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 I BY PATRICE OLIVER^, | 
 

 •!••••••••••• ••••••••• 
 
 DAY 
 
 • • • • J— <! ^y^ • • • • 
 
 • • • • 1 J X. • • • • 
 
 DAY 
 
 •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••a 
 
 BY 
 
 PATRICE 
 
 OLIVER 
 
 1917 Hillcrest Road 
 
 Hollywood 
 
 Cal. 
 
 •••••••••••••••••••«!• 
 
 PUBLISHED AND 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 
 THE ROYCROFTERS 
 
 EAST AURORA 
 
 N. Y. 
 
 '••••••••{•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••a* »••!•••«••••' 
 
 •:!' 
 
^ 
 
 
 Copyright 1918 
 By Patrice Oliver 
 
 ^ 23 /9/g 
 
 ©CU499240 
 
.•••• \ •• 
 
 
 C THE verses in this 
 book are taken from the 
 Diary of a little thirteen- 
 year-old girl who came 
 to California from Ire- 
 land. Each poem is a 
 record of an important 
 event &+ $** *•> *^ 
 
 : ; •• . < 
 
MAY 1st 
 
 Spring is here. The Yuccas are in 
 bloom on the hills. 
 
The Yucca 
 
 N a mountain- side a Yucca grew, 
 And gently in the breeze it blew ; 
 Its graceful bells had come forth 
 anew, 
 
 At this time of year there were very few. 
 Tall and stately and costly rare 
 Was the presence of this flower fair. 
 Every blossom of this flower, 
 A dewdrop had taken for its bower. 
 The blossoms were waiting for the sun to see, 
 To open, and let the dewdrop free. 
 The dewdrops fall on the things around, 
 They freshen the leaves, and moisten the 
 
 ground ; 
 And this is why the hill is fair 
 When you find the Yucca growing there. 
 
 .•••••. .••••■ 
 
 •••• •• •• • •• • •• • •••• 
 
MAY 7th 
 
 I never heard a cuckoo here, but I 
 used to hear them in Ireland. Is n't the 
 cuckoo a wise bird? She makes 
 somebody else do all her house- 
 keeping. 
 
Call of The Cuckoo 
 
 CROSS the meadows, and by the 
 
 waterfall, 
 Echoing through the forest, I hear 
 
 a call. 
 
 Carried on breezes across the heathery hill, 
 From afar it comes, the cool air to fill. 
 Enchantingly clear it calls — cuckoo, cuckoo — 
 Across the mountain and stream it comes to 
 
 greet you. 
 It tells of summer and the scent of flowers, 
 Of buttercups waked by April showers, 
 Of the sun ashine on a sky of blue ; 
 And the call is gay and always true 
 As it comes from afar over hill and vale, 
 Telling with joy its lovely tale. 
 
 •>?<• 
 
 ;..• "•• 
 
MAY 14th 
 
 I don't think California is old enough 
 to have fairies, but there are lots in 
 Ireland — real ones. 
 
Fairies 
 
 ANCING where the sun is shining, 
 Dancing where the leaves aresighing, 
 Dancing on the water's spray, 
 Dancing lightly all the day. 
 
 Playing with a drop of dew, 
 Softly singing songs I hear you; 
 Fairies dressed in gold and green, 
 You in flowers I have seen. 
 
 A fairy ringing lily bells 
 
 A little story softly tells, 
 
 Of how to love the flowers sweet 
 
 And the dew that kissed your feet. 
 
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MAY 28th 
 
 Uncle Harold has a little white lilac 
 tree in his garden. He gave me some 
 to-day. 
 
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JUNE 1st 
 
 We have some Jessamine growing 
 up our house. There is one star out 
 to-day. 
 
To the Jessamine 
 
 IKE^the'morning star blooms a flower 
 
 fair, 
 No other blossom with this can 
 
 compare, 
 Its starry petals it opens wide, 
 And within its bright eye doth abide. 
 It smiles at any passer-by 
 And sweetly up at the bright blue sky. 
 Its smile with you will always stay, 
 And will greet you sweetly every day. 
 For this bright star will always shine, 
 And its name is Jessamine. 
 
 
 It 
 
 .it 
 
 
JUNE 7th 
 
 Roses everywhere! 
 
The Roses 
 
 WO rose trees in a garden grew, 
 Their graceful leaves in the soft wind 
 
 blew, 
 Each bore a bud, one red, one 
 white, — 
 Both were fair in the sun's gold light. 
 
 They had been set against a wall 
 Of stony gray, and very tall. 
 Each was trying with all its might, 
 Before the other to reach the height. 
 
 Slowly they climbed in sun and rain, 
 Striving with all their might and main. 
 At last the top the red rose gained, 
 For the soft white rose in cold had waned. 
 
 Proudly she tossed her pretty head, 
 Waving her petals, velvet red. 
 Haughty she gazed from her seat so high, 
 And smiled at the breezes gliding by. 
 
 A daisy below, in a grassy bed, 
 
 Looked up at the rose, and smiling said, 
 
 " From the top of that stony wall 
 
 Some day you 're sure to fall. 
 
 For at such a height, you can't keep steady, 
 
 But as for me, I 'm here already." 
 
JUNE 14th 
 
 There are no skylarks in this country, 
 I am sorry because I am very fond 
 of them. They are my favorite birds. 
 
The Skylark 
 
 HEN the golden sun is waking, 
 And the morning dew is shaking 
 On the lily cups and cowslips fair, 
 Swayed by gentle zephyrs rare, 
 
 Look to the gray sky, and, O hark! 
 
 To the voice of the blithe Skylark. 
 
 The very clouds it soars above, 
 Singing its song of joy and love. 
 Like a gold spot in a cloudy bed, 
 With the morning sun behind its head. 
 So look at the sky and, O hark! 
 To the voice of the blithe Skylark. 
 
 It knows the glory of the morn, 
 The falling dew is its rising horn, 
 No one can tell the joy it feels, 
 As with its song the heart it heals. 
 So look to the sky and, O hark! 
 To the voice of the blithe Skylark. 
 
 :••.....•, 
 
 •••: 
 
 r A ••: 
 
 
 
 
 :..• 
 
 •••••■ 
 
 •..: 
 
JUNE 21st 
 
 I saw some Forget-me-nots to-day. 
 
The Forget-Me-Not 
 
 LUE as the sky on a summer's day, 
 Green are its leaves as the month of 
 
 May; 
 Sweet is its scent as it fills the air, 
 Turning its face to the sun's gold glare. 
 Sweetly it sings as it sways in its spot, 
 11 Oh, forget me not, forget me not." 
 
 It sings so sweetly the whole day long, 
 
 And this is part of its little song. 
 
 " Oh, come and pick me, come and pick me, 
 
 And from this ground, oh, set me free ; 
 
 Among other flowers have you forgot 
 
 The poor little blue Forget-me-not? " 
 
 "Oh, here some one comes, stepping so light 
 
 Her hair is black as starry night. 
 
 Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are blue, 
 
 Her lips rosy red, and she is true. 
 
 For she has come, and has not forgot 
 
 The poor little blue Forget-me-not." 
 
 \ • • •* 
 
JUNE 28th 
 
 I saw on the placards to-day "Home 
 Rule for Ireland at last " / So I 
 wrote a poem about it. If it is n't 
 true this must just be a prophecy. 
 
Ireland 
 
 IKE a gem in the ocean, a green Isle 
 
 doth lie, 
 You could ne'er find one like it, far 
 
 away or near by. 
 O'er flowery meadows there you wander, 
 By blue shining lakes, there you ponder ; 
 Sweet is the odor of the cooling breeze, 
 Green are the leaves of the swaying trees. 
 There you find gardens so fair 
 That have ne'er known a care : 
 And there a home finds sweet love, 
 And there her nest makes the dove. 
 For the sun has risen and shines bright on the 
 
 Isle, 
 And over and done with, is its hard trial. 
 And like one long summer's day 
 Now this green Isle will stay. 
 
 •!*• .••*••• •••*••• _•••*••• ••••••>» £k 
 
 / \ 
 
 
JULY 1st 
 
 Summer has come. It is very warm. 
 
Summer 
 
 UMMER, clad in robes of pink and 
 white, 
 
 Dances o'er the meadows with a 
 footstep light, 
 Lifts the cloudy veil from the sun's bright face, 
 And away the dreary rain doth chase. 
 She kisses the flower-buds with her rosy lips 
 And into the dew her white feet dips. 
 She dances and sings the whole day long, 
 Of life and joy is her gladsome song. 
 Her voice can be heard over land and sea 
 And whoever hears, feels happy and free. 
 
 But when Autumn comes, and the brown leaves 
 
 fall, 
 And the wind gently sways the poplars tall, 
 She lies down on the ground with a gentle sigh 
 And the whispering brook is her lullaby. 
 But you need not sigh when Autumn comes 
 And the busy bee no longer hums, 
 For she sleeps through long Autumn, Winter 
 
 and Spring, 
 But rises again when the robins sing. 
 
JULY 7th 
 
 This is the day to think of a waterfall 
 
The Waterfall 
 
 HINING in the sun all day, 
 Cooling flowers with its spray, 
 Over rocks and stones a-leaping, 
 Through the grass and leaves a- 
 peeping, 
 Down a mountain dashed a waterfall — 
 Listening to the birds that call 
 And answering them, with a laugh or a song. 
 Through the night that 's short and the day 
 
 that 's long, 
 If you follow it to its very end, 
 You will find through fields and meadows it 
 
 doth wend, 
 Till at last it floweth into the sea, 
 There forever it dances, happy and free. 
 And that is why it hurries so, 
 For into the sea it longs to flow. 
 
 • »•• • *•« 
 
JULY 14th 
 
 And Lough Ree in Ireland. 
 
Where the Shamrocks 
 Sweetly Blow 
 
 HERE the flowers always bloom 
 And the birds are singing soon, 
 Where the breeze is always cool, 
 And the iris by the pool — 
 
 There my heart will always stray, 
 
 By the lakes far, far away. 
 
 Where the stream will always flow 
 And the shamrocks sweetly blow, 
 Where the fairies dance by night, 
 In the silvery moonlight, — 
 In that vale my heart will stray 
 By the lakes far, far away. 
 
 !»• ... • • .... \ ••: 
 
 • •••••• j 
 
 •••• 
 
JULY 21st 
 
 And the Bog where I went in my 
 bare feet, and gathered the bog- 
 cotton to put in a locket. Bog-cotton 
 is very pretty. Canawan is the Irish 
 name for it. I wanted to learn Irish 
 before I came out here but I could n't 
 find anybody to teach me. 
 
The Canawan 
 
 N the bog where rise the mists 
 And the parting sunbeam lists, 
 And where beauty always dwells, 
 y And the bird its story tells, 
 When all the flowers are faded and gone, 
 Still grows the Irish Canawan. 
 
 Irish Canawan, dhas! 
 Blooming in the leaves and grass, 
 
 1 can see you on the bog 
 Swaying in the dew and fog, 
 As the love in my heart for you, 
 Little Canawan, is true. 
 
 :••• 
 
 .••••« 
 
 •••: 
 
 
 a 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 :.•• 
 
 *•..: 
 
JULY 24th 
 
 This is the sort of house I intend to 
 have some day. 
 
The House at the Bog-Side 
 
 LITTLE house at the bog- side, 
 With a little garden around, 
 Where trees and bright flowers abide, 
 And the voice of the skylarks sound. 
 
 There in the house at the bog -side, 
 With the little garden around, 
 Midst the trees and flowers that bide, 
 A maiden with blue eyes I found. 
 
 Clear through the house at the bog-side, 
 Through the little garden around, 
 Where trees, and bright flowers abide, 
 The voice of a maiden doth sound. 
 
 There in the house at the bog -side, 
 In the little garden around, 
 With maiden, and flowers that bide, 
 The love of my heart I have wound. 
 
 •-•v «.••::•• 
 
 
JULY 28th 
 
 I am writing a Lullaby to send home 
 to a little baby — 
 
A Lullaby 
 
 LEEP — sleep — for night is here ; 
 The flowers close their petals dear, 
 In the forest the soft wind blows, 
 In the sky the bright moon glows. 
 Close your eyes in slumber sweet, 
 In your sleep a dream you '11 meet. 
 
 Softly — softly — gentle Sleep 
 
 From the forest dark doth creep, 
 
 Holding in her hands for you 
 
 A little, happy dream or two. 
 
 So sleep — sleep — for night is here; 
 
 Close your eyes in slumber dear. 
 
 X 
 
AUG. 1st 
 
 It must be nice to be a shepherd. 
 
The Shepherd 
 
 HEN the gold sun rises o'er the hills 
 The shepherd's clear note the cool 
 
 air fills ; 
 Coming up from the shady vale, 
 Tripping along by blossoms frail. 
 
 All day he wanders o'er hill and plain, 
 Softly whistling through sun and rain, 
 Guiding his herd to a sparkling stream 
 Or leading them safe to pastures green. 
 
 And then at eve or at fall of night, 
 
 When the evening star sheds its tiny light — 
 
 When the flowers close and the birds cease to 
 
 roam, — 
 With a song he brings them safely home. 
 
 »••••••••••••», 
 
 .•••••. .•••••..*&. 
 
 A. 
 
AUG. 7th 
 
 Maev asked me to go and hear her 
 play the organ to-day. 
 
Music 
 
 gay, 
 
 WEET, soft music, as gentle as 
 
 falling dew, 
 It is not in banquet halls I seek you; 
 Nor in the brightly lighted ballroom 
 
 Nor do I search for you on a sunny day, 
 
 In dark churches where the organist doth play. 
 
 But I wander over shining hills and vales, 
 
 By lakes and trees and flowery dales. 
 
 For there is music in the rustling of the leaves, 
 
 There is gentle music in the soft and cooling 
 
 breeze, 
 Music murmurs in the humming of the bees. 
 There is music in the splashing of the seas, 
 There is music by the laughing fountain fair, 
 There is soft, sweet and gentle music there. 
 
 (J 
 
AUG. 14th 
 
 The Mimosa trees in our garden are 
 in flower. I wrote a poem to-day, 
 sitting in one of them. 
 
In the Mimosa Tree 
 
 ITTING in a cloud of gold, 
 With soft leaves that about me fold, 
 I sit on a bough of the Mimosa tree, 
 Swaying, swaying, soft and free. 
 
 Through the golden boughs I see to the west 
 The sun in its glory, going to rest. 
 Midst fairy-like clouds of orange and red, 
 I watch it slip into the sea to bed. 
 
 But my tree is the sun itself, 
 And in it I sway like a happy elf, 
 Till the cool purple fall of night ; 
 Sitting in the Sun's gold light. 
 
 • \ / 
 
 •\ V S> 
 
 •• •• •• ■ 
 
 • «• •« 
 
SEPT. 1st 
 
 Summer is supposed to be over. The 
 seasons get mixed up in this country, 
 but the trees seem to know autumn 
 is coming. 
 
The Call of the Wind 
 
 LITHESOME wind through the forest 
 
 blows, 
 Ruffling the stream that softly flows, 
 Calling aloud to the flutt'ring leaves ; 
 " Come, come! Leave your Mother Trees; 
 Come in the fields and dance away, 
 Come, little leaves, and with me play! " 
 
 Above, the sun gives a little smile, 
 
 The fleecy clouds laugh all the while, 
 
 And far down below sings the gladsome breeze 
 
 As it merrily, merrily turns the leaves — 
 
 " How happily we dance and blow: 
 
 Ah, the world is really not so slow! " 
 
 .••. „•••••. ,»••••• •••••% .•••••. ••: 
 
 •••• • •• • •• • •• * •••• 
 
 /y 
 
OCT. 1st 
 
 Autumn has come, and so has school. 
 
Autumn 
 
 HEN Autumn comes she tints the 
 
 land 
 Gold and red, with a gentle hand, 
 With a veil she covers the sky, 
 Singing, " Sleep, sleep, for Winter is nigh." 
 
 The petals of the lovely rose 
 Softly, gently and slowly close. 
 The Morning Glory shuts her eye, 
 But just to wake up by-and-by. 
 
 Then, when every flower sleeps, 
 One little blossom shyly peeps 
 And says, nodding her violet head, 
 " It 's not quite time to go to bed." 
 
 • •• • • • - w 
 
 • ••• • • ••• • 
 
 "•••...••* *• •** 
 
NOV. 1st 
 
 Soon it will be winter — / like 
 snowy winter — like this. 
 
Winter 
 
 ITH soft clouds the sky is gray 
 And the sun has sunk down far away, 
 Evening shadows steal o'er the land 
 And drops of dew on the flowers 
 stand. 
 
 Darker and darker the shadows grow, 
 Till through the clouds soft moonbeams show, 
 Then from above comes a snowflake band 
 To make the world like a fairyland. 
 
 Softly, softly, like fairies' feet 
 Against the window-pane they beat — 
 Draping the trees in tresses white, 
 Covering the ground with crystals bright. 
 
 And in their midst the snowflake s bring 
 Crowned with crystals, Jack Frost, their King 
 Who paints the windows, through the night, 
 Softly by the silvery light. 
 
 When the sun rises midst golden light, 
 To chase away the shades of night, 
 Jack Frost and his snowflake band 
 Have made the world like fairyland. 
 
Good-Night 
 
 IGHT and shadows coming, 
 Crickets softly humming, 
 Flowers slowly closing, 
 All in peace reposing. 
 
 Stars are softly twinkling, 
 Dew is gently sprinkling, 
 Moon is softly glowing, 
 Breezes softly blowing. 
 
 Peace alone is waking, 
 Love alone is quaking, 
 Dreams alone are peeping, 
 Through the eye-lids sleeping. 
 
 •:•• «•••••• ••••••• .»•••••• ••••••- ••!• 
 
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