are visible to all and within the\ncomprehension of the feeblest intelligence, but he whose vision is\nobscured by book knowledge \u201cis like unto the monk who prays within his\ncell, unheedful of the timid sunbeam who would light the page his wisdom\nso befogs.\u201d \u201cAh!\u201d she exclaims, \u201cthe labor set thee to unlearn thine\ninborn fancies!\u201d meaning, apparently, the suppression of the intuitions\nof immortality; and in the same line of thought she cries: \u201cAm I then\ndrunkened on the chaff of knowledge supped by mine elderborn? Nay, my\nforefolk drank not truth, but sent through my veins acoursing, chaff,\nchaff, naught by chaff.\u201d Plainly, then, Patience has no great respect\nfor learning, and it is the book of Nature rather than the book of words\nthat she would have us read.\n\n          I made a song from the dead notes of His birds,\n          And wove a wreath of withered lily buds,\n          And gathered daisies that the sun had scorched,\n          And plucked a rose the riotous wind had torn,\n          And stolen clover flowers, down-trodden by the kine,\n          And fashioned into ropes and tied with yellow reed,\n          An offering unto Him: and lo, the dust\n          Of crumbling blossoms fell to bloom again,\n          And smiled like sickened children,\n          Wistfully, but strong of faith that mother-stalk\n          Would send fresh blossoms in the spring.\n\nSo it is she sings, presenting the symbolisms of nature to illustrate\nthe renewal or the continuance of life; or again, she likens life to the\nseasons (as did Shakespeare and Keats, and many another poet) in this\nmanner:\n\n           My youth is promising as spring,\n           And verdant as young weeds,\n           Whose very impudence taketh them\n           Where bloom the garden\u2019s treasures.\n           My midlife, like the summer, who blazeth\n           As a fire of blasting heat, fed by withered\n           Crumbling weeds of my spring.\n           My sunset, like the fall who ripeneth\n           The season\u2019s offerings. And hoar frost\n           Is my winter night, fraught with borrowed warmth,\n           And flowers, and filled with weeds,\n           Which spring e\u2019en \u2019neath the frozen waste?\n           Ah, is the winter then my season\u2019s close?\n           Or will I pin a faith to hope and look\n           Again for spring, who lives eternal in my soul?\n\nFaith is the keynote of many of her songs, the faith that grows out of\nthat profound love which is the essential principle of the religion she\npresents. The triumph of faith she expresses in the poem which follows:\n\n         O sea! The panting bosom of the Earth;\n         The sighing, singing carol of her heart!\n         I watch thee and I dream a dream\n         Whose fruit doth sicken me.\n         White sails do fleck thy sheen, and yonder moon\n         Doth seem to dip thy depths\n         And sail the silver mirror, high above.\n         Unharbored do I rove. Along the shore behind,\n         The shadow of Tomorrow creepeth on.\n         A seething silvered path doth stretch thy length,\n         To meet the curving cheek of Lady Moon.\n         I dream the flutt\u2019ring waves to fanning wings\n         And fain would follow in their course. But stay!\n         My barque doth plow anew, and set the wings to flight;\n         For though I watch their tremorous mass, my craft\n         But saileth harbor-loosed, and ever stretcheth far\n         Beyond the moon\u2019s own phantom path\u2014\n         And I but dream a dream whose fruit doth sicken me.\n         Ah, Sea! who planted thee, and cast\n         A silver purse, unloosed, upon thy breast?\n         My barque, who then did harbor it,\n         And who unfurled its sail?\n         And yonder moon, from whence her silver coaxed?\n         Methinks my dream doth wax her wroth,\n         Else why the pallor o\u2019er her cast?\n         Dare I to sail, to steer me at the wheel?\n         Shall I then hide my face and cease my murmuring,\n         O\u2019erfearful lest I find the port?\n         Nay, I do know thee, Lord, and fearless sail me on,\n         To harbor then at dawning of new day.\n         I stand unfearful at the prow.\n         At anchor rests my barque. Away, thou phantom Moon,\n         And restless, seething path!\n         My chart I cast unto the sea,\n         For I do know Thee, Lord!\n\nThis triumph of faith is also the theme of the weird allegory which\nfollows. It is, perhaps, the most mystical of Patience\u2019s productions.\n\n\n                      THE PHANTOM AND THE DREAMER\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Thick stands the hill in garb of fir,\n           And winter-stripped the branching shrub.\n           Cold gray the sky, and glistered o\u2019er\n           With star-dust pulsing tremorously.\n\n           Snow, the lady of the Winter Knight,\n           Hath danced her weary and fallen to her rest.\n           She lieth stretched in purity\n           And dimpled \u2019neath the trees.\n           A trackless waste doth lie from hill\n           To valley \u2019neath, and Winter\u2019s Knight\n           Doth sing a wooing lay unto his love.\n\n           Cot on cot doth stand deserted,\n           And thro\u2019 the purpled dark they show\n           Like phantoms of a life long passed\n           To nothingness. Hear thou the hollowness\n           Of the sea\u2019s coughing beat against\n           The cliff beneath, and harken ye\n           To the silence of the valley there.\n           Doth chafe ye of thy loneliness?\n           Then sleep and let me put a dream to thee.\n\n                                       See ye the cot\u2014\n           A speck o\u2019 dark adown the hillside,\n           And sheltered o\u2019er with fir-bows,\n           Heavy-laden with the kiss of Lady Snow?\n           Come hither then. Let\u2019s bruise this snowy breast,\n           And fetch us there unto its door.\n                                       See! Here a twig\n           Hath battled with the wind, and lost.\n           We then may cast it \u2019mid its brothers\n           Of the bush and plow us on.\n           Look ye to the thick thatch\n           O\u2019er the gable of the roof,\n           Piled higher with a blanketing of snow;\n           And shutters hang agape, to rattle\n           Like the cackle of a crone.\n           The blackness of a pit within,\n           And filled with sounds that tho\u2019 they be\n           But seasoning of the log, doth freeze\n           Thy marrowmeat. I feel the quake\n           And shake thee for thy fear.\n\n           Stride thou within and set a flint to brush\n           Within the chimney-place. We then shall rouse\n           The memory of the tenant here\u2014\n           A night, my friend, thee\u2019lt often call to mind.\n           The flame hath sprung and lappeth at the twigs.\n           Thee\u2019lt watch the burning of thy hastiness,\n           And wait thee long\n           Until the embers slip away to smoke.\n           Then strain ye to its weaving\n           And spell to me the reading of its folds.\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           I see thin, threading lines that writhe them\n           To a shape\u2014a visage ever changeful,\n           Or mine eyes do play me false,\n           For it doth smile to twist it to a leer,\n           And sadden but to laugh in mockery.\n           I see a lad whose face\n           Doth shine illumed, and he doth bear\n           The kiss of wisdom on his brow.\n           I see him travail \u2019neath a weary load,\n           And close beside him Wisdom follows on.\n           Burdened not is he. Do I see aright?\n           For still the light of wisdom shineth o\u2019er.\n           But stay! What! Do mine eyes then cheat?\n           This twisting smoke-wreath\n           Filleth all too much my sight!\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Nay, friend, strain thee now anew.\n           The lad! Now canst thou see?\n           Nay, for like to him\n           Thou hast looked thee at the face of Doubt.\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           Who art thou, shape or phantom, then,\n           That thou canst set my dream to flight?\n           I doubt me that the lad could stand\n           Beneath the load!\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Nay, thee canst ravel well, my friend.\n           The lad was thee, and Doubt\n           O\u2019ertook with Wisdom on thy way.\n           Come, bury Doubt aneath the ash.\n           We travel us anew.\n           Seest thou, a rimming moon doth show\n           From \u2019neath the world\u2019s beshadowed side.\n           A night bird chatteth to its mate,\n           And lazily the fir-boughs wave.\n           We track us to the cot whose roof\n           Doth sag\u2014and why thy shambling tread?\n           I bid ye on!\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           Who art thou\u2014again I that demand\u2014\n           That I shall follow at thy bidding?\n           Who set me then this task?\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Step thou within!\n           Stand thee on the thresh of this roofless void!\n           Look thou! Dost see the maid\n           Who coyly stretcheth forth her hand\n           To welcome thee? She biddeth thee\n           To sit and sup. I bid thee speak.\n           Awaken thee unto her welcoming.\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           Enough! This fancy-breeding sickeneth\n           My very soul! A skeleton of murdered trees,\n           Ribbed with pine and shanked of birch!\n           And thee wouldst bid me then\n           Embrace the emptiness.\n           I see naught, and believe but what I see.\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Look thou again, and strain.\n           What seest thou?\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           I see a newly kindled fire,\n           And watch its burning glow until\n           The embers die and send their ghosts aloft.\n           But ash remaineth\u2014and I chill!\n           For rising there, a shape\n           Whose visage twisteth drunkenly,\n           And from her garments falls a dust of ash.\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Doubt! Unburied, friende! We journey on,\n           And mark ye well each plodding footfall\n           Singing like to golden metal with the frost.\n           The night a scroll of white, and lined\n           With blackish script\u2014\n           The lines of His own putting!\n           Read thee there! Thou seest naught,\n           And believe but what ye see!\n           Stark nakedness and waste\u2014but hearken ye!\n           The frost skirt traileth o\u2019er the crusted snow\n           And singeth young leaves\u2019 songs of Spring.\n\n           Still art thou blind!\n           But at His touching shall the darkness bud\n           And bloom to rosy morn. And even now,\n           Were I to snap a twig \u2019twould bleed and die.\n           See ye; \u2019tis done! Look ye!\n           Ye believe but what ye see:\n           Here within thy very hand\n           Thou holdest Doubt\u2019s undoing.\n           I bid ye look upon the bud\n           Already gathered \u2019neath the tender bark.\n           The sun\u2019s set and rise hath coaxed it forth.\n           Thee canst see the rogue hath stolen red\n           And put it to its heart. And here\n           Aneath the snow the grass doth love the earth\n           And nestles to her breast.\n           I stand me here, and lo, the Spring hath broke!\n           The dark doth slip away to hide,\n           And flowering, singing, sighing, loving Spring\n           Is here!\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           Aye, thou art indeed\n           A wonder-worker in the night!\n           A black pall, a freezing blast,\n           An unbroken path\u2014and thou\n           Wouldst have me then to prate o\u2019 Spring,\n           And pluck a bud where dark doth hide the bush!\n           Who cometh from the thicket higher there?\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           \u2019Tis Doubt to meet thee, friend!\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           Who art thou? I fain would flee,\n           And yet I fear to leave lest I be lost.\n           I hate thee and thy weary task!\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           Nay, brother, thy lips do spell,\n           But couldst thee read their words aright\n           Thee wouldst meet again with Doubt.\n           Come! We journey on unto the cot\n           Beloved the most by me. I bid thee\n           Let thy heart to warm within thy breast.\n           A thawing melteth frozen Hope.\n           See how, below, the sea hath veiled\n           Her secret held so close,\n           And murmured only to the winds\n           Who woo her ever and anon.\n           The waves do lap them, hungry for the sands.\n           Careful! Lest the sun\u2019s pale rise\n           Should blind thee with its light.\n           A shaft to put it through\n           The darkness of thy soul must needs\n           But be a glimmering to blind.\n           Step ye to the hearthstone then,\n           And set thee there a flame anew.\n           I bid ye read again\n           The folding of the smoke.\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           \u2019Tis done, thou fiend!\n           A pretty play for fools, indeed.\n           I swear me that \u2019tis not\n           For loving of the task I builded it,\n           But for the warming of its glow.\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           In truth ye speak. But read!\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           I see a hag whose brow\n           Doth wrinkle like a summer sea.\n           For do I look unto the sea\n           At Beauty\u2019s own fair form,\n           It writheth to a twisted shape,\n           And I do doubt me of her loveliness.\n           The haggard visage of the crone\n           I now behold, doth set me doubting\n           Of mine eye, for dimples seem\n           To flutter \u2019neath the wrinkled cheek.\n\n           _Phantom:_\n           So, then, thee believest\n           But what thine eyes behold!\n           Thee findest then\n           Thy seeing in a sorry plight.\n           I marvel at thy wisdom, lad.\n           Look ye anew. Mayhap thee then\n           Canst coax the crone away.\n\n           _Dreamer:_\n           Enough! The morn hath kissed the night adieu,\n           And even while I prate\n           A redwing crimsoneth the snow in flight.\n           Kindled tinder smoldereth away,\n           And I do strain me to its fold.\n           I glut me of the loveliness I there behold,\n           For from the writhing stream a sprite is born\n           Whose beauteous form bedazzles me,\n           And she doth point me\n           To the golding gray of morn. The sea\n           Is singing, singing her unto my soul.\n           I dreamed she sighed, but waked to hear her sing.\n           I hear thee, Phantom, bidding me on, on!\n           But morn hath stolen dreams away.\n           I strain me to the hills to trace our path,\n           And lo, unbroken is the snow,\n           And cots have melted with the light,\n           And yet, methinks a murmuring doth come\n           From out the echoes of the night,\n           That hid them \u2019neath the crannies of the hills.\n           Life! Life! I lead thee on!\n           And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!\n\n                               EPILOGUE.\n\n           Thick stands the hill in garb of fir and snow.\n           The Lady of the Winter\u2019s Knight hath danced\n           Her weary, and stretched her in her purity,\n           To cover aching wounds of Winter\u2019s overloving woo.\n\n                  *       *       *       *       *\n\n\u201cAnd faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt!\u201d plainly meaning an\nactive doubt that searches for the truth and finds it. But she\npersonifies Doubt in another and more forbidding form in this:\n\n         Like to a thief who wrappeth him\n         Within the night-tide\u2019s robe,\n         So standeth the specter o\u2019 the Earth;\n         Yea, he doth robe him o\u2019 the Earth\u2019s fair store.\n         Yea, he decketh in the star-hung purple o\u2019 the eve,\n         And reacheth from out the night unto the morn,\n         And wringeth from her waking all her gold,\n         And at his touching, lo, the stars are dust,\n         And morn\u2019s gold but heat\u2019s glow, and ne\u2019er\n         The golden blush of His own metal store.\n\n               Yea, he strideth then\n         Upon the flower-hung couches of the field,\n         And traileth him thereon his robe,\n         And lo, the flowers do die of thirst\n         And parch of scoarching of his breath.\n         Yea, and \u2019mid the musics of the earth he strideth him,\n         And full-songed throats are mute.\n         Yea, music dieth of his luring glance.\n         And e\u2019en the love of earth he seeketh out\n         And turneth it unto a folly-play.\n         Yea, beneath his glance, the fairy frost\n         Upon the love sprite\u2019s wing\n         Doth flutter, as a dust, and drop, and leave\n         But bruised and broken bearers for His store.\n\n               Yea, and \u2019mid man\u2019s day he ever strideth him\n         And layeth low man\u2019s reasoning. His robes\n         Are hung of all the earth\u2019s most loved.\n         From off the flowers their fresh; from off the day\n         The fairness of her hours. For dark, and hid\n         Beneath his cloak, he steppeth ever,\n         And doth hiss his name to thee\u2014\n         Doubt.\n\nI have said that the message of Patience Worth contained a revelation, a\nreligion and a promise. The revelation is too obvious to need a pointer.\nIn the preceding chapter were presented the elements of the religion\nthat she reveals, with which should be included the unfaltering faith\nexpressed in these poems. Love and Faith\u2014these are the two Graces upon\nwhom, to personify them, all her work is rested, and from them spring\nthe promise she conveys. That promise has to do with the hereafter, and\nPatience knows the human attitude in relation to that universal problem,\nand she gives courage to the shrinking heart in this poem on the fear of\ndeath:\n\n        I stride abroad before my brothers like a roaring lion,\n        Yet at even\u2019s close from whence cometh the icy hand\n        That clutcheth at my heart and maketh me afraid\u2014\n        The slipping of myself away, I know not whither?\n            And lo, I fall atremble.\n        When I would grasp a straw, \u2019tis then I find it not.\n        Can I then trust me on this journey lone\n        To country I deem peopled, but know not?\n        My very heart declareth faith, yet hath not thine\n        Been touched and chilled by this same phantom?\n        Ah, through the granite sips the lichen\u2014\n        And hast thou not a long dark journey made?\n        Why fear? As cloud wreaths fade\n        From spring\u2019s warm smile, so shall fear\n        Be put to flight by faith.\n\n        I pluck me buds of varied hue and choose the violet\n        To weave a garland for my loved and best.\n        I search for bloom among the rocks\n            And find but feathery plume.\n        I weave, and lo, the blossoms fade\n            Before I reach the end,\n        And faded lie amid my tears\u2014\n            And yet I weave and weave.\n        I search for jewels \u2019neath the earth,\n            And find them at the dawn,\n        Besprinkled o\u2019er the rose and leaf,\n        And showered by the sparrow\u2019s wing,\n        Who seeketh \u2019mid the dew-wet vine\n            A harbor for her home.\n        I search for truth along the way\n            And find but dust and web,\n        And in the smile of infant lips\n            I know myself betrayed.\n        I watch the swallow skim across the blue\n            To homelands of the South,\n        And ah, the gnawing at my heart doth cease;\n            For how he wings and wings\n        To lands he deemeth peopled by his brothers,\n        Whose song he hears in flight!\n        Not skimming on the lake\u2019s fair breast is he,\n        But winging on and on,\n        And dim against the feathery cloud\n            He fades into the blue.\n        I stand with withered blossoms crushed,\n            And weave and weave and weave.\n\nThis is Patience\u2019s answer to the eternal question:\n\n                Can I then trust me on this journey lone\n                To country I deem peopled, but know not?\n\nIt is the cry of him who believes and yet doubts, and Patience points to\nthe swallow winging across the blue \u201cto lands he deemeth peopled with\nhis brothers\u201d who have gone on before. In imagination he can hear their\nsong in the home lands of the South, and though he cannot see them, and\ncannot have had word from them, he knows they are there, and he does not\nskim uncertainly about the lake, but with unfaltering faith \u201cwings him\non and on\u201d until\u2014\n\n                     Dim against the feathery cloud\n                     He fades into the blue.\n\nBut Patience does not content herself with appeals to faith, eloquent as\nthey may be. While her communications are always clothed in figures of\nspeech, they are sometimes more definite in statement than in the lines\nwhich have been thus far presented. In the prose poem which follows, she\nasks and answers the question in a way that can leave no doubt of her\nmeaning:\n\n    \u201cShall I arise and know thee, brother, when like a bubble I am blown\n    into Eternity from this pipe of clay? Or shall I burst and float my\n    atoms in a joyous spray at the first beholding of this home prepared\n    for thee and me, and shall we together mingle our joys in one\n    supreme joy in Him? It matters not, beloved, so comfort thee. For\n    should the blowing be the end, what then? Hath not thy pack been\n    full, and mine? We are o\u2019erweary with the work of living, and\n    sinking to oblivion would be rest. Yet sure as sun shall rise, my\n    dust shall be unloosed, and blow into new fields of new days. I see\n    full fields yet to be harvested, and I am weary. I see fresh\n    business of living, work yet to be done, and I am weary. Oh, let me\n    fold these tired hands and sleep. Beloved, I trust, and expect my\n    trust, for ne\u2019er yet did He fail.\u201d\n\nShe puts this into the mouth of one who lives, but it is not merely an\nexpression of faith; it is a positive assertion. \u201cYet sure as sun shall\nrise, my dust shall be unloosed, and blow into new fields of new days.\u201d\n\n                             --------------\n\nAnd again she sings:\n\n            What carest, dear, should sorrow trace\n            Where dimples sat, and should\n            Her dove-gray cloud to settle \u2019neath thine eye?\n            The withering of thy curving cheek\n            Bespeaks the spending of thy heart.\n            Lips once full are bruised\n            By biting of restraint. Wax wiser, dear.\n            To wane is but to rest and rise once more.\n\nOr she puts the thought in another form in this assurance:\n\n                Weary not, O brother!\n                \u2019Tis apaled, the sun\u2019s gold sink.\n                Then weary not, but set thy path to end,\n                E\u2019en as the light doth fade and leave\n                Nay trace to mar the night\u2019s dark tide.\n                Sink thou, then, as doth the sun,\n                Assured that thou shalt rise!\n\n                             --------------\n\nAll these, however, are but preparatory to the communication in which\nshe asserts not only the actuality of the future life but something of\nthe nature of it. One might say that the preceding poems and\nprose-poems, taken alone and without regard to the mystery of their\nsource, were merely expressions of belief, but in this communication she\nseems to speak with knowledge, seems even to have overstepped the bounds\nwithin which, she has often asserted, she is held. \u201cMy lips be\nastopped,\u201d she has said in answer to a request for information of this\nforbidden character, but here she appears to have been permitted to give\na glimpse of the unknown, and to present a promise of universal\napplication. This poem, from the spiritual standpoint, is the most\nremarkable of all her productions.\n\n          How have I caught at fleeting joys\n          And swifter fleeting sorrows!\n          And days and nights, and morns and eves,\n          And seasons, too, aslipping thro\u2019 the years, afleet.\n          And whither hath their trend then led?\n          Ah, whither!\n\n          How do I to stop amid the very pulse o\u2019 life.\n          Afeared! Yea, fear clutcheth at my very heart!\n          For what? The night? Nay, night doth shimmer\n          And flash the jewels I did count\n          E\u2019er fear had stricken me.\n\n          The morn? Nay, I waked with morn atremor,\n          And know the day-tide\u2019s every hour.\n          How do I then to clutch me\n          At my heart, afeared?\n          The morrow? Nay,\n          The morrow but bringeth old loves\n          And hopes anew.\n\n          Ah, woe is me, \u2019tis emptiness, aye, naught\u2014\n          The bottomlessness o\u2019 the pit that doth afright!\n          Afeared? Aye, but driven fearless on!\n\n          What! Promise ye \u2019tis to mart I plod?\n          What! Promise ye new joys?\n          Ah, but should I sleep, to waken me\n          To joys I ne\u2019er had supped!\n\n          I see me stand abashed and timid,\n          As a child who cast a toy beloved,\n          For bauble that but caught the eye\n          And left the heart ahungered.\n\n          What! Should I search in vain\n          To find a sorrow that had fleeted hence\n          Afore my coming and found it not?\n          Ah, me, the emptiness!\n\n          And what! should joys that but a prick\n          Of gladness dealt, and teased my hours\n          To happiness, be lost amid this promised bliss?\n          Nay, I clutch me to my heart\n          In fear, in truth!\n\n          Do harken Ye! And cast afearing\n          To the wiles of beating gales and wooing breeze.\n          I find me throat aswell and voice attuned.\n          Ah, let me then to sing, for joy consumeth me!\n          I\u2019ve builded me a land, my mart,\n          And fear hath slipped away to leave me sing.\n\n          I sleep, and feel afloating.\n          Whither! Whither! To wake,\u2014\n          And wonder warmeth at my heart,\n          I\u2019ve waked in yester-year!\n\n          What! Ye? And what! I\u2019st thou?\n          Ah, have I then slept, to dream? Come,\n          Ne\u2019er a dream-wraith looked me such a welcoming!\n          \u2019Twas yesterday this hand wert then afold,\n          And now,\u2014ah, do I dream?\n          \u2019Tis warm-pressed within mine own!\n          Dreams! Dreams! And yet, we\u2019ve met afore!\n\n          I see me flitting thro\u2019 this vale,\n          And tho\u2019 I strive to spell\n          The mountain\u2019s height and valley\u2019s depth,\n          I do but fall afail.\n          Wouldst thou then drink a potion\n          Were I to offer thee an empty cup?\n          Couldst thou to pluck the rainbow from the sky?\n          As well, then, might I spell to thee.\n\n          But I do promise at the waking,\n          Old joys, and sorrows ripened to a mellow heart.\n          And e\u2019en the crime-stained wretch, abasked in light,\n          Shall cast his seed and spring afruit!\n\n          Then do I cease to clutch the emptiness\n          And sleep, and sleep me unafeared!\n\nWhat is it that affrights, she asks, when we think of death? It is the\nemptiness, she answers, the utter lack of knowledge of what lies beyond.\nAnd if we waken to \u201cjoys we ne\u2019er have supped\u201d\u2014using the word sup in the\nsense of to taste or to know\u2014what is there to attract us in the\nprospect? It is an illustration she presents of our attitude toward\npromises of joys with which we are unfamiliar; and which therefore do\nnot greatly interest us\u2014the child who casts aside a well beloved toy\n\u201cfor bauble that but caught the eye and left the heart ahungered.\u201d Shall\nthe joys, she makes us exclaim, which we have known here but barely\ntasted in this fleeting life, \u201cbe lost amid this promised bliss!\u201d and\nshall we \u201csearch in vain to find a sorrow that had fleeted hence before\nour coming?\u201d\u2014meaning, apparently, shall we look there in vain for a\nloved one who has gone before? She answers these questions of the heart.\nPersonality persists beyond the grave, she gives us plainly to\nunderstand. We take with us all of ourselves but the material elements.\n\u201cThou art ye,\u201d she has said, \u201cand I be me and ye be ye, aye, ever so.\u201d\nThe transition is but a change from the material to the spiritual. We\n\u201cwake in yesteryear,\u201d she says,\u2014amid the friends and associations of the\npast; and the joys of that life, one must infer, are the spiritual joys\nof this one, the joy that comes from love, from good deeds, from work\naccomplished. For it is quite evident that she would have us believe\nthat there is a continuous advancement in that other life.\n\n          And e\u2019en the crime-stained wretch, abasked in light,\n          Shall cast his seed and spring afruit.\n\nThis can mean nothing else than that the hardened sinner, amid supernal\ninfluences, shall develop into something higher, and as no one can be\nsupposed to be perfect when leaving earth, it follows that progress is\ncommon to all. Progress implies effort, and this indicates that there\nwill be something for everyone to do\u2014a view quite different from the\nmonotony of eternal idleness.\n\n            But this I promise at the waking,\n            Old joys, and sorrows ripened to a mellow heart.\n\nTo those who would peer into the other land these are perhaps the most\nimportant lines she has given. But what does she mean by \u201csorrows\nripened to a mellow heart?\u201d She was asked to make that plainer and she\nsaid:\n\n\u201cThat that hath flitted hence be sorrows of earth, and ahere be ripened\nand thine. Love alost be sorrow of earth and dwell ahere.\u201d\n\nShe thus makes these lines an answer to the question put before:\n\n                What! Should I search in vain\n                To find a sorrow that had fleeted hence\n                Afore my coming and found it not?\n\nThese are the sorrows that are \u201cripened to a mellow heart,\u201d and she was\nasked if there were new sorrows to be borne in that other life. She\nreplied:\n\n    \u201cNay. Earth be a home of sorrow\u2019s dream. For sorrow be but dream of\n    the soul asleep. \u2019Tis wake (death) that setteth free.\u201d\n\nAnd after such assurance comes the cry of faith and content and peace:\n\n                Then do I cease to clutch the emptiness,\n                And sleep, and sleep me unafeared!\n\nWith this comforting assurance in mind one may cheerfully approach her\nsolemn address to Death:\n\n                Who art thou,\n                Who tracketh \u2019pon the path o\u2019 me\u2014\n                O\u2019 each turn, aye, and track?\n\n                Thou! And thou astand!\n                And o\u2019er thy face a cloud,\n                Aye, a darked and somber cloud!\n                Who art thou,\n                Thou tracker \u2019mid the day\u2019s bright,\n                And \u2019mid the night\u2019s deep;\n                E\u2019en when I be astopped o\u2019 track?\n\n                Who art thou,\n                That toucheth o\u2019 the flesh o\u2019 me,\n                And sendeth chill unto the heart o\u2019 me?\n                Aye, and who art thou,\n                Who putteth forth thy hand\n                And setteth at alow the hopes o\u2019 me?\n\n                Aye, who art thou,\n                Who bideth ever \u2019mid a dream?\n                Aye, and that the soul o\u2019 me\n                Doth shrink at know?\n\n                Who art thou? Who art thou,\n                Who steppeth ever to my day,\n                And blotteth o\u2019 the sun away?\n\n                Who art thou,\n                Who stepped to Earth at birth o\u2019 me,\n                And e\u2019en \u2019mid wail o\u2019 weak,\n                Aye, at the birth o\u2019 wail,\n                Did set a chill \u2019pon infant flesh;\n                And at the track o\u2019 man \u2019pon Earth\n                Doth follow ever, and at height afollow,\n                And doth touch,\n                And all doth crumble to a naught.\n                Thou! Thou! Who art thou?\n                Ever do I to ask, and ever wish\n                To see the face o\u2019 thee,\n                And ne\u2019er, ne\u2019er do I to know thee\u2014\n                Thou, the Traveler \u2019pon the path o\u2019 me.\n                And, Brother, thou dost give\n                That which world doth hold\n                From see o\u2019 me!\n\n                Stand thou! Stand thou!\n                And draw thy cloak from o\u2019er thy face!\n                Ever hath the dread o\u2019 thee\n                Clutched at the heart o\u2019 me.\n                Aye, and at the end o\u2019 journey,\n                I beseech thee,\n                Cast thy cloak and show thee me!\n                Aye, show thee me!\n\n                Ah, thou art the gift o\u2019 Him!\n                The Key to There! The Love o\u2019 Earth!\n                Aye, and Hate hath made o\u2019 man\n                To know thee not\u2014\n                Thou! Thou! O Death!\n\nShe finds Death terrible from the human point of view, and reveals him\nat the end as \u201cthe gift of Him, the Key to There!\u201d\n\nOne of her constant objects seems to be to rob death of its terrors, and\nto bring the \u201cThere\u201d into closer and more intimate connection with us.\nHere is another effort:\n\n        Spring\u2019s morn afulled o\u2019 merry-song,\n        Aye, and tickle o\u2019 streams-thread through Summer\u2019s noon;\n\n        Arock o\u2019 hum o\u2019 hearts-throb,\n        And danced awhite the air at scorch;\n\n        Winter\u2019s rage asing o\u2019 cold\n        And wail o\u2019 Winter\u2019s sorry at the Summer\u2019s leave;\n\n        Ashivered breeze, abear o\u2019 leaf\u2019s rustling\n        At dry o\u2019 season\u2019s ripe;\n\n        Night\u2019s deep, where sound astarteth silence;\n        Morn\u2019s sweet, awooed by bird\u2019s coax.\n\n        Earth\u2019s sounds, ye deem?\n        I tell thee \u2019tis but the echoing o\u2019 Here.\n\n        Thy days be naught\n        Save coax o\u2019 Here athere!\n\nAll that is worth while on earth is but the echoes of Heaven, and there\nwould be nothing to life but for the joys that have been \u201ccoaxed\u201d from\nthere. How closely that thought unites the here and the there. Earth\nsounds but the echoes of the other land adjoining! She makes it\nsomething tangible, something almost material, something we may nearly\ncomprehend; and then, having opened the door a little way, as far, no\ndoubt, as it is possible for her to do, she presents this response to\nhuman desires, this promise of joys to come:\n\n         Swift as light-flash o\u2019 storm, swift, swift,\n         Would I send the wish o\u2019 thine asearch.\n         Swift, swift as bruise o\u2019 swallows\u2019 wing \u2019pon air,\n         I\u2019d send asearch thy wish, areach to lands unseen;\n         I\u2019d send aback o\u2019 answer laden.\n         Swift, swift, would I to flee unto the Naught\n         Thou knowest as the Here.\n         Swift, swift I\u2019d bear aback to thee\n         What thou wouldst seek. Swift, swift,\n         Would I to bear aback to thee.\n\n         Dost deem the path ahid doth lead to naught?\n         Dost deem thy footfall leadest thee to nothingness?\n         Dost pin not \u2019pon His word o\u2019 promising,\n         And art at sorry and afear to follow Him?\n         I\u2019d put athin thy cup a sweet, a pledge o\u2019 love\u2019s-buy.\n         I\u2019d send aback a glad-song o\u2019 this land.\n         Sing thou, sing on, though thou art ne\u2019er aheard\u2014\n         Like love awaked, the joy o\u2019 breath\n         Anew born o\u2019 His loving.\n         Set thee at rest, and trod the path unfearing.\n         For He who putteth joy to earth, aplanted joy\n         Athin the reach o\u2019 thee, e\u2019en through\n         The dark o\u2019 path at end o\u2019 journey.\n         His smile! His word! His loving!\n         Put forth thy hand at glad, and I do promise thee\n         That Joy o\u2019 earth asupped shall fall as naught,\n         And thou shalt sup thee deep o\u2019 joys,\n         O\u2019 Bearer, aye, and Source; and like glad light o\u2019 day\n         And sweet o\u2019 love, thy coming here shall be!\n\nWith this promise, this covenant, we bring the narrative of Patience to\nan end. There will be many and widely varied views of the nature of this\nintelligence, but surely there can be but one opinion of the beauty of\nher words and the purity of her purpose. She has brought a message of\nlove at a time when the world is sadly deficient in that attribute,\nwisely believed to be the best thing in earth or heaven; and an\ninspiration to faith that was never so greatly in need of strength as\nnow. An inevitable consequence of the world-war will be a universal\nintrospection. There will be a great turning of thought to serious\nthings. That tendency is already discernible. May it not be possible\nthat it is the mission of Patience Worth to answer the question that is\nabove all questions at a time when humanity is filled with\ninterrogation?\n\n\n\n\n                                 FINIS.\n\n\n\n\n                                 INDEX\n\n\n \u00a0Affection, 46\n \u00a0Allegory, on faith (verse), 255-266\n \u00a0Anatomist. _See_ Teacher of anatomy\n \u00a0Anglo-Saxon, 104\n \u00a0Anne, 145, 146\n \u00a0Ape, 112, 117\n \u00a0Aphorisms, 19\n \u00a0Attunement, 203\n \u00a0Autumn (verse), 82, 83, 84\n\n \u00a0B., Mrs., 182\n \u00a0Babe, parable of a, 168\n \u00a0Bartman, parable of a, 165\n \u00a0Basketmaker, parable of the, 167\n \u00a0Beppo, 112\n \u00a0Birth of a Song (verse), 86, 87\n \u00a0Blank verse, 21, 64, 107\n \u00a0Book learning, 251\n \u00a0Books, 60\n \u00a0Botanist. _See_ Teacher of botany\n \u00a0Brew, 185\n  \u201cBuilder of dreams\u201d (verse), 85, 86\n \u00a0Burke, 89\n\n \u00a0Capital punishment, 217\n \u00a0Carrington, W. T., quoted, 6\n \u00a0Charlie, Prince, 145, 146\n \u00a0Childhood, tone of, 51\n \u00a0Christ, 122\n     Attitude toward, 244\n \u00a0Christmas (verse), 99\n \u00a0Christmas story, 122, 123-141\n \u00a0Cloak, parable of the, 171\n \u00a0Cockshut, 57\n \u00a0Communications, character, 32, 202, 203\n     Genuineness, 33, 39, 41\n     Intellectual character 9, 11\n     Method, 187\n \u00a0Compliments, 49\n \u00a0Composition, method, 66, 67, 80, 164, 185\n \u00a0Conversations, character, 173, 174\n      Substance in her words, 211\n \u00a0Cup, 224, 225\n \u00a0Curran, John H., 53, 178, 199\n  Curran, Mrs. John H., 3, 4, 14, 31, 41, 45, 46, 182, 187, 188, 189,\n     201, 205\n      Education, 34\n      Sittings, 35, 36\n\n \u00a0D., Dr. and Mrs., 207-212\n \u00a0Day, p\u00e6an to the (verse), 84\n \u00a0Death, fear of, 196\n \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Fear of (verse), 267-269\n     Life following, 79\n     robbed of terrors, 281\n     Solemn address to (verse), 279-281\n \u00a0Devotional verse, 97\n \u00a0Divinity of the human, 245\n \u00a0Doubt (verse), 265\n \u00a0Dougal, 145, 146\n \u00a0Drama, 109\n     Six-act medieval play described, 142\n \u00a0Dress, references to, 52, 56, 192\n \u00a0Dreams. _See_ \u201cBuilder of dreams\u201d\n     _See_ Phantom _also_\n \u00a0Dreamer (verse), 72, 73\n\n \u00a0Earth questions, reasoning upon, 217\n \u00a0Eastern morn, 144, 145\n \u00a0England, 15, 33, 149\n     Northern, 60\n \u00a0Epigrams. _See_ Aphorisms\n \u00a0Ermaline, Princess, 145, 146\n\n \u00a0Failures in life, 227\n \u00a0Fairy\u2019s wand, parable of, 168\n \u00a0Faith, allegory on (verse), 255-266\n     Triumph of (verse), 253-266\n \u00a0Femininity, 42, 52\n \u00a0Flesh. _See_ Soul\n \u00a0Folly, 221, 222\n \u00a0Fool, 112\n \u00a0Fool and the Lady, The (story), 109, 111-121\n \u00a0Franco, 151\n \u00a0Friendship (verse), 96\n \u00a0Fun-loving spirit, 53\n \u00a0Future. _See_ Immortality\n\n \u00a0G., Miss, 207\n \u00a0G., Mr., 208\n \u00a0G., Mrs., 207\n \u00a0God, 226\n     Identity with, 242\n     Love for (verse), 237-239\n     Song of, 193\n\n  \u201cHands\u201d (verse), 233\n \u00a0Harp (verse), 86, 87\n \u00a0Herbs, story of the, 212-215\n \u00a0Holmes, John Haynes, quoted, 10\n \u00a0Hours of day (verse), 215\n \u00a0Housekeeping, 42\n \u00a0Humor, 31\n     in verse, 74, 75, 76\n \u00a0Hutchings, Mr., 53\n \u00a0Hutchings, Mrs. Emily Grant, 4, 44, 188\n\n \u00a0Imagery, 72, 78\n \u00a0Immortality, growth, 277\n     Mystery, 249, 250\n     Nature, 272\n     Reality, 247\n     Recognition of friends, 270, 276\n \u00a0Impatience, 45, 46\n \u00a0Individuality, 41\n \u00a0Infancy, 92, 94\n \u00a0Inn of Falcon Feather, 111\n\n \u00a0J., Miss, 189, 192, 193\n \u00a0James, Wm., 199, 200\n \u00a0Jana, 127\n \u00a0Jane-o\u2019-apes, 58, 131\n \u00a0John the Peaceful, 122, 123, 132\n \u00a0Joy, promise of future, 283-284\n\n \u00a0K., Dr., 195, 199\n \u00a0King of Wisdom, 221\n \u00a0Kirtle, 55, 56\n\n \u00a0Language, 13, 56, 104, 149, 150, 153, 164, 189\n \u00a0Laughter, 168\n \u00a0Leaf, fallen (verse), 82\n \u00a0Leta, 124\n \u00a0Life for a life, 218\n \u00a0Life likened to the seasons (verse), 252\n \u00a0Lisa, 109, 112\n \u00a0Literature, 223, 224\n \u00a0Love, childhood, 51\n     Divine (verse), 235, 236\n     for Christ, 244\n     for the loveless (verse), 226\n     for the wearied (verse), 227\n     Friendly, 96\n     God\u2019s (verse), 97\n     Man and woman (verse), 94\n     maternal, 92, 94\n     Religious, 226\n     Song, \u201cDrink ye unto me,\u201d 180\n     to God (verse), 237-239\n     Universal, 234\n \u201cLoves of yester\u2019s day\u201d (verse), 88\n \u00a0Lullaby, 64, example, 68\n     Spinning Wheel, 69\n\n \u00a0M., Mr. and Mrs., 207-210\n \u00a0Marion, 153\n \u00a0Mary, the Virgin, 245\n \u00a0Marye, Lady, 122, 123\n \u00a0Massinger, 58\n \u00a0Maxims. _See_ Aphorisms\n \u00a0Men, attitude toward, 49\n \u00a0Men and women, 94\n \u00a0Merchants, parable of, 166\n \u00a0Message, 224\n \u00a0Metaphor, borrowed, 78, 79\n \u00a0Metaphysics, 29\n \u00a0Mise-man song, 179\n \u00a0Mission, 284\n \u00a0Mite and the Seeds, tale of the, 176-178\n \u00a0Musician, 208\n\n \u00a0Nature, Love of, 25, 79\n     Value of, 251\n \u00a0Neurologist, 204\n \u00a0New England, 15, 33\n \u00a0New Year (verse), 101\n \u00a0Newspaper article, 215\n \u00a0Newspaper writer, 189\n\n \u00a0Ouija board, 1, 5, 65, 187\n\n \u00a0P., Dr., 204-207\n \u00a0Parables, 165\n     Story of the herbs, 212-215\n \u00a0Personality, 59\n \u00a0Pettieskirt, 52, 54, 56, 154, 186, 205\n \u00a0Phantom and the Dreamer, The (verse), 255-266\n \u00a0Physicians, 204\n \u00a0Physician, conversation with a young, 16\n     Description, 50\n \u00a0Poetry. _See_ Songs; Verse\n \u00a0Pollard, Mrs. Mary E., 5, 43, 44\n \u00a0Prayers, Character, 239, 243\n     Examples (verse), 239-244\n  \u201cPrimrose path,\u201d 77, 78\n \u00a0Prose, 107\n \u00a0Psychic communications. _See_ Communications\n \u00a0Puritan, 55, 59, 69, 192\n  \u201cPut,\u201d 186-189\n\n \u00a0R., Dr., 204-207\n \u00a0Records of communications, character, 3\n \u00a0Regal, 123\n \u00a0Religion, 223, 226\n \u00a0Revelation, 225, 226\n \u00a0Rhyme, 21, 64\n \u00a0Rhythm, 107\n\n \u00a0Sarcasm, 49\n \u00a0Scottish, 60\n \u00a0Seed, 224, 225\n \u00a0Seeds. _See_ Mite and the Seeds\n \u00a0Self, 221, 222\n \u00a0Shakespeare, 57, 77, 104\n \u00a0Shelley, 90, 105\n \u00a0Simplicity, 104, 105\n \u00a0Sittings, character, 18, 35\n \u00a0Skylark (verse), 89\n \u00a0Society for Psychical Research, 223\n \u00a0Song, birth of a (verse), 86, 87\n \u00a0Songs, 173\n     \u201cDo I love the morn?\u201d 215\n     \u201cDrink ye unto me,\u201d 180\n     \u201cGone, gone,\u201d 198\n     \u201cHow have I sought!\u201d 203\n     \u201cLoth as Night,\u201d 211\n     Mise-man, 179\n     To Miss J., 193\n     To Mr. G., a musician, 208\n \u00a0Sorrow, comfort for, 231\n  \u201cSorrows ripened to a mellow heart,\u201d 275, 278\n \u00a0Soul, 190\n     Body and, 218\n \u00a0Spelling, 66\n \u00a0Spinning, 206\n \u00a0Spinning Wheel (verse), 69\n \u00a0Spinster, 49, 69\n \u00a0Spirituality, 24, 152\n \u00a0Spring (verse), 81\n \u00a0Stories, 108\n     Character, 185\n     Dramatic character, 109\n \u00a0Story of Telka, described, 149\n  \u201cStory of the Judge Bush,\u201d 153-163\n \u00a0Stranger, The (story), 108, 122, 123-141\n \u00a0Subconsciousness, 34, 35\n\n \u00a0Teacher of anatomy, 182, 190\n \u00a0Teacher of botany, 183\n \u00a0Telka, 149, 150\n \u00a0Theater, 53\n \u00a0Throb, 202\n \u00a0Timon, 124\n \u00a0Tina, 124\n \u00a0Tonio, 113\n \u00a0Tournament, 114\n \u00a0Tricksters, 208\n \u00a0Triviality, 10\n \u00a0Truth, 182\n\n \u00a0V., Dr., 195-201\n \u00a0Verse, 21\n     Dictation, manner, 65\n     Range, 63\n     Technique, 65, 81\n \u00a0Virgin Mary, 245\n\n \u00a0W., Dr., 176, 178\n \u00a0W., Mrs., 176, 178, 182\n \u00a0War, 284\n \u00a0War (verse), 91\n  \u201cWaste of earth\u201d (verse), 228-231\n \u00a0Wasted words, 243\n \u00a0Wearied ones, 227\n  \u201cWeaving,\u201d 175\n \u00a0Widow, visitor at the Currans, 217, 218\n \u00a0Wind (verse), 75\n \u00a0Winter (verse), 79, 80\n \u00a0Wisdom, 222\n \u00a0Wit, 18, 19\n \u00a0Worth, Patience, advent, 2;\n     affection, 46;\n     appearance, 207;\n     book learning, 60;\n     date, 37, 197;\n     elusiveness, 60;\n     femininity, 42, 52;\n     fun-loving spirit, 53;\n     impatience, 45, 46;\n     individuality, 41;\n     laughter, love of, 168;\n     love her inspiration, 234;\n     men, attitude toward, 49;\n     message, 224;\n     mission, 284, 285;\n     obscurity, 199;\n     on being investigated, 196;\n     personality, 12, 59, 220, 224;\n     phrases, striking, 40;\n     place, 38;\n     revelation, 226;\n     sarcasm, 49;\n     speech, 39, 56, 104, 149, 150, 153, 164, 189;\n     spinster, 49, 69;\n     substance in her words, 211\n\n \u00a0X., Dr., 182-195, 204\n \u00a0X., Mrs., 182, 183\n\n \u00a0Z., Dr., 187-189\n\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n\u201cAn Authentic Original Voice in Literature.\u201d\u2014_The Atlantic Monthly._\n\n                              ROBERT FROST\n                         The New American Poet\n\n                            NORTH OF BOSTON\n\n_Alice Brown_:\n\n\u201cMr. Frost has done truer work about New England than anybody\u2014except\nMiss Wilkins.\u201d\n\n_New York Evening Sun_:\n\n\u201cThe poet had the insight to trust the people with the book of the\npeople and the people replied \u2018Man, what is your name?\u2019... He forsakes\nutterly the claptrap of pastoral song, classical or modern.... His is\nsoil stuff, not mock bucolics.\u201d\n\n_Boston Transcript_:\n\n\u201cThe first poet for half a century to express New England life\ncompletely with a fresh, original and appealing way of his own.\u201d\n\n_Brooklyn Daily Eagle_:\n\n\u201cThe more you read the more you are held, and when you return a few days\nlater to look up some passage that has followed you about, the better\nyou find the meat under the simple unpretentious form. _The London\nTimes_ caught that quality when it said: \u2018Poetry burns up out of it, as\nwhen a faint wind breathes upon smouldering embers.\u2019... That is\nprecisely the effect....\u201d\n\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\nA BOY\u2019S WILL\u00a0\u00a0 Mr. Frost\u2019s First Volume of Poetry\n\n_The Academy_ (_London_):\n\n\u201cWe have read every line with that amazement and delight which are too\nseldom evoked by books of modern verse.\u201d\n\n             _NORTH OF BOSTON._         _Cloth. $2.35 net._\n             _NORTH OF BOSTON._       _Leather. $2.00 net._\n             _A BOY\u2019S WILL._         _Cloth. 75 cents net._\n\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n                          =_JEAN-CHRISTOPHE_=\n\n                         =_By ROMAIN ROLLAND_=\n\nTranslated from the French by GILBERT CANNAN. In three volumes, each\n$1.50 net.\n\nThis great trilogy, the life story of a musician, at first the sensation\nof musical circles in Paris, has come to be one of the most discussed\nbooks among literary circles in France, England and America.\n\nEach volume of the American edition has its own individual interest, can\nbe understood without the other, and comes to a definite conclusion.\n\n_The three volumes with the titles of the French volumes included are:_\n\n                           =JEAN-CHRISTOPHE=\n                       Dawn\u2014Morning\u2014Youth\u2014Revolt\n\n                       =JEAN-CHRISTOPHE IN PARIS=\n                 The Market Place\u2014Antoinette\u2014The House\n\n                    =JEAN-CHRISTOPHE: JOURNEY\u2019S END=\n           Love and Friendship\u2014The Burning Bush\u2014The New Dawn\n\n                       _Some Noteworthy Comments_\n\n\u201c\u2018Hats off, gentlemen\u2014a genius.\u2019... One may mention \u2018Jean-Christophe\u2019 in\nthe same breath with Balzac\u2019s \u2018Lost Illusions\u2019; it is as big as that....\nIt is moderate praise to call it with Edmund Gosse \u2019the noblest work of\nfiction of the twentieth century.\u2019... A book as big, as elemental, as\noriginal as though the art of fiction began today.... We have nothing\ncomparable in English literature....\u201d\u2014_Springfield Republican._\n\n\u201cIf a man wishes to understand those devious currents which make up the\ngreat, changing sea of modern life, there is hardly a single book more\nillustrative, more informing and more inspiring.\u201d\u2014_Current Opinion._\n\n\u201cMust rank as one of the very few important works of fiction of the last\ndecade. A vital compelling work. We who love it feel that it will\nlive.\u201d\u2014_Independent._\n\n\u201cThe most momentous novel that has come to us from France, or from any\nother European country, in a decade.\u201d\u2014_Boston Transcript._\n\n_A 32-page booklet about Romain Rolland and Jean-Christophe, with\nportraits and complete reviews, on request._\n\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n                       =_THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE_=\n\n\u201cA collection so complete and distinguished that it is difficult to find\nany other approaching it sufficiently for comparison.\u201d\u2014_N. Y. Times Book\nReview._\n\n                    Compiled by BURTON E. STEVENSON\n\nCollects the best short poetry of the English language\u2014not only the\npoetry everybody says is good, but also the verses that everybody reads.\n(_3742 pages, India paper, complete author, title and first line\nindices._)\n\nThe most comprehensive and representative collection of American and\nEnglish poetry ever published, including 3,120 unabridged poems from\nsome 1,100 authors.\n\nIt brings together in one volume the best short poetry of the English\nlanguage from the time of Spencer, with especial attention to American\nverse.\n\nThe copyright deadline has been passed, and some three hundred recent\nauthors are included, very few of whom appear in any other general\nanthology, such as Lionel Johnson, Noyes, Housman, Mrs. Meynell, Yeats,\nDobson, Lang, Watson, Wilde, Francis Thompson, Gilder, Le Gallienne, Van\nDyke, Woodberry, Riley, etc., etc.\n\nThe poems as arranged by subject, and the classification is unusually\nclose and searching. Some of the most comprehensive sections are:\nChildren\u2019s rhymes (300 pages); love poems (800 pages); nature poetry\n(400 pages); humorous verse (500 pages); patriotic and historical poems\n(600 pages); reflective and descriptive poetry (400 pages). No other\ncollection contains so many popular favorites and fugitive verses.\n\n                         _India Paper Editions_\n\n           _Cloth, one volume, $7.50 net._\n           _Cloth, two volumes, $10.00 net._\n           _Half Morocco, one volume, $12.50 net._\n           _Three-quarters Morocco, two volumes, $18.00 net._\n\n              _EIGHT VOLUME EDITION ON REGULAR BOOK PAPER.\n                   SOLD IN SETS ONLY. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0$12.00 NET._\n\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n=MASON\u2019S HYPNOTISM AND SUGGESTION in Therapeutics Education, and\nReform.= 344 pp. 12mo. $1.50.\n\n           =2d Impression= of a popular yet scientific work.\n\n    _Book Buyer_: \u201cThe tone of Dr. Mason\u2019s book could not be better....\n    The statements of a modest, earnest, candid man of science, who is\n    not thinking of himself, but who, through facts, is seeking after\n    law and through law, for the newer therapeutics, the wider\n    education, the nobler living.\u201d\n\n    _N. Y. Herald_: \u201cWritten by a practising physician, who finds an\n    incidental interest in the scientific study of an important subject.\n    Dr. Mason does not seek to astonish you with the record of hypnotic\n    marvels performed by himself. He deprecates the sensational ways in\n    which hypnotism has been exploited by the periodicals and the press,\n    so that the unlearned and unstable have been duped into all sorts of\n    extravagant ideas as to its possibilities.\u201d\n\n    _Public Opinion_: \u201cA model of simplicity and common sense. The book\n    gives a clear idea of the meaning of hypnotism and suggestion in a\n    scientific sense, but it is to be more highly valued for its\n    exposition of the utilities (and illustrations) of these agents of\n    reform and therapeutics. The chapter concerning \u2018Rapport\u2019 is to be\n    especially recommended to those who find in the phenomena of\n    subconsciousness support for supernatural and spiritistic theories.\u201d\n\n    _Chicago Evening Post_: \u201cHe discusses the question with earnestness,\n    candor and many illustrations.... He says many things that are\n    sensible and suggestive.\u201d\n\n    _Churchman_: \u201cThe book has a very practical value, and considerable\n    ethical significance.\u201d\n\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n\n=MASON\u2019S TELEPATHY AND THE SUBLIMINAL SELF.= Treating of Hypnotism,\nAutomatism, Dreams, and Phantasms.\n\n=5th Impression.= 343 pp. 12mo. $1.50.\n\n    _Boston Transcript_: \u201cHe repudiates the idea of the supernatural\n    altogether, and in this he is in accord with the best thought of the\n    day.... Interesting and logical.\u201d\n\n    _N. Y. Times_: \u201cThe curious matter he treats about he presents in an\n    interesting manner.\u201d\n\n    _Outlook_: \u201cWill have many readers.... A not inconsiderable\n    contribution to psychical research.\u201d\n\n    _Chicago Tribune_: \u201cCertain to attract wide attention; ...\n    thoroughly interesting.... The spirit of his work is such as to\n    deserve respectful attention from every scientific mind.\u201d\n\n                           _HENRY HOLT & CO._\n                     29 West 23d Street\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 New York\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                          Transcriber's Notes\n\n Generally, older or dialectual spellings were left unchanged.\n A couple of obviously needed typographical changes were made.\n\n In addition:\n \u00a0\u00a0On page 231 \"thorn\u00e9d\" was changed to \"thorn\u00e8d\"\n \u00a0\u00a0In the Index page \"365\" for 'Doubt' was changed to page \"265\".","title":"Patience Worth: A Psychic Mystery","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":49563}