Real and Dream maraaretS.&ncrsterJr Class Tdl)0^ / Book ^" ^ -"" Coppghtl^?. COPVRIGHT DEPOSIT. /r. MARGARET E. SANCSTER, Jr. REAL PEOPLE AND DREAMS A New Book of STORIES and POEMS MARGARET E^'^ANGSTER, Jr. THE CHRISTIAN HERALD BIBLE HOUSE NEW YORK -^6 3^37 M CoPYRiaHT, 1915 THE CHRISTIAN HERALD NEW YORK 5EC 20 1915 'GI.A416994 FOREWORD IT HAS been a great pleasure to me personally, as well as to many others, to note the remarkable success of Miss Sangster's first book, "Friends 0' Mine," issued a year ago. It was not merely that capable critics praised it as it de- served, and hailed the author as a new star in the galaxy of American poets. Her book struck a chord which evoked the surprise and admiration of all who were familiar with the literary life work of the famous predecessor whose name she bears — a name that was a literary landmark for a quarter of a century. Miss Sangster has a prolific and versatile gift. Her poems and stories deal with many phases of human life and char- acter and always uniquely and delightfully. In the present volume there is a revelation of new qualities which I believe will assure it an enthusiastic reception. Many of the poems are especially fine, and deal with the old, sweet, familiar themes in a way that cannot fail to win a still higher place in the affections of the Christian Herald readers, for whom it has been especially written. GEO. H. SANDISON, Editor of The Christian Herald. NOTE "The City Streets at Night" was originally published by the "Newspaper Feature Serv- ice." I wish to thank the editor for allowing me to reprint it in this volume. DEDICATION TO MY FRIENDS — WHOEVER THEY ARE, WHEREVER THEY ARE. CONTENTS— PROSE TITLE PAGE The Story of a Smile 23 The Little Girl at Home 28 The Old China Plate 41 The City Streets at Night 45 The Lincoln Spirit 46 The Voice of Valley Forge 56 In the Dark 60 The Search for Happiness 73 A Bit o' Shamrock 77 An Easter Fable 89 The Joy of Easter 95 The Kind Conductor 105 In the Apple Tree 108 House Cleaning 122 The Mold of Heroines 125 A Nation's Birthday 136 The Girl Who Came Back 140 The Things That are Hard to Get 162 God's Children 166 The Garden Spot 169 A Mince Pie Thanksgiving 179 Count Your Blessings 183 The Fable of the Poison Ivy 196 Love of People 200 See Something Beautiful 202 The Miracle of the Swamp 214 On Counting Chickens 217 Convict No. 66 219 The Lonely Lady's Chi-istmas Story 227 The Great Gift 231 11 CONTENTS— VERSE TITLE PAGE Sunshine 15 The King 16 The Autumn Road 17 An Old Valentine 19 An Evening Prayer 20 "If Music Be the Food of Love" 21 The Mother 22 A New Year's Vision 35 Power 36 When Betty Smiles 37 The Sword's Fate 38 The Presence 39 The Bread Line 40 Remember 49 The Rain 50 Egypt— Then and Now 51 Your Laughter 53 The Fable of the Three Elms 54 A Prayer 64 A Song 65 The Broken Promise 66 The Madonna of the Street 67 The Doorway of the Old Home 71 The Indian Chief's Love Song 81 Luck 82 Bundle Day 83 Down the Hudson in a Storm 84 The Right to Play 87 Love-At First Sight 88 Moonlight 99 Why, You Know ! 100 Black 101 "Lo, I am With You Alway" 103 Vacation Days 104 The Night Ride 114 The Shame of It 115 To a Silent Maa 117 12 CONTENTS— VERSE— Continued TITLE PAGE Idyl US Life's Song 119 Unknown 121 God's Little Cross 129 Loneliness 130 The Deserted Mill 131 That Night 132 The Birthright 133 Christianity 134 Jimmy Nealan's Sacrifice 152 Pasture Land 158 A Poor Man's Love Letter 159 The Worid of Sand 160 When Night Comes 161 Children's Day 172 A Greeting 174 Your Soul 175 Where Jesus Walked 176 My Castle in Spain 177 A Lullaby 178 Turkeys in the Summertime 190 Thanksgiving' 191 "Oh ! East is East-" 192 Typewriter Soldiers 193 That's Heaven 195 Reading at Twilight 206 The Dead Flower 207 A Golden Wedding 209 Kindness 210 To a Lion in a Zoo 211 Mists o' the Sea 213 A Thorny Rose 221 Harvest Gold 222 Fragments 223 "If" 224 A Mother's Prayer at Christmas 225 Christmas Eve 235 Santa Claus' Dilemma 236 Waiting 239 The Christmas Streets 240 Christmas 242 Sunset 244 13 ILLUSTRATIONS TITLE PAGE Margaret E. Sangster, Jr Frontispiece The 'Lopement 65 The Rooster 81 When Molly Feeds the Ducks 145 Geese 161 14 SUNSHINE Sunshine in the morning! Eosy gleams of day, That push the clouds asunder, Like fairies come to stay. Sunshine in the morning When all the world is young, When life is all before us And songs are all unsung! Sunshine in the morning — God grant the day be fair! And may there be a murmur. Through all of it, of prayer. Sunshine in the morning. When songs are all unsung; When life is all before us. And all the world is young. 15 16 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE KING "God and my king !" the soldier cried, And, leaping past the trenches, died; And all across the bloody land, Men fought with sword, and gun, and hand. And over fields of grain there blew A cloud of smoke — Where poppies grew, A redder, grimmer blossom swayed — While children screamed, and women prayed. "God and my king!" the soldier cried. And little dreamed that close beside The throne, a man with saddened eyes. Was gazing, hopeless, at the skies, While up above the heavens grim. The eyes of God were watching him; And that the angel's tears were shed, Above the harvest of the dead. "God and my king!" the soldier cried, And, leaping past the trenches, died — But as he passed he raised his head. And — "God alone is Icing!" he said. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 17 THE AUTUMN ROAD Down the road where the dust lies white. Sunbeams dance and my heart is light; O'er my head gleams a sky of blue, God's own angels are smiling through ; All of life is agleam and bright, Down the road where the dust lies white. Down the road where the leaves blow down. Glowing jewels from the autumn's crown; Fairies call and their voices stray Light as foam on the glowing way. Scarlet, yellow and sombre brown — Down the road where the leaves blow down. Down the road where the sky lines meet, White with clouds at my very feet. Breezes sing of a life of play. Sing of worlds that are far away. Ah ! the tale that they croon is sweet, Down the road where the sky lines meet. Down the road by the laughing stream All the tints of the rainbows gleam; Golden flowers with waving heads. Flaming orange and throbbing reds. Asters grouped in a purple dream, Down the road by the laughing stream. Down the road where the sunbeams creep, Past the crest of the hill to sleep, 18 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Birds are breathing their twilight call — Peace of God is around us all. Sweet content in my heart lies deep, Down the road where the sunbeams creep. Down the road at the close of day Man- wrought buildings are far away; All the fears of a crowded earth Slip away in a tender mirth; God has meant that His children stray Down the road at the close of day. Down the road where the shadows fall Grey as ghosts on the old stone wall, Memories stand, and their faces fair Turn my way, and they murmur "Where?" Love and sorrow, beyond recall. Stand and smile when the shadows fall. Down the road where the dust lies white. Slow I walk, but my heart is light — Smallest blossom and highest tree Bend to pray — and are one with me. Night is coming, a perfect night, Down the road where the dust lies white. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 19 AN OLD VALENTINE I wandered to an attic where lacy cobwebs swayed, Where sunbeams, dusty golden, were dancing as they strayed ; And as I crossed the threshold with footsteps soft and slow, I felt the hidden presence of ghosts of long ago. I saw a wooden chest there with rusty lock and key, And when I knelt before it my dreaming eyes could see Initials twined together and carving almost hid By scratches, deeply graven upon the polished lid, I knelt beside it, silent, and opened it with care; I felt as if some girl-soul were standing by me there; For dainty garments whispered, and perfumed laces sung Of morning and of springtime, when all the world was young. I saw a folded paper, all yellow with the years. Perhaps the print of kisses, perhaps the mark of tears Had touched it once — for, fastened with bow of faded blue, It whispered through the ages a message," "I love you !" I laid it gently from me and closed the chest with care, And breathing through the stillness I heard behind me there A murmur — half a love word, and half, perhaps, a sigh — The phantom of a heart-beat of many years gone by. 30 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS AN EVENING PRAYER God, who shaped the mountains high, Who made the fields, the grassy plain, Who sent the breeze, the gentle rain. Who filled with blue the peaceful sky, Oh, let thy healing Spirit lie Within our hearts. We feel thy care; We know that thou art everywhere. To keep our souls from sin and stain. God, hear our cry! Thy sheep are grazing on the green; They have no cares they would release; The very shadows on their fleece Are violet-tinted, and the scene Is beautiful, and calm, and clean. They do not worry, do not pine, Because they are so wholly thine. We beg a vestige of their peace. On thee we lean! God of the mountains, of the sheep. Watch gently o'er our evening sleep. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 21 IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE" "If music be the food of love, play on — " And oh, I've played; With crashing chords and tender songs, My fingers light have strayed Across the keys, and all the time, My heart has echoed high; The notes that I have played — and felt — Until above the sky, My melody has flown on wings, And reached the gates of glory. And all the universe has sung, An echo to my story. ****** If music were forgetfulness — my hands Would play until I, wearied, fell asleep, Until the darkness of the midnight skies. My watch would keep. If music were forgetfulness, my song Would ring across the weary wind-swept earth, Until the love songs died to whispers sweet; And only laughter lived, and ringing mirth My heart would happy be, no sorrows keen Would touch my smiles, my eyes would not be wet- •'If music be the food of love — play on — " Ah! God — if music could make one forget! 23 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE MOTHER Shure, dear, me arms are empty now . . The evenin' time is fallin' Across a weary stretch o' peat; And little voices, callin', Are in me heart; they bid ye come, The shadows, dear, are creepin', God ! other mothers have their boys, But mine — Where is he sleepin'? Shure, dear, yer hair was bright as gold, Against me shoulder lyin'; I used ter sing a little song — "By-lo" ... He may be dyin' ! • The sunlight flickered in yer eyes. And on yer birthday morn, The blessed angels in the sky Were glad ye had been born. Shure, dear, I see ye in the fields, I hear yer laughter playin' Along the road, and yet I know, 'Tis just the night wind strayin' Among the trees; Me little lad. Me very heart and soul Are kneelin' at the Master's throne. God keep him well — and whole ! Shure, dear, I would not hold ye back. But — curse the cannon screamin' ! Yer mine — not any king's — an' yet I'd have ye brave . , . I'm dreamin' I hear yer step so light and gay, Yer singin' at the plow. Machree — The dark is comin' fast, Me arms are empty now! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 23 THE STORY OF A SMILE IT ALL happened because Mary Ann smiled at the Butcher Boy when he came to the Large House for his order. Mary Ann had lately come from a country where the simple people believe that fairies dance in the morning and banshees cry at night, and smiling was one of her habits. Besides, the Butcher Boy was good to look upon, in a freckle-faced, red-haired sort of way. The Little House where the Young Clerk and his Younger Wife lived, rested precariously in the shadow of the Large House, and the Butcher Boy — going in there for his order — smiled at the Wife when he left; so the Wife, bearing the sunshine of the smile in her heart, smiled at her husband as he started for the office. She kissed him, too. It was a spring day with blue skies and yellow sunshine, and a breath of flowers in the air. As the Young Clerk swung along, he forgot that he was overworked and under- paid, forgot that he had worries and cares. He only re- membered that some one at home loved him and that the world was beautiful, so, as he passed through the outer office, he smiled at the shy Little Stenographer, who banged away at an army of letters. That is why the Little Stenographer, when she took the letters to the Big Boss to be signed, smiled embarrassedly as he glanced up into her anxious face. The Big Boss was hated by his foes and admired — grudg- ingly — by his business associates. He was feared much, and avoided much (as the case might be) by his employes. He was tolerated by society and his church because he could sign a check with seven figures on the left side of the decimal point; but he was loved by — nobody. He was pleased at the Little Stenographer's shy smile, for smiles did not come his 24 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS way very often. Suddenly he, too, realized, just as his Young Clerk had realized, that the world still held blue skies, and flowers, and springtime. Mateo was the bad man of the city. He was hailed be- low a certain street as "Chief"; above a certain street as "Villain." The Police Court had a picture of him in its very fine gallery, a picture labeled "The Wolf." Mateo was a clever man, with eyes that were wonderfully soft and a tongue that spoke a language of music, with feet that were swift and sure to escape, and hands that were horribly cun- ning in the manufacture of little black boxes that ticked like alarm-clocks and were lined with strange wires and stranger chemicals. Like the Big Boss, Mateo was hated and feared and admired, but, unlike the Big Boss, Mateo was loved — had always been loved. His Mother had loved him — a dark-faced baby in swaddling clothes; his wife had loved him as he came, straight as a sapling, with eyes that sang of love, to woo her; and, now that mother and wife were both dead, his daughter loved him as he dandled her on his knee ! This same daughter was the pride of Mateo's life. All the love of his southern nature was poured out on her tiny head, all the good of his soul looked into her eyes. But, al- though Mateo would have done anything for the sake of his child, he would not have given up his profession. His busi- ness of blowing people to bits was just as much his life-work as the Big Boss's business of blowing people's dreams to fragments was his life-work. Besides, the little daughter would not have wanted him to give up his profession ! Some people called him "The Villain" or "The Chief" or "The Wolf"; but she called him "Daddy." Just now, Mateo had an important bit of business to do. Bending over a table, he was putting together some intricate little wheels, mixing some white powders in a test tube. As he worked he hummed a song, and a smile flitted across his REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 25 handsome face. His song was in a foreign tongue, and it told of flowers and blue sky and springtime. Mateo had a text that he lived by, a text that had been quoted in the newspapers after several daring murders. When the smoke of his exploding bombs had swirled away into the sky, the police always found a scrap of paper, type- written, nailed to the wall. It always said, "The Wolf never forgets — he pays !" The Big Boss had a way of taking money, indiscriminate- ly, from folk. He had a way of giving interviews to the papers, also indiscriminately. The taking of money hurt most people; the interviews hurt very few, but in one of them he had quoted Scripture ponderously: "Unto him that hath it shall be given," he had said, and quoted his own bank account. He had spoken about polite robbers who took money in a "lawful" way (had praised them) and of criminals like Mateo, who did their work in the dark — artistically. He had said that he was going to spend some of his money on banishing "The Wolf" and his associates from the city. After reading the article, Mateo began on a splendid black box. He sang as he worked, and wondered what part of the Big Boss's office he would place the finished product in. Mateo's home was not far from the gloomy pile of archi- tecture that surrounded the Big Boss's private life. In the city, crime and prosperity, religion and wickedness, life and death, often rub elbows unknowingly. When the Big Boss, dismissing his limousine, walked home, he passed within a stone's throw of a remarkable little laboratory that the police chief would have spent many thousands of dollars to locate. He often passed the small daughter of Mateo play- ing in the sun. To Mateo she was a cherub, but to the Big Boss she was a rather dirty foreign child that cluttered up the right-of-way. Fate, weaving swiftly with threads of life, often stops to play a practical joke on people. Sometimes her jokes are brutal, unladylike jokes; but sometimes they are as gen- 26 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS tie as the breeze of summertime. Perhaps it was she who put the smile on Mary Ann's lips; perhaps it was she who made the Little Stenographer forget her shyness; surely it was she who made the beauty of the day. Mateo sat in his room working happily, and Fate, spin- ning at her wheel, made the Big Boss to walk home. Mateo, watching from a narrow window, saw his small daughter playing with a china doll ; but Fate made the doll slip from the tiny mother's arm as the Big Boss swung down the street. The daughter of Mateo began to scream. On another day the Big Boss would have sworn at the small figure; but he remembered Just in time that the sky was bright and that a smile was blooming in his heart. He stopped before the little girl. "What is the matter?" he asked kindly. The daughter of Mateo was fearless, as her father was fearless. She looked up into the eyes of the tall, grim figure in the immaculate clothes. "I break-a my bambina," she sobbed. The Big Boss rumpled his beautifully creased trousers by kneeling in the dust of the street. His hands, powerful hands, picked up the fragments of doll. Mateo, looking from his window, gasped. "Perhaps," said the Big Boss, "we can fix it." The daughter of Mateo stamped her foot. She was spoiled. "No ! No ! No !" she shrieked, "my bambina ees broken !" Quite desperately the Big Boss put his hand in his pocket. He had found that money usually solved problems. When his hand came out it held a round, shiny gold-piece. From his window Mateo could see the glitter of it in the sun. The daughter of Mateo knew gold when she saw it. Her baby soul was thrifty. Gold meant many new dolls. Her tears dried miraculously as the Big Boss laid the money in her hand, and with a smile, as sudden as the sun after an April shower, she lifted up her dirty-cherub face. The Big Boss, with an embarrassed smile, kissed her. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 27 Up in his remarkable little laboratory Mateo began to take the small black box apart. He laid the powders away. The wheels of fate spin steadily on. The Big Boss still breaks people's dreams (for a spring day does not last), and the Wolf still makes bombs and leaves curt messages (for a gold piece does not convert the bad man of a city per- manently) ; but the daughter of Mateo plays happily with a new doll, and Mary Ann still smiles ! 28 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE LITTLE GIRL AT HOME THE night was dark, a thick impenetrable kind of dark- ness with a shifting veil of snow drawn sullenly across it — snow that crept stealthily down over the house- tops and powdered the dark, gaunt boughs of the trees. There were more trees, more by millions, than houses, for the country was a dark ruin-filled part of the world. Merci- fully the snow covered the most ghastly of the ruins. Far, far off over the top of a distant hill the glow of a rocket occasionally lit the vault of the dark sky; infinitely farther off came a dull thread of sound — the sound of guns roaring at great intervals, miles away. Once in awhile some animal — perhaps a wolf, more likely a starving dog, howled dismally as it plowed through the snow. The man who swayed limply down the road put one shak- ing hand to his head and brushed back a damp mass of fair hair that clung to his brow. His eyes, which had almost grown accustomed to the ghastly blackness of snowy nights, stared in front of him, his ears, that would never grow ac- customed to the howls of starving animals, shuddered at the sound that cut sharply through the stillness. "God !" he murmured, in his own tongue. It sounded, as it was, like a prayer for help. Alone in the mercilessness of a country of ruins one instinctively talks to God. In an answer that seemed a hideous mockery — for every- thing in the land seemed a hideous mockery — a cannon boomed and a rocket shattered the darkness into a vaguely shaped sphere of grey. Far, horribly far above loomed the sky — far above that was Heaven. One wondered if Heaven were warm. One wondered if God really lived ihere and REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 29 really watched the earth. One wondered — if God did watch — why wars had to be ... . One did very little but won- der. The road wound out — like a brown ribbon outlining the hem of some white dress — a brown ribbon that was fast be- coming white like the dress. The man smiled at the simile; Gretchen had once had a white dress with a brown ribbon around the hem, and the ribbon had faded from many wash- ings. The brown ribbon had matched her eyes and the darker gleams in her warm blond hair. Gretchen ! Gretchen was the little girl at home. The man stopped smiling — he groaned as he shifted his arm carefully in the rude sling he had fashioned out of a muffler. A splash of red fell on the snow and glowed there. Far off, across the distant hill a rocket, two rockets, cut through the air. The man wondered if it were a signal. Straining, his eyes glanced back over his shoulder, but the night was too dark. No forms showed up against the swish- ing veil of snow. Just behind the snow they might be, they might be hurrying — but, thank God, they did not show. The man stumbled over something that lay half buried in the roadway — something that was half frozen and yet limply soft. He cursed the dark — cursed it sharply even as he blessed it. Lumpily, out of the shadows, a little hut rose — a little hut that bore the scars, half hidden under the snow, of con- flict. The man sighed as he realized the horrible irony of the situation. Days ago he had helped, not individually, but nevertheless helped, in the ruining of these same houses. And now he was coming back over the same trail. A wan little light flung itself suddenly across his feet. It filtered through a crack in the door, thought the man, as he came to a sudden halt beside the half-snowed-over little step. Was it possible that the wan little light might mean — refuge ? Was it possible that the wan little light might mean hope? Was it possible that warmth and food and — friends might linger on the other side of the door ! 30 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The man hesitated and his eyes, grown keener, if any- thing, with the heaviness of his anxiety, searched the road behind him, and then glanced swiftly in front. A wall of blackness overcast with the white snow closed in on him everywhere. Sure death lurked in the background — death in the hands of a little band of eager-to-kill men. In front of him lay — freezing and — suddenly the howl of the starving dog echoed on the wind — it was much nearer. The man pushed forward and banged upon the door. There was a faint sound inside, and the man in the road- way visibly brightened. His free hand — the one that was not dripping blood, clutched at a pistol in his belt. There was one charge in the pistol; it might do for the one who had made the sound, or — if there were more than one — it might do for himself. Still, the sound had been very faint and very faint sounds are encouraging in war times. So many sounds are hideously, grindingly loud. The man drew the pistol from his belt and tapped on the panel of the door. "Open !" he shouted harshly, "open" — he checked himself in time, he had been going to say "in the name of the Em- peror." Instead he murmured "in the name of God." The door opened suddenly in answer to the knock of the pistol — so suddenly that the man, who had been reeling against the threshold, stumbled inside and fell to his knees with a dull thud. It might be a trap, this that he had stumbled into, but somehow the man did not worry. He only knew that the bad air of the little hut was warmer than the air had been outside, he only knew that the light, though it came from a weak candle, was almost unbearable to his eyes, for they had seen nothing but darkness for many hours. He only knew that something was brushing past him to shut the door, something small with light fingers, that touched his hair. He knelt there, silent, in the midst of a greater silence. When one has been long in the darkness — especially the cold darkness — a light, no matter how small that light is, REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 31 bears down like so many burning needles upon the eyeballs. As the pressure of these needles grows lighter objects that stand in front of one loom out in a startlingly distinct man- ner. The man, as soon as his eyes grew accustomed to the wan glow of the candle, saw a plain room — so plain — that an observer would call it bare. There was a table, a rude cot with a pile of blankets on it, a solitary stool, and a picture of the Saviour pinned onto the rough log wall. The man saw, with a sense of the unfitness of things — or may be the eternal fitness — that he was kneeling directly under the picture. The small something was coming back from the door — the door that had been firmly shut against the blackness of the night and the howls of the starving dogs. In the dim light the something took form in a tiny thin girl with black curls clustering about her face and big brown eyes. The little girl at home had just such eyes ! "What are you doing here?" asked the man painfully. The child smiled at him, her eyes gleaming in her small, pale face. It was quite clear that she had not understood his words, but it was also very plain that she understood his tone. "Daddy's clothes !" she cried gleefully. She had noticed his uniform. A bit of the language lessons that he had protested against volubly in school days came to the man's aid. With troubled eyes he glanced down at his uniform — the uniform he had no right to wear — the uniform that meant death if they caught him in it. He sighed as he looked at the bright colors of it and longed vaguely for the neutral shade of his own clothing. "Daddy's clothes," cried the little girl again. She slipped nearer. Her hand rested on his pistol with its one pitiful shot — "Daddy's gun," she chuckled. The man gazed into the pale little face so near his own. Why, the child looked thin and hungry and cold ! Where were her parents — why had they left her ? He essayed to speak but found his vocabulary too limited. 32 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS "Where — is — daddy?" he managed. The little girl broke into a voluble stream of language that rippled musically from her small mouth. The man, still kneeling on the floor, caught stray phrases that he under- stood — "Daddy gone," he caught. "Mother dead — long ago !" "Everybody run." Swiftly he reasoned to himself that the child's father had gone to the front, leaving her in the hands of careless neighbors, who had forgotten the trust when the enemy came marching through the town. They had left her to the mercy of the cold, the snow, the howling dogs, and — ■ God knows what else ! He thought of the little girl at home in a similar plight and shuddered. Something of the look in his eyes made the child draw very near and lay her thin little arms around his neck. "Daddy's eyes !" she cooed. She had surprised the father look in them. The man threw his well arm across his face. The room was whirling around. The picture on the wall, the table, the cot bed danced madly in a frenzied circle. "God — " he moaned — he thought of this little girl, her father at the front — his own little girl at home. "God," he moaned again, "this is — war !" It was his first protest. Outside the dog howled again. It was very near. The little girl shivered convulsively and laid her cheek against his face. "Nice— man — come," she murmured ingratiatingly — "Nice — man — stay !" The man shivered convulsively, too, and his wounded arm sagged limply in the improvised sling. All too plainly he saw that there was no refuge in the hut — no hiding place. It was such a little hut, hardly larger than a coffin — the kind that they put folk in who are caught wearing the wrong uniform. The men who were following must be very near now — he must go on — but, there was the snow and the howling dog — and there was the little girl alone in the ruins of what had been a home. His head sank on his breast and an awful throb of pain cut, like a knife, through his arm. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 33 Limply he sank iu a shapeless heap on the floor under the picture of the Saviour. His blood made a stain on the floor. The little girl wrinkled her forehead in perplexity. It was strange that a strong man should crumple up and go to sleep on one's floor — a strange man who talked little and stared at one out of father-looking eyes. Poor man ! The little girl reached out an experimental finger and touched his face. It was cold — that face. In her baby brain the little girl remembered that daddy had always covered her up when she was sleeping. Swiftly she dragged a blanket from the bed and tucked it snugly about his shoulders. It covered his muddy boots, his throbbing arm — a telltale arm, his uniform that was not his. With a face, strangely old for her years, the little girl sat down beside the man. Half- formulated in her mind was the thought that somewhere her daddy might be \jing — worn out and cold. She fell asleep, her head on the man's good shoulder. It may have been hours later — it may have been only minutes that a knock sounded at the door. The man's eyes unclosed slowly — ^his mind leaped even more slowly back to consciousness. Well, they had come — but, it wasn't exactly a surprise. His hand gripped his revolver under the blanket. One cannot hang a man who has shot himself. When there is even a gleam of suspense the minutes drag out unmercifully. For years, it seemed, there was ab- solute silence, and then noises began to sound — as if many men and perhaps horses were walking in the snow. The man wondered if they would see his footsteps and remem- bered that the falling flakes had drifted over them and cov- ered them. They might go on after all — there was a chance. If only he had blown out the candle before he fainted. There was another period of silence and then suddenly something crashed against the door. There was a snap as the rusted, ineSicient lock gave way and a body of soldiers staggered in. They were obviously hunting for someone. Like a message from a great distance he realized that he was the quarry. His hand gripped harder on the pistol. 34 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The men paused uncertainly in the doorway. They saw a child sleeping with her head on a pale man's shoulder, a child who started as they trooped in and opened eyes widely brown. The man slept on — apparently. The men were at a loss — what can one say to a tiny girl? It was a moment before the leader broke into excited speech. "Little girl," he said to the child, "baby, a man — a bad man has run away in the dark. Has any man come here?" There was a tense stillness in the little hut before the child answered. The man gripped his revolver — it pressed coldly upon his heart. His eyelids flickered and he said a prayer in the depths of his soul for the little girl at home. The child rubbed her eyes unconcernedly and yawned — a sleepy, baby yawn. Who knows whether she was drowsy and did not know — or whether she remembered the father look in a stranger's eyes? Softly her thin little hand reached out and touched the man's hair. "Daddy," she murmured, "poor daddy — sick !" Perhaps somewhere her daddy lay sick. Perhaps some- where her daddy was cold and hungry. She began to cry. Warfare is hard, but one feels foolish at the thought of making a baby cry. Shamefacedly the men filed out. One dropped a knapsack of food and a gold piece on the table as he passed. Under the blanket the man's hand relaxed and the re- volver dropped heavily. The man's lips moved in a sudden grasping sob, but the tiny girl, with a hungry look in her big eyes, trotted over to the table and began to gnaw wolfishly at a bit of bread from the knapsack. From the wall the picture of the Saviour looked down. A smile seemed to hover on His face. Some hours later it stopped snowing. The dawn — a cold, grey dawn, crept up over the hill. In the heart of it, warmly, glowed a faint tinge of pinkish light. It was the promise of a new day ! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 35 A NEW YEAR'S VISION Last night I dreamed a dream; I saw before me, white and stark and steep A hill. And all around it foamed a tide, Cruel, swift and deep. And standing there with weary head bent forward, I saw a man who breathed a tired sigh ; His face was drawn, his figure trembled darkly Against the sky. I heard upon the air a piercing scream. And, dashing to the river came a crowd Of men and boys and tiny crying babes, And women pale who sobbed their prayers aloud. And even as I looked with staring eyes, They plunged into the foam and then before I knew it, they had disappeared from sight — The stream was war ! Last night I dreamed a dream. I saw the old man fade away from sight, And in his place a smiling baby sat. The gloomy night Blossomed with stars, and all the river cold Lapped like a field of silver on the slope; And far above there hung a crescent moon — The moon was Hope. 36 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS POWER (' ' There were many prominent men on board the Lusitania. " — New York papers.) The sea is wide and the sea is deep, And under its billows a host may sleep. A man may be great and bold and good, A man may be brave and true; His fame may grow and his praise may flow, From earth to the Heaven blue. And yet, when the land drops far astern. When the waves dash supreme and high, A man is a man — and nothing more — In a world that is sea and sky. A man may be firm as a mountain crag. And rich with a golden store; And in his hand he may hold a land, And yet, in a time of war, A bolt may strike on the craft he sails. And his efforts may futile be; For a man is a man — and that is all — In a world that is sky and sea. A man may write with a pen of flame, And speak with a tongue of steel ; And folk may sway at his words, and they May smother the thoughts they feel. And yet, alone in the sullen void. When God is the judge on high, A man is a man — and nothing more — Hemmed in by the sea and sky. Oh ! the sea is wide and the sea is deep, And under its wailing a host may sleep. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 37 WHEN BETTY SMILES When Betty stands upon the stair, And smiles with lovely grace, A dancing band from fairy land, Brings magic to her face. And in the background, all unseen, A group of angels sing. Of sunshine gleaming in the fields. Of love, and youth, and spring. When Betty stands upon the stair. With tender, downcast eyes; I breathe a sigh, and wonder why A vague enchantment lies Within her soul, and though I were A king with wealth and land, I'd throw them by if I might be. The fan in Betty's hand! When Betty stands upon the stair. Her dimples come and go; And all my brain is filled with pain. Because I love her so ! My eyes, with pleading, mutely speak, The words I dare not say. . . . When Betty stands upon the stair, And smiles my heart away I 38 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE SWORD'S FATE Swords they were, made of the finest of steel, Keen were they — so that the foeman might feel Pain of the sharpest — with death standing near — Terror, and horror, and torture, and fear. Swords they were — bright with a silver-blue light, Cold as the moonlight on ice in the night, Merciless — hewing at flesh and at bone, Killing in thousands — or killing alone. Swords they were — then in a moment of peace, Men laid them down for a bit of release From all the fighting — and they were alone. Dull and forgotten as fragments of stone. Swords they were, but in the fire's red heat They for the first time have suffered defeat. Poured into molds by a peace-loving race, They have come out with a plow's noble grace. Oh that the swords of the nations might be Melted in fires, that over the sea Victors might say of their blood-reddened spoil : "Swords they were — now they are tilling the soil !" REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 39 THE PRESENCE Out go I to the road, alone, No friendly hand to guide me — And yet — I know that Some One stands With tender smile beside me. What though the way be dark and hard. And grim the skies above me — When I can know that Some One kind Is sure to help and love me? Out go I to the road, alone, And yet should harm befall me I know a Voice would reach my ear — That tender tones would call me ! What though the path at times be rough. And comrades false forsake me. When I am sure that Some One kind Is waiting Home to take me ! 40 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE BREAD LINE The country lanes are filled with snow, the friendly stars are shining, The evergreens are straight and stiff against the evening skies ; And many wander in the night, whose lonely hearts are pining. For country homes, and country scenes, and smiling, tender eyes. The city streets are filled with slush, the city crowds are thronging. And some there are with mournful souls, and some are overjoyed. And some there are without a friend, for warmth and cloth- ing longing; The mighty, ragged army of the city's unemployed. The Bread Line ! In the dead of night with feet and fingers aching, Alone and friendless in a world of sorrow and of pain. They stand and wait for food to eat; but mother-hearts are breaking, And mother-prayers are asking that their boys come home again. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 41 THE OLD CHINA PLATE IT EESTED high on a shelf, the old china plate, with the dust of years blown lightly over its surface. There were cracks running across its blue surface under the dust, and pictured on it there was a faded landscape with a gentle little lake kissing a gentle little hillside, with gentle little trees caressing a gentle little sky. "What a beautiful plate !" said the Collector Lady. "What a beautiful plate !" The Housekeeper sighed. "That ?" she questioned vaguely. "That? Why, that's only an old dish that went with Great-grandmother Bascomb's wedding china. It's not worth anything, I guess." She took it down carelessly and smoothed it with a soft duster. "See, it's covered with cracks. I'm sure it wouldn't stand much washing!" The Collector Lady's eye sparkled as she raised the old china plate in her hands. "It's very old," she told the Housekeeper, "and it's worth a good deal, cracks and all. I'll give you a whole new set of china for it !" Her voice broke with eagerness. The Housekeeper tightened her grip on the plate. She dusted it more carefully with the soft cloth. "My goodness!" she ejaculated. "Why, it's been stand- ing there for years, covered with dust. I didn't think any- one wanted it." The Collector Lady smiled ecstatically. Her hand stretched toward the dish. "A whole tea set for the one plate," she enticed; "a tea set with gold edges." In her mind's eye she could see a blue dish sitting triumphantly on a certain plate rail in a certain yellow-tinted dining-room. '*I can have it?" she questioned. 42 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The Housekeeper clasped the old china plate more closely. A perfect fire of possession burned in her eyes. "Why, I wouldn't part with it for anything !" she ex- claimed almost angrily. "It was part of Great-grandmother Bascomb's wedding china !" And yet it had stood on her shelf covered with dust for years. It isn't only old china plates that suddenly grow valuable under a pair of admiring eyes. It isn't only cracked blue dishes that stand idly on the shelf, covered with dust, until some person with a collector's insight discovers that there is real value under the dirt. I once knew a mother — the kind of a mother who does everything for the comfort and well-being of her family. She had three grown-up children who loved her in a desultory fashion, but managed fairly well to keep her on the closet shelf. When they had dinner parties the mother was usually in the kitchen helping with the work; when they had callers in the evening the mother was gently but firmly shooed away to bed. This went on for some time. The mother, a bit resentful at first, began to realize that her place was in the dust-filled corner. She effaced herself very successfully. One day a girl came to live in the one large hotel that the town boasted. She was the kind of a girl that attracted attention, for she had a great deal of money, wore imported clothes and drove her own little grey racing car through the shady streets. She was all alone in the world, but she never spoke of being lonely — and folk envied her. One night the girl went to call on the family and found the mother alone in her little den, darning the family stock- ings. It was her first call, and as she saw the little white- haired figure in the light of the homely lamp, a lump rose in her throat. She sat down near the mother and began to talk. It was an hour later that one of the daughters came in and found them. "Why, mother !" she exclaimed just a bit accusingly, "you didn't tell me." REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 43 The girl raised her eyes from the small figure in front of her. "It was my fault," she laughed, "I wouldn't let her tell that I was here. We've had such a good time!" Her tone was full of regret. "But aren't you tired?" questioned the daughter rather sharply. "Why, no, dear," answered her mother. For the first time in years she did not take the hint. "Why, no, dear ! We've been having such a lovely talk." Her tones, too, held regret. The daughter opened her lips, but on second thought closed them. When the girl was walking down to her little car the daughter walked beside her with a vague question in her heart. Mother had seemed possessed ! She had laughed and talked and told charming little stories of her girlhood. Why, the daughter hardly understood her ! She looked at the girl beside her — at the modish dress, at the waiting car. Why, mother had monopolized the conversation, had ignored her visitor's importance. The girl must say something to show her delight in the call. "It was nice of you to come this evening," she said — "when you have so many other things to do. Oh, how I envy you, your car, and your clothes, and — everything." The girl looked at her companion sharply, then she turned away. Her voice trembled when she spoke. "Don't — say — envy," she gulped. "Don't you dare ! Why, you have a mother. I'd give anything I ever possessed if I could have just one tiny speck of her for my own. I can't remember — " Her voice choked and she drew her hand across her eyes. It's the familiar things that we sometimes pass over and leave on the shelf to grow dusty while we look for beauty in other directions. It's so much nicer to go to an art gallery and exclaim over the paintings — so much more stimulating than it is to look out of your bedroom 44 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS window and appreciate the view that you can see every day. It's so much easier to admire a girl that is passing tlian it is to see the smile in the eyes of a girl you have known all your life. Oh, friends of mine, if you have a rare piece of china on your closet shelf — ^you know what I mean — don't wait for a stranger to tell you that it is valuable. Open your eyes and appreciate it yourself before it is too late. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 45 THE CITY STREETS AT NIGHT THE arch lights gleam across the dark of pavement and of street, and from the slums to Central Park the sound of marching feet rings out across the city's waste, its sorrow and its fear — its sound of laughter, double faced, its wailing and its tear. A beggar woman asks for alms, an engine whistles by, a call of "fire" brings alarms, and yet — the movements fly so fast that not a clock on earth could hold them back for spite. And some mark loss, or death, or birth. The City Streets at Night ! Above, the trains go roaring by, the subway pants below like some great beast about to die; the trolleys clatter slow from block to block, and taxis dart and wagons fill the way — and all the city's throbbing heart is crying for the day. A little newsboy lonely stands and sells his penny ware, he blows upon his purple hands, and meets the frozen stare of men in broadcloth and in fur who pass him coldly by, and in his heart queer feelings stir — he wonders vaguely, "why?" Oh, many walk with smiling eyes, but many walk in fright, and many curse with feeble cries the City Streets at Night. A sound of music flutters sweet across the dreary stones, and figures light on dancing feet are swaying to its tones. And folk are sipping costly drink, while just across the way some mother, starving, tries to think as small lives slip away. For all on top the way is clear and brilliant to the sight — but underneath there is no cheer. The City Streets at Night ! The arc lights gleam across a mass of buildings grim and tall, and many folk with sorrows pass and smile upon it all. And many folk whose hearts are dead are crying in their pain; and many folk who once have fled are creeping home again. But sometimes, in the heedless throng, with gentle, downcast eyes, the Christ, Himself, may walk along where songs and shouts arise. And in the tumult and the woe a whisper, stealing light, may be a prayer for those who know the City Streets at Night. 46 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE LINCOLN SPIRIT WHEN I shut my eyes I can sometimes see, vaguely, the picture of myself when I was a little girl in primary school. And very often this picture takes the form of a small blue sailor-suited figure standing in front of a big portrait finished in sepia and framed in brown. That picture hung on the wall of the first schoolroom that I can remember, and the kindly face of Abraham Lincoln smiled down from it. The first time I saw the picture, I wondered who the homely man could be. His face was furrowed with creases and covered with a stubby beard. It reminded me of an old mountain near my aunt's home — a mountain covered with rough foliage and dented with rocky cliffs. Perhaps in my little girl mind I did not formulate the thought clearly. The second time I looked at the picture I noticed the eyes, and somehow, unexplainably, my thoughts went again to the mountain. I did not think of the foliage or cliffs or hol- lows, however; for my mind now swept to the loftiness of it and the sunlight that crept softly over it, and the birds that built their nests in the shadow. When I grew a bit older I began to read in my primer stories about the great man. I spelled out the words that told how he went miles to borrow a book, hard miles that lay through snowdrifts and unbroken roads. I read stories that spoke of his talks to dying soldiers, of his pardons to condemned men, of his grief over the great Civil War. When I began to read history I pondered over his Gettysburg ad- dress; and when I was in growing-long skirts I read books that talked about him, that told of his sense of humor, his wistfulness, his love of humanity. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 47 During the time that I have been writing to you, friends of mine, I have come in contact with not a few people who wanted an education more than they wanted anything else, almost, in the whole world. I have met, through letters, boys and girls who have sacrificed many things to learn. I have heard stories of prayer and work combined that might measure up to Lincoln's standard. I have read stories, and had stories told to me, of men and women who were drifting through life with heavy cares resting on their shoulders, and tired hearts lying like lead within their breasts. I have had them tell me their sorrows and ask for comfort and a bit of help. Yes, I have come in contact with some deeply troubled people ! And then, too, there have been pen-and-ink friends who have had hearts full of love for everyone, from the neigh- bor's child next door down to the beggar on the street corner, carrying the warmth of their own hearts to the coldness of some poverty-stricken garret. But though I have met such people and read of them in stories, I have never heard of any boys or girls, men or women, who have won an education over such frightful odds as this man, or who have been able, as he, to jest while their trouble was deepest, while their heart was loaded to the bursting point with tears; who have loved black and white, rich and poor, friends and foes as did Abraham Lincoln. Sometimes, as I look around the busy New York streets, the noisy subway, the self-centered little cities that appear in every state, I wish that some of the Lincoln spirit could come back again and invade the earth with a bombardment of cheerfulness and gentleness. I wish that the gruff man who takes the only seat in the car while a little white-haired lady is standing, could feel a bit of the warm-heartedness that swept over battlefields and freed slaves. I wish that the girls who make scathing remarks from behind the shadow of their palms, could feel a little of the charity and love that made one man lay down his very life for a country of comparative strangers. I wish that the wise ones who from their own 48 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS hearthstones try to settle the affairs of the nations could lean with a little more humility — as Lincoln did — on God ! I knew a small boy once who hated to go to school. Every morning just before nine o'clock he developed strange symp- toms — headaches, and toothaches, and backaches, that dis- appeared marvelously after the ringing of the final bell. During his school hours he concentrated chiefly on weirdly drawn pictures and stiff balls of paper. He refused to do home work, balked utterly on studying. His mother, trying to teach by love, was in despair ; his father gave up the thank- less task after many spankings. Then, at the psychological moment, someone gave the boy a book about Lincoln. It told of the early struggles, the life of the young man, finally of his presidential career and his noble death. The boy read it carefully, and then, to the sur- prise of his parents, began to do his school work. "Some day" — he confided to his mother — "I may be President. Look at Lincoln — he didn't have half my chance !" Look at Lincoln ! He didn't have half the chance of most of us, but the few hours that he stole from his busy boy life were made to count. And now, after a short chain of years, the nation spends a golden day doing honor to him and people mention his name with tenderness and perhaps a bit of awe. Look at the rugged mountain face, and the mouth that is wistful, and think of the disappointments he went through; think of the strain of seeing a country — his own country — going to pieces, and knowing that the frag- ments lay in his own hand. And then, friends o' mine, look at the eyes. The eyes that carry you to a mountain top with peace and calm and bird-songs. Oh, girls — young and old — and boys, too, catch the Lincoln spirit and make good. You have twice his chance. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 49 REMEMBER? Eemember when we two were small, We uster stand beside the wall, My arm around your waist, and all — Eemember ? Eemember how we uster dream, We uster watch the sunlight beam. An' I could see your eyes agleam Deep in the shadows of the stream? Eemember how we lingered there? The sunlight sparkled on your hair, I never saw you half so fair — Eemember ? Eemember how our eyes could see, The promise of a day to be. When you would care for only me Through life, until eternity? Remember how a quarrel grew, Just out of nothing? An' we two Were crying, an' you slapped me — you ! Eemember ? Eemember what you said that day. When I began to go away? You said, "I love you, Billy, stay!" In earnest, half, an' half in play. Eemember when we two were small. We stood and watched the scarlet fall Of leaves ... I kissed you, that was all. Eemember? 50 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE RAIN After the heat it came, the rain — With drops that were huge and bright; And the weary earth raised its drooping head, And smiled through the cloudy night. And people offered an earnest prayer, Who never had prayed before; And beggars, grasping beneath the sky. Laughed out as they asked for more. And, kneeling low, by her baby's couch, Who was dying from heat and pain; A mother sobbed, "It has come in time — "Thank God for the blessed rain I" REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 51 EGYPT— THEN AND NOW Sharply the noise of cannon breaks The stillness of the day — The sullen wreaths of powder smoke Curl blackly far away — An ancient building totters — falls — And bloodstained men dash by, A pistol snaps — and some one screams, And, "In God's name !" they cry. 'Twas many, many years ago, When, coming from afar, A gentle mother brought her child— The glimmer of a star Lay in her eyes, and when she sang. The Baby smiling lay — He little dreamed of care or pain — But watched the sunlight play Among the waving leaves of green. And on the dusty way. Perhaps, beneath some curving arch, She stilled Him into sleep — Perhaps, upon some temple floor. He, smiling, learned to creep — And when, perhaps, the time had come. When he must seek his way, He left the shadow of his smile — It lingers there today, In shady nook and desert pool, For — guns to sweep away. 58 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Harshly, the shrieks of dying men, And horses deep in pain. Creep through the land, and mothers' tears, Beat down like autumn rain. The temple shows a jagged scar, The desert pool is dry — And blood, blood, blood is on the land. As, "In God's name !" they cry. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 53 YOUR LAUGHTER I hear your happy laughter ringing sweet, Across my dreams — and as I wake from dreaming, The echo creeps about, and daylight beaming Is but a phantom coming up to greet Your laughter; and the daisies at my feet With gentle mirth and fun and love are gleaming. And, yes, the very summer breeze is seeming To laugh with you and make the day complete. Oh, if the world were like an autumn shower. When sodden leaves fall brownly on the grass And skies were dull, and winds like sobs were ringing: If I could hear your laughter for one hour, The heartache and the wistfulness would pass — And every wind would be an organ singing. 54 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE FABLE OF THE THREE ELMS The North Wind spoke to three sturdy elms, And, "Now you are dead !" said he ; "I have blown a blast till the snow whirled past, And withered your leaves, and see You are brown and old and your boughs are cold !' And he sneered at the elm trees three. The first elm spoke in a hollow tone, (For the snow lay deep and white) ; "You think we are dead, North Wind ?" he said, "Why we sleep — as you sleep at night. Beneath the snow lie my sturdy roots. They grip on the friendly earth; And I rest — till another year!" said he. And he shook with a noisy mirth. The second elm laughed a hearty laugh, And, "North Wind," he cried in glee, "Beneath my bark glows a living spark, The sap of a healthy tree. My boughs are bare and my leaves are gone. But — what have I got to fear ? For the winter time is my time of rest. And I sleep till another year!" The third elm spoke and his voice was sweet. And kind as the summer sea; "Oh, Wind," he said, "We are far from dead — The God in whose hand we be REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 55 Looks down, with love, from the winter sky, And sends us His sun to cheer, If we had no snow there would be no spring — We rest till another year!" The three elms rocked in the stinging blast. And under the heavy snow. Their roots were warm from the freezing storm. And safe from the winds that blow. They smiled in their hearts and their leafless boughs. Spread over the frosty way, For they knew that the God of the forest trees. Would watch through each winter day. The North Wind uttered a frosty sigh. As the snow blew far and free ; And his weary eyes sought the winter skies, And, "Mighty is God !" said he. "To die or live are His gifts to give !" And he smiled at the elm trees three. 56 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE VOICE OF VALLEY FORGE THE Span'ard sat with his feet in the gutter and mused. His thin hands lay as still as some bluish metal in his lap. On the corner an arc light gleamed fitfully, but the Span'ard's part of the gutter was dark and gloom-filled. It was a bitter night. Fine snow slipped down over the jagged roofs and piled up in dim corners. The fine sleet bit sharply into the skin, and brought stinging frozen tears to the eyes. Women on the avenue, gorgeous in velvet and fur, shivered and drew their wraps a bit closer; but ragged little boys! Well, ragged little boys just huddled down in the gutter — the most convenient one — and stopped thinking. They called him the Span'ard, the other children, be- cause he was dark and slender and quick-tempered; because he spoke the tongue of an alien ; because he dreamed through the long days and gestured marvelously with his hands. They told him that he was not wanted in their games, told him that his father was dead, that he didn't have *^no mother" nor "no home." And the Span'ard, understanding only a fourth of what they said, fought half-heartedly and crept away with drooping head. Sometimes he found a warm doorway, or a packing case, or a barrel to sleep in. Some- times he earned a stray coin by carrying bundles. But folks seldom cared to trust packages to a dirty-faced foreign child, even though his cheeks were hollow and his eyes were plead- ing. The wind, with a low wailing note in it, swept around the corner, and the Span'ard drew his ragged coat a bit closer. "Oh," he shivered, "et ees coo-ld !" "It was colder," said a voice behind him, "it was colder at Valley Forge." REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 57 Quite unexplainedly the Span'ard understood the words, and he looked around nervously into the lurking shadows. He could see nothing but a dim row of unpleasant-looking houses behind the screen of whirling snowflakes. "Whare air you ?" he whispered through chattering teeth ; "Who air you?" Out of the darkness, so close to him that the Span'ard jumped, came the voice. "It was at Valley Forge," said the voice, "that the soldiers crouched over fires in the bitter cold, and yet could not keep warai. It was at Valley Forge that their feet left blood marks in the ice and snow." The Span'ard listened, fascinated by the well modulated, kind tones. He forgot to wonder where the voice came from. "They weer coold," he murmured, "lak me?" "Colder," said the voice, "and much unhappier. They knew that the fate of a country lay in their hands. They knew that the hearts and souls of g'-eat men were behind them — they knew! No wonder they shivered with cold and fear." The Span'ard huddled closer into his thin coat and put the fingers of one blue hand into his mouth. "Thees Vally Forge," he mumbled, "where ees thees Vally Forge? What ees et?" Through the murmur of the wind, the voice, clear as a bell, answered the question. "It is a place," said the voice, "where eleven thousand troops once spent the winter. There they froze until half of them were unfit for active duty, until a large majority died from exposure." There was a quiet sadness in the calm words. "But," the Span'ard took his fingers from his mouth and moved them stiffly, "but why should they stay at thees Vally Forge? Ef eet weer coo-ld and ef they weer mak' to die?" He waited patiently for an answer. "They stayed there," the voice told him, "they stayed there because they were fighting for their country and for liberty!" The Span'ard stared vacantly in front of him. "Leeb- 58 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS erty !" he repeated. The word meant nothing to him. 'TLieeb- erty — what ees et, thees leeberty ?" he asked. The voice, just a bit stern, came to his ears. "It means," said the voice, "freedom to make your own laws, to worship your own God in your own way, to live your own life. It means that you are equal to, just as good as, the men who ride in their own cars. It means that all citizens are equal." The Span'ard was frankly puzzled. How could he bo as good as men who wore fur overcoats and ate at least three meals a day? How could he be equal to them? They ivere warm. He shivered convulsively, and a wave of hatred for the world, the fur-coated men, even for the unseen voice, surged up in his heart. "We air not equal !" he shrilled, "we air not equal. They air happy — an' not coo-ld !" A sob broke through the last word. After all, the Span'ard was only a child — a homeless child. For a moment there was a great silence. Even the moan of the wind grew still, and the Span'ard cried softly while the great tear drops froze diamond-like on his cheeks. Then suddenly, like the touch of a dream, a light but firm hand fell on his shoulder. "They froze at Valley Forge," said the voice, "for lib- erty, for equality, for their country. And although they died, their spirits lived to see the dream come true — partly. It is a big land, and it is a good land, but the ideas have gone a little wrong — that's all. You aren't the only one in this country that is freezing and homeless, little Span'ard, and perhaps because you are cold and hungry you may lead the way to a new liberty that will be far greater, far more beautiful. Perhaps you yourself, a new American, may help to start a new America!" Somehow, vaguely, the Span'ard knew that the voice had gone away. Certainly the kind hand pressure had left his shoulder. He was colder than ever now, but in his soul there was a glow of light. Perhaps he was going to help. Perhaps REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 59 even his coldness would be the key to this very liberty that they spoke of . . . . His head sank between his shoulders. Sometime later, perhaps a half hour later, two policemen walked down the dark street. "Shure," said one of them, "it's niver before been such a cold twinty-second of Feb- ruary \" But the other did not hear him. He had darted forward and was kneeling beside a small heap in the snow. "This has gotta stop," he said in a hard dry voice, "it's gotta stop. Som'pin must be done ! It's another frozen kid." The Span'ard, with a great effort, opened his stiff lips. "I ain't a frozen kid," he whispered faintly, "I'm a 'Merican kid." His eyes closed on the first glimmer of a new liberty. 60 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS IN THE DARK FOR several days this week I was forced to lie in bed with bandages over my eyes. At other times, when I have had to stay in bed I have been able to read or write, or at least look out of the window; but this time the situation was a new one, and more or less unique. After a few hours it proved to be very monotonous. When one is alone in the dark the minutes loom ahead like vast periods of time, and the clock ticks off its seconds very slowly. Thinking is the only diversion that offers itself. I have all my life thought, I suppose; sometimes with great intensity, sometimes with carelessness and almost lack of interest ; but I have always been able, when I grew weary of a thought, to turn to some other fascinating occupation. This week, while I was lying in bed with my eyes bandaged, there was no other occupation. True, there was a view out- side my window — but I couldn't see the view; and there were bookcases beside the wall, but I couldn't see them either. At first I grew rather tired of the enforced quiet, but when one day had dragged past on slow feet my constant thinking began to take effect. Little details of neglected work began to come forward in my mind, and fragments of stories that I am some day going to write blended into com- plete plots. Small verses that I had forgotten to remember came back to me, and tiny snatches of conversation that had drifted out of my mind crept to the foreground. When I could take the bandages off and was once more able to read, and write, and just look at things, I found that the house of my mind was in better order than it had been for a long time, with the ideas neatly pigeonholed and the empty places BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 61 swept clean. But it had taken me a time in the dark to do it. In the dark — A great many people fear the dark, I think. They people it with harsh noises, and vague forms, and creeping fears. They look for shadows grimly approach- ing when the moonlight is at its brightest; and they glance nervously behind them at the least snapping of a twig. They think that the dark frightens them, but in reality it is fear and imagination that grip at their heartstrings. If people would only look at the dark sensibly, they would perhaps realize that it is a very soothing, restful thing, a time that prepares one for the glaring brightness of the dawn. I once knew a little live-wire sort of a girl, with taut nerves and searching eyes and queer, quick little ways of speech. We used to say she was "temperamental." One day I was walking with her through a crowded store when suddenly she turned and put a nervous little hand on my arm. "Don't you ever get tired," she asked me, "of this eternal rushing around? See the people in the store, every one dashing about as if their lives depended upon it ! Every one hunting for different things. It's that way at school too, and more or less at home. Don't you ever get tired of it?" I admitted that I did. "But," I questioned, "how can I avoid getting tired?" "I used to wonder that myself," answered the girl "until I struck upon a scheme that has worked out splendidly for me. When I am tired of all the noise and confusion and turmoil, I go away into my own room and pull down the shade and shut my eyes, and think. After I have been there just a few minutes things begin, to straighten out and the kinks in my mind become straight. After an hour I am rested." Here in the city life seems to be brightly lighted — a gay, glittering period of time. The nights are made brilliant with electric signs, and huge arc lights make the darkest hours as bright as day. It isn't the easiest thing in the world to drift away from all of the noise and brightness and 62 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS find a quiet, dark nook. Perhaps that is why so very many people look white around the mouth, with strained, tired eyes. Perhaps that is why so many men and women every year have nervous breakdowns. Perhaps that is why a few, who only seem a few because they are among so many, com- mit suicide. They can't find a quiet, dark nook for rest. And yet some people fear the dark! Have you ever walked along the edge of a ravine, or maybe a steep hill, when the way was dark and the walking difficult? One night, a dark, almost stormy night in April, I was walking beside a railway embankment. As the way was new to me I was not frightened, for though it was dark, and though I knew that I was high above the even ground, the path seemed level and smooth for my feet. I walked safely until I reached my destination, with never a worry on my mind. The next morning I took the same walk back to my home, and in the merciless glare of the sun I shuddered as I saw the dangerous way my feet had traveled. There had evidently been a washout along the path, for jagged pitfalls lurked in the dark comers where crumbling earth had slid down the sides of the hill. I had need to be careful even in broad daylight on that homeward walk, for I feared that my step might falter and that my foot might slip, plunging me far down, a broken heap, on the stones below. And yet in the dark I had walked safely without fear. It seemed as if some presence must have been near me to see that I did not stray from the path. There is a presence, I think, that walks near those of us who dwell in darkness, though they may dwell there a long time or but a very short time — though their pilgrimage may be only a walk along the top of a steep hill, before the moon has risen. This presence is a courage-giving presence who can erase the troubles from a disordered mind and eliminate the pitfalls from a broken path. Some very beautiful things come out of the dark I think. All the Fanny Crosby's hymns were bom in that way, and REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 68 she is not the only genius who made wonderful masterpieces with eyes closed to the beauties of a world. There are authors and sculptors and evangelists. Perhaps that is why there is something so calm and peaceful and trustful about such work. Oh, friends of mine, it's a very terrible thing to be blind to the glories of a golden world, but it's a very wonderful experience to lie with your eyes bandaged for a few days. There are so many things that eyes — real eyes — cannot see, that you come to understand only in that way. Some time, when the world seems just a little too much for you, go into a room and pull down the shades and shut your eyes and think. Perhaps, if you do that, you may feel the guiding presence that is always near in the shadows. 64 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS A PRAYER God, If the little souls of kings Must fight for gold, for petty gain; If men must died — and women pale, Must suffer hunger, fear and pain. Oh ! God, if horses scream in fright, If battles bring their tale of loss; Help Thou the ones who did no wrong- Let not the children bear the cross ! If Anguish standing grim and pale Beside the form of hatred red. Makes gentle, brooding faces harsh. As word is brought of needless dead. God, let not famine tear their forms. Let not the babies friendless roam; Stretch out Thy hand, in Mercy's name, And give each one a sheltered home ! God, If the towns curl up in smoke. If work of years be all undone. If, in the frenzy of the fight, The killing lasts from sun to sun. If harvests drenched with blood are reaped. Where golden wheat has swayed before, Let not the tiny boys and girls, Add to the sacrifice of War! Dear Father, women-folk may weep. And ask in prayer for swift release; And men may sob — but they are men . . . Grant Thou the little children peace! c E « „ u o c E OO 8 2-; 2 ^ H < -^»:mx°)fe>^^^rK-j^:^»^ REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 65 A SONG Soft the wind is on the heather, Lassie mine — In the sky the stars are glowin', And their shine Makes me think of eyes, that glancin' To my own with smile entrancin'. Set my very heart to dancin', Lassie mine! Soft the moon is on the heather. Lassie dear; And a nightingale is singin'. High and clear; Can ye hear his notes a-playin' In the sky, like angels prayin'? 'Xove, love, love!" his soul is sayin'- Lassie dear. 66 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE BROKEN PROMISE You told me, "Yes, I'll do it !" And then forgot your word; You later said : "I had no time," Perhaps: "I never heard!" And yet the task was very small, And not so hard to do. And, dear, because you broke your word You hurt my faith in you. You told me, "No, I won't forget," And then you straightway did ; And, underneath a sorry smile. My hurt was safely hid. And yet, because you did not do That little task of mine, The brightness of a lovely faith Has somehow ceased to shine. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 67 THE MADONNA OF THE STREET An artist dreamed a dream of power. When fame would seek his door; When folk would buy his smallest work. And clamor loud for more. And so with brush and color box He strived to make a start. To paint a picture with a soul. With beauty, and a heart. He painted ladies rich and fair. He made his sketches well; He covered yards of canvas fine. With strokes that always tell. And yet, each picture mocked his aim. Each portrait that he made Was cast aside as "rather nice," When it was first displayed. He painted favorites of the stage. He painted maid and queen; He searched each marble palace hall. Until, when he was seen. The people laughed at him and said: "Here comes an artist true. Who follows but the god of art, . In search of something new." For in his search of beauty rare. The artist in his zeal. Forgot the greatest thing of all. Forgot that none can feel 68 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The depths of life — of anything — Nor could success be scored, Until a heart turned toward the sun, And eyes looked to the Lord. The artist dreamed a dream of power, That spoke of untold wealth; He dreamed of eyes with curving brows And lips that bloomed with health. And so, he left the city vast. And sought the country clear; And as he sat beneath the trees. His dream seemed almost near. He painted Dresden shepherdess, He painted milkmaids tall; He painted child and farmer's lass, He painted one and all. And when his pictures new were shown The critics stopped to say, "It's very good, indeed it is !" Before they turned away. He painted wind-swept country lanes. And maidens dressed in brown; He painted girls in tender green. Where sunlight flickered down Between the leaves; he painted trees With dryads in their shade; And still his power was not won — And he was sore afraid. "My hair is turning grey," said he, "And still — oh, still afar My fortunes shine to lure me on. As distant as a star." REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 69 And with a sigh he sought again The city's crowded way; And deep despair M^as in his heart, He did not think to pray. The artist dreamed a dream of power, And, waking from his sleep — He felt the coldness of the hour. He saw the darkness deep; And something bade him take his brush. His box of colors neat; His canvas and his oils and tubes, And seek the quiet street. He walked past many mansions fine, Beneath their spreading trees; And yet, a voice seemed telling him, "Your work is not — in these." And so with hopes that wrung his heart. With mingled doubts and fears; He reached at last a narrow street, The place of want and tears. A tiny church loomed through the dusk, Like some grey spot of rest; And on the steps the artist saw, A woman poorly dressed; And in her arms she held a babe. And tried to still its cries. And through the dusk the artist saw The lovelight in her eyes. Her face was pale and very thin. Her lips were drawn and white; Her hair lay on her waxen brow. As black and dim as night. 70 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS And when the artist saw that face, There, rooted to the spot, He prayed and swift the memory came Of all he had forgot. The artist made a picture dull, With background dark and cold; The simple picture of a girl — A girl both young and old. A baby slept against her breast, And, oh ! her eyes were sweet — And then he named it, standing there, "Madonna of the Street." The artist dreamed a dream of power. And, lo, his dream came true; And all at once he felt a truth. As dreamers often do. He knew that wealth was not the best. And oh, he did not care ! For on his knees he fell, and gave His heart to God in prayer. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 71 THE DOORWAY OF THE OLD HOME The doorway of the old home Is stained with age and small; And in the early twilight, When purple shadows fall Across the little doorstep. My half-shut eyes can see A row of clear-cut visions. That stand and smile at me. The doorway of the old home Has often opened wide For schoolgirl and for student, For mother and for bride; And soldier feet have traveled. While eyes were dim with pain. Across the narrow threshold. That ne'er came back again. The doorway of the old home Has heard love's stories told; Has seen the splendid autumn Of people growing old. And baby hands have fumbled At lock and heavy key; And feeble arms stretched from it To children out at sea. 72 BEAL PEOPLE — ASP DBEAMS The doorway of the old home Is stained with age and small; And yet in glowing summer, In winter and in fall, It gives a cheery welcome, And knowing eyes may see The row of clear-cut visions That stand and smile at me. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 73 THE SEARCH FOR HAPPINESS AEICH girl, who, so everybody says, should be happy, left her home and ran away. She was found in a day or two and brought back, sorry and repentant, but with very firm convictions. When a reporter, one of those gimlet-eyed, question-asking gentlemen that we read of, asked her why she left her home, she told him that she was in search of happiness. I quote her words from one of the daily papers: 'Teople say that I am rich, but that does not mean that I am happy. Daughters of rich people are not always happy. I didn't have anything but money; I couldn't buy happiness with that. It didn't do me any good except to buy fine clothes. I wanted love. I wanted a home. If I ever run away again it will be to elope !" Oh, girls ! when you see the ones "who toil not" rolling by in their luxurious cars, and when you feel the tiniest bit of envy tug at your heart strings, remember this girl who had ever}i:hing money could buy and feel sorry for her. I am going to tell you about a very sad contrast that I saw the other day as I was walking down a city street. A funeral was passing by; one of those elaborate funerals with wagons full of flowers and a string of carriages that reached perhaps two blocks. In the first carriage sat three ladies, robed in elaborate mourning garb of crepe and silk. Two were hard-faced, cold-looking women, who stared haugh- tily over the heads of the crowd, but the third, a pretty- blond, doll-like little person, smiled as her dark-lashed eyes swept the throng. She seemed to be enjoying her small distinction very much. I had hardly walked half a block when another funeral 74 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS crept down a side street. It was a very unpretentioiTS affair, and only one clumsy home-made wreath of spring blossoms gave a touch of color and light, A single carriage followed the hearse, and as it passed I saw shrinking back into the dim corner of the seat a young woman dressed in a faded black cotton dress. She was very pale, but her eyes had red rings around them that told of long weeping, and her thin arms clasped a tiny baby close to her heart. As I brushed my hands across my eyes I seemed to see the other shining procession placed beside this one. And then I fell to moralizing, a habit one acquires in the city. I thought that the man, the rich man, had not been able to buy happiness, but that the poor man going shabbily to his last resting place had been able, with all his poverty, to buy love. I once read a story by a very idealistic modern author. It was the reconstructed story of King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid. Tennyson says: In robe and crown the king stepped down. To meet and greet her on her way. But he never told us just what the beggar maid thought. Now, in the story that I read, the beggar maid became queen, and for a little while she enjoyed herself. She was feted and praised. Great gifts were showered upon her, and she was dressed in satin and silk. But after a while the queen tired of her royal life, of the pomp and ceremony, of the exquisite clothes and wonderful jewels. Then one day when the king and his court were hunting, the wander- lust caught her, so she laid her rich apparel in a cedar chest, and donned the ragged gipsy dress in which the king had first won her. And with a last lingering look at the things that money could buy, she left the palace for the free, happy life that she loved. The story had a great charm for me because it was so well written, but I wondered how many of us would have had the courage to follow the beggar maid's example. How REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 75 many of us, if the choice were ours, would cast our lot in the paths of humble happiness? The glitter of wealth is an attraction not to be scoffed at, for if the heart be right it can add new worlds of travel and music and education and beauty to our enjoyment. Yet alone it is nothing. I know another story that I am going to tell you while I am in the story-telling mood. This one is about the lord of a great estate, whose wide acres gave all that his heart could desire of this world's goods. His splendid manor house was a home of luxury and ease, though not of con- tentment. So its master went in search of happiness. The elusive little sprite seemed to hover always Just out of his reach; teasing, alluring, but unattainable. And the lord of the manor became pale and wan for the want of it. He traveled to distant lands and cities over seas and mountains, and through forests. He tasted all the pleasures of the cities and the wilds. He spent lavishly only to find that his money could not buy happiness. At last he returned, weary and dissatisfied, and as he crossed a field by his old home he saw a man plowing. He watched the work for a moment, and suddenly a longing gripped him to walk through the soft earth, his own land, with the handles in his hands. So he took the plow and started. It was a warm day, and as he reached the end of the furrow he began to feel tired; but when he looked over his shoulder at the fresh furrow his plow had cut, he felt strangely contented. His heart leaped forward with his task and he hardly knew when the end had been reached. Then a strange thing happened. For the lord heard a light little laugh, and looking down he saw Happiness perched on the handle of the plow, within reach of his hand. There is a fine little moral that sticks out at the end of this story. I know that some within our own little circle are discon- tented and unhappy, because, oh, so many have told me "all about it" in letters that were blue as indigo. And yet, perhaps, if you searched you would find happiness right at 76 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS your own door in your own home. Maybe there is a burden that can be lightened by a cheerful smile or a bit of good advice, or a tiny little effort from a helping hand. And you will be surprised to find how much nearer Happiness will seem if you will only realize that it is not in the great world of glitter and bustle that the fairy sprite is found. You remember the old saying, "Money is the root of all evil." Let us keep always beside it this other sentence : ^TL/ove is the beginning of all happiness" Put a little love into your most homely tasks ; smile at the little cripple boy that you meet in the street car and bite your lips hard when you want to say an unkind word. Don't try to chase a happiness that glitters and shines like a bubble in the sunshine: do your best at helping and com- forting and loving, and then you will find Happiness at your finger tips and smiling. Don't cry for the wealth of Midas ; He suffered his share of pain ; Don't think that all joy is money, In a glittering, golden rain. For a thankful smile is a blessing More precious than gold can buy; And happiness goes to the one who knows That God is enthroned on high. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 77 A BIT O' SHAJSIROCK SHURE, don't you know what it is?" asked the Little Old Lady. "It can't be that you don't know !" She lifted the sprig of greenness to her nose and sniffed it as if searching for a half-imaginary, wholly delightful frag- rance. "Why, it's a bit of shamrock — shamrock from the ould country." The Girl looked at the withered hand with its neat white cuff and slender, heavily blue-veined wrist. She saw the ring- finger with its dull, heavy band of gold, the spot of vivid color that outlined itself, clover-like, on the palm. "A bit of shamrock !" she mused. "A bit of shamrock !" " 'Tis on it the fairies are dancing this night," murmured the Little Old Lady, "and my heart is with them there." The Girl started. Some time ago there had been fairies, but they were make-believe fairies, carefully sandwiched be- tween the pages of her long-discarded story books. "The fairies?" she questioned. "Real fairies?" Her voice held a surprised wonder — a polite unbelief. "Surely you don't mean it?" she asked. "Shurely I do !" ejaculated the Little Old Lady. "Why, I've noticed them myself. It's often I've noticed them. They dance on the green, and it's the little shamrocks they love better than any flower — the little shamrocks that are as green as God's grass and trees, that are shaped like a kiss from the wind that blows over the heather. It's many times they've come to me !" The Girl looked across the dim twilight-filled room. Some- how, her eyes smiled softly into the shadows. "Just how have you happened to notice them — the fairies ?" she asked. ■^8 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The Little Old Lady put a small finger to her lips in a meditative, strangely childlike way. "Why, it's not aisy to explain," she murmured. "Dear child! They come different ways, different ways altogether. Sometimes I thought it was a string o' sunbeams dancin' on the floor — sometimes I thought it was a light breeze playin' on the wee grasses. But I always, always knew soon that it was the fairies !" The Girl gasped wonderingly. "You always knew it was the fairies?" she questioned. "You always knew? Do you mean that you — saw them?" A slow deprecating smile spread itself, dreamlike, over the wrinkled face, as the Little Old Lady gazed a bit wistfully at the shamrock in her hand. "Well, it's never exactly that I've seen them," she said slowly, "but shure I've felt them !" her voice was triumphant. The Girl M^as plainly startled. How, she wondered, could one feel a fairy? Some way, in her most utterly believing child days, she had never felt one — actually felt one. "Did they — touch you?" she asked abruptly. The Little Old Lady laughed delightedly and beamed through her thick glasses at the Girl. "They never exactly touched me," she admitted; "but, darlin', my soul felt them. ... I knew they'd been in the room, the blessed little people, for some how I'd find my spirits up in the air, and my heart, that had, maybe, been heavy-like, a singin' hymns. I'd feel clear-headed, and healthier, and more sweet, so I'd know they'd touched me !" The Girl pouted. (She had a charming mouth that pouted kissingly.) Two big question marks glowed menac- ingly in her soft eyes. "But if," she ejaculated, "but if you have felt them, why haven't I? If they've come to you in sunbeams or summer winds, why haven't they come to me ? If they've kissed your soul, why haven't they helped me when I've been low-spirited and sad ? I've never seen one." Her voice was plaintive. The Little Old Lady reached out a small hand that was REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 79 scarred with toil-marks, toil-marks that were veiled dimly by a host of years. She touched the Girl gently on the arm. "Shure, dear/' she murmured, "you can't expect to see them — it was in the ould country that they used to visit me. They kissed my tears away when Johnny died, and softened the hurt when my little girl sailed over the ocean. It was in the ould country ! Here . . . why, here you don't believe and hope — you haven't time ! A sunbeam's only a sunbeam, and a breeze is only a breeze. The shadow of their wings is only a bit o' dust, and the sound of their singin' is only a trouble- some noise in your brain. Why, child, here you haven't got a fairy ring that they could dance on ; you've put tall buildings and streets and cars over them, and built subways under them. You're too busy hurrying after work, and money, and fame, to stop for their whisper. And when perhaps you've earned the right to rest, your heart is too old and wrinkled to know the feel of their hands. Shure, dear, you haven't time for the little people." The purple shadows fell softly over the Girl's face as she sat with drooping eyes, and the Little Old Lady sighed as if the wind of her homeland was playing through her mind. The small room was strangely still — strangely filled with peace. Suddenly the Little Old Lady spoke, while her eyes looked tenderly at the bit of shamrock that drooped on the palm of her hand. "Green it is !" she murmured, "like all of God's growing things — " All at once she laughed gently at a pretty little thought. "Child," she half whispered, "do we ever, when we see the growing things, thank God enough? We should thank Him every day that he didn't make the trees or the grass red, or purple, or orange. Think of our eyes if we couldn't rest them like with the deepness, or the freshness, or the softness of the green ! Do we ever thank him enough ?" The Girl visualized a world tinted, like a cubist picture, in orange, or purple, or red. Suddenly a convulsive shudder swept across her shoulders and she eyed, very thankfully, the 80 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS sprig of healthy, wholesome, romance-tinted greenness on the withered palm. "A bit of shamrock !" she mused, '^and in the old country the fairies are dancing on a ring of them — " The Little Old Lady, under cover of the shadows, raised the small leaf to her lips. "And me heart is dancin' with them," she sighed. Her voice was gentle — but a bit husky. II *J* j^Jhp HoostQr crows and ^oodnpcss knows, I'm sLoQpy as can bo ! I wondor why ho has to ccy Whon it's too dapk to sqq ? Jn fathprs tonos,"You Lazy boriQs!" ComQs shouting from t.ho lawn, I Pise and sigh and wondor why Tho R.oo6tGr crows at dawn ? ni toU _you true? what I will do, Whe-n I havQ ^^pown a man.. Ill stay in be^d a slippy hoad. As often as I ean__ And whon tho sun has just bogun To Gposs nry bodpoom doop; III hoar tho R.oostor cpow, and Oh! I'll lot him erow somo moro. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 81 THE INDIAN CHIEF'S LOVE SONG Last night you came to me, dear, in my dreaming. Light was your step as the breeze of the morn ; Bright were your eyes as two vivid stars, beaming, Soft were your lips as a rose-bud new born. Ah ! how my arms, dear, were stretching to greet you. Hoarse was my voice as it whispered your name — Swift were my feet as they hurried to meet you; All of the darkness grew bright as you came ! Last night you came to me, dear, in my dreaming, Sweetly you spoke as your hand touched my hair; Then I awoke . . . And the night birds were screaming. All of the world, dear, was stricken and bare. Here in my lodge, dear, I sit and my singing Echoes the wail of the wind on the sea ; Here I will wait for your kisses, joy bringing, Till you have come in my waking to me. 82 EBAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS LUCK When things come out most awful nice, Fer little Billie Green; He says : "My goodness, how I've worked, "Why, you ain't never seen, "A boy who works as hard as me — "I've earned just all I've got!" An' then he struts away, all proud — That's Billie to a dot ! When things come out most awful nice, And pleasant jest f er me ! Why, little Billy Green, he scowls As mean as he can be. An' though I've worked most awful hard. You'd never think I did — Fer Billy Green, he looks at me, An' says : "You're lucky, kid !" REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 83 BUNDLE DAY (Bundle Day was first celebrated this winter.) Perchance, who knows, some Lincoln soul. May shiver in the winter blast ; Perhaps some Washington may freeze. Where snow and sleet sweep thick and fast. Perhaps for just a pair of shoes, A man might throw his life away ; And we could give them what they need ! So people say — on Bundle Day. From attic, closet, rusty chest. The folk should take the garments down That they have kept, perhaps to use. Should send them to the nearest town Where homeless, jobless people cry. With lips too stiff and cold to pray. Some one has need of every rag. So people say — on Bundle Day. No one can be too small to give. For babies tremble with the cold ; No gift can be too mean to bring, For very young or very old. Whole clothes may bring new self respect, To men who droop beside the way. To girls who walk in ragged shoes — So people say — on Bundle Day. 84 BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS DOWN THE HUDSON IN A STORM The water swept behind us in a whirling sheet of white, That trembled on the billows of a river black as night; The storm clouds filled the heaven, and the dripping fevered sky- Shown bright with lightning flashes while the thunder rumbled high. We crouched against the guard rail — on the upper deck were we. The rain was in our faces, on our lashes — wild and free Were the winds that beat upon us, though their deep and sullen moan Was one half like fiendish laughter and was half way like a groan. Far below us stretched the water — and its arms were open wide To receive us should we falter in between the storm and tide ; And the shore (not very distant) seemed a thousand miles away, For the fog crept thick and gloomy, like a sullen sheet of spray. Far off against the skyline loomed the Catskills and the mist Hung on them like a bridle veil. The rain drops softly kissed The pine trees and the maples swiftly turning gold and brown, That crowned each mountain summit where the clouds swept grimly down. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 85 Against the rail we lingered and our souls were filled with awe, As swift our boat whirled onward past a changing line of shore — And fright was in our heart throbs as the vivid lightning flashed And thankful words crept from us when the thunder far off crashed. We passed a castle standing on a hill above the shore, We wondered had it stood there for a hundred years or more; For the background hinted darkly of a haunted forest grey. And the tower breathed her secrets that were many years away. The wind blew harder, colder, but the rain became more fine, And the thunder died to whispers in among the mountain pine; And the lightning, vanquished grandly, cast one long and gleaming spear To the army of the forest that was spreading far and near. We pressed against the railing with our faces toward the sky — And with tender smile we watched them as the storm clouds scudded by; And our hearts leaped to the gleaming of the first celestial blue. As the blackness split asunder, and the sun came smiling through. All the shore was dripping greenly in a warm and fragrant light. And the mountains rose in triumph high above the water bright ; And the trees that had been blighted by the wind and frost and rain Smiled forgiveness to the heavens and took up their life again. 86 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS We leaned against the guard rail, on the upper deck were we, And the world seemed friendly to us, we felt strong and fresh and free ; And the spray that dashed before us when our harbor had been won, Marked our triumph, for its gleaming made a rainbow in the sun! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 87 THE RIGHT TO PLAY (A short time ago a little boy was arrested for carving his initials on a city tree. — News Item.) I wonder if God sees his kindly forest trees, [shade ; Walled in from little children who would revel in their I wonder if God knows the terror and the woes That haunt each little city waif who lives to be afraid? I used to carve initials in the trees, when I was small, And now that I have wiser grown, and tall, The trees still stand — they were not hurt at all ! I used to make a heart with blunted knife. An arrow running through it, and today The memory prints a joyous page of life. Of love and play. No one said : "Do not !" when I carved my trees, And so, alone in all the forest shade, I listened to the singing of the breeze, And childishly I talked with God — and prayed. And yet, when children who by instinct play. Take knife in hand and start to carve a name. The city puts the knife (and child) away. Some call it Justice. . . . Some folk call it shame ! Oh ! little children saddened young by woes, I wonder ... If God knows? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS LOVE— AT FIRST SIGHT I saw her first in a gown of grey, A quaint little gown of another day ; Her hands were folded, her eyes were low, Her feet were crossed on the floor — just so — And I thought of words that I might not say. When I saw her first in her gown of grey. She gave me tea in a cup of green, A china cup with a silky sheen; Her hands were gentle and very slim, And white they looked in the twilight dim . . And I tasted naught of the tea, I ween. That she gave to me in a cup of green. The firelight made a rosy glow In front of her, and the world, I know. Was tinted just like a budding flower, That blooms and dies in a perfect hour. My pulses leaped that had faltered slow, When I talked to her in that rosy glow. She raised her lashes and looked at me. Her eyes were brighter than jewels could be ; And warm with light from her very heart, A light that pierced like some perfumed dart, Deep through my soul — and I could not see When she raised her eyes — for she looked at me ! I saw her first in a gown of grey, A dear little gown of another day — And I wished that my arms might hold her fast. While all the world full of shams swept past ; And I thought of words I might sometime say, When I saw her first in her gown of grey. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 89 AN EASTER FABLE SOME of us, here in the world, are destined to be flowers in the garden of life — tall lilies, or graceful roses, or modest violets. Some of us, perhaps not a few, may become weeds. No matter what we are, let us try, with God's gracious help, to grow beautifully, lovingly, helpfully ! Once upon a time, by some strange chance, a little seed blew into a large conservatory and settled down to sleep on the moist earth. Being tired from its long Journey it slept steadily until one day the sun poked a warm finger into the earth and whispered softly : "Wake up, tiny seed ; put your little green arms above the warm blanket and reach to me !" And the little seed, like a drowsy child on a cold winter morning, stretched its arms and smiled, as that same child would have stretched its arms and smiled to a loving mother. And there, above the brown blanket of earth, two small green shoots appeared and started to grow. The conservatory was very beautiful, and the little seed caught its breath with wonder and delight as it gazed around for the first time. Masses of glossy green foliage fell away from a small marble fountain and bits of statuary gleamed whitely from behind huge, graceful ferns. Great rose bushes filled the air with fragrance and tall lilies nodded lazily to each other. Bright-faced pansies giggled in a royal purple and yellow group, and clumps of mignonette blossomed shyly together. The little seed breathed a sigh of rapture as it looked, and wondered vaguely how it had ever happened to come to such a beautiful place. It remembered a time of tossing on the wind, a time being buffeted from one cold window ledge to another; finally a time of sleeping. But 90 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS this — the little seed gave another deep sigh — this was like heaven ! "I wonder," it murmured, "I wonder what kind of a flower I shall be when I grow up? Perhaps I shall be white and gold like the lilies, or shell-pink like the roses !" It wiggled its little roots in the softness of the earth and stretched its arms higher toward the warm, smiling sun. The days crept on, a vague number of them (for little seeds cannot be expected to count). There were many visits from a harsh man, who opened windows, and snipped leaves with a wicked-looking pair of scissors, and sprinkled cool water over the earth. He was called "the gardener." There were children who sniffed at the flowers and dabbled their fingers in the clearness of the fountain ; and there were young lovers who slipped quietly down the tiny walks and murmured gentle words to the accompaniment of the soft music that filled the rest of the house. The little seed hardly slept for sheer interest. "I wonder," it questioned one day of a tall lily that towered high above it, "I wonder if I shall ever look like you ?" The lily bent its wonderful head graciously. "I don't think so !" it said sympathizingly. "You don't seem to grow tall." For the first time the little seed looked down at its leaves. True, it had not grown tall ! Why, it was even growing fat and scrubby. Suddenly, with a fear that gnawed at its heart, it turned to its near neighbor, a pansy. Pansies are not tall. "Do you think," it asked, with a note of desperation in its voice, "do you think that I shall grow to look like you ?" The pansy shook its head — shook it cheerfully. "Never!" it murmured — "why, our leaves are different." Suddenly it jumped. "Keep quiet," came a whisper; "the gardener!" (Flowers never talk when folk can hear.) The little seed always shivered instinctively when the gardener passed. It gasped, now, in abject terror, as the man paused in front of it. "A weed !" he was saying contemptuously ; "a weed ! How REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 91 did it get into my garden?" All at once his rough fingers plucked the little seed from its warm bed and flung it, small roots quivering, on a wheelbarrow. "A weed!" muttered the gardener. He passed down the tiny walk. The little seed lay dazed, to all outward appearance, as it was being trundled from the conservatory. It felt as the captive emperors felt when they were being dragged through Rome at the chariot wheels. As it was thrown carelessly into a barrel on the gutter, its poor little heart seemed to snap. Quite suddenly it hated the other plants that were flowers, the gardener, the sun, even the warm brown earth. "I might have been a lily," it sobbed, "and I'm only a weed. I must die — I will die — the world is cold and I hate it!" Mary Ellen was coming home from the mission school. The kind Lady had been talking about flowers, and Mary Ellen's little heart was sad. She lived alone on the top floor of a tenement house with the Busy Mother, and she knew that there would never be time for a garden nor money for a plant. Still, the hope died hard, for Mary Ellen had faith in miracles, and she prayed as she walked home from the mission school. "0 God, send me a garden !" prayed Mary Ellen. She was passing a barrel at the time. Her keen eyes caught a shimmer of green in the depths of it — drooping, fading green. It was the little seed, and the little seed was praying, too. "Oh, let me die !" the little seed was saying. Mary Ellen poked experimental fingers into the barrel. Tenderly her small hand brought the bit of greenness to light. She surveyed it happily — its healthy roots, its drooping little leaves that were trying to die. Mary Ellen was a polite child — they teach one to be polite at the mission school. "Thank you, God !" said Mary Ellen. It was a triumphant entry that the little seed made into the small tenement room. The Busy Mother laid down her sewing and found a saucer to hold the visitor, and Mary Ellen 92 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS searched the whole place for a bit of sunlight to stand it in. "My garden !" she cooed. The little seed drooped in its saucer. It remembered the fountain, the sunlight, the rich, brown soil of the conservatory. "I cannot live here !" it cried. If the little seed had been a flower it probably would have died. But it was a weed, and though it moped and tried to smother its tiny soul, it continued to grow greener, and stronger, and more scrubby. The Busy Mother paused often in her work to look at the bravery of it; little Mary Ellen took sparkling stories of "my garden" to the mission school, and then one gala day when she came home at night she screamed with delight to see a tight green bud on the plant. "Mother ! mother !" she cried, "see — a flower." For the first time since it had left the conservatory the little seed felt proud. After all, it was something to be loved — after all it was something to bear flowers for a Mary Ellen. "I wonder what I am?" murmured the little seed. The next day at mission school the kind Lady told about Easter Sunday. She gathered the children, mostly little aliens, about her and told them the story of a wonderful Life that began in a stable and ended on a cross. She told them the way her church uptown celebrated the day with anthems and white-robed choir boys and lilies. She told how, afterwards, the flowers were sent to sick children. "We give them in His name," she finished ; "in His name ! Because," her eyes glanced far away, "because he gave his life for us !" Mary Ellen was listening. "We give because" — she asked breathlessly. "Lady, did he give his life — for me ?" "For you, Mary Ellen !" Mary Ellen walked home slowly. The Busy Mother greeted her with a smile that was less tired than usual. "See, dear," said the Busy Mother, "your flower has bloomed. I used to pick them when I was a tiny girl. We called them dandelions !" REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 93 Mary Ellen walked softly over to the flower. One small finger caressed the golden yellow blossom, "It's my dearest thing — next to you !" she said softly — "should I give it, mother ?" The Busy Mother Laid down her work. There in the dim little room the blossom made a splash of sunlight color amid the dullness. "Give it ?" she questioned — "give it — where ?" Mary Ellen looked at her garden. Then she looked at the Busy Mother who had again bent over her sewing. "It's going to be Easter Sunday," she said, "and Jesus gave his life for me. I want to give something to him !" Suddenly she sobbed. "It's my garden," she choked, "but I want to give it. It's — " she buried her head on the Busy Mother's shoulder and told about the church and the flowers. The Busy Mother patted Mary Ellen's small, tired head, and winked back her own tears, but over in the corner the little plant drooped its blossoms with shame. Why, lilies went to church on Easter — not iveeds! The next morning when Mary Ellen arrived at the mission she handed a newspaper-wrapped, queerly-shaped bundle to the Kind Lady. "It's for Him"— said Mary Ellen. "Him?" The Kind Lady was not thinking of the Easter story — "him ? What is it, dear ?" Mary Ellen choked back a sob. "He died — for me — " she told the Kind Lady, "and I want to give Him my dearest thing. Will you take it to your church ?" The Kind Lady's brow cleared. Softly, with tender fin- gers, she undid the clumsy wrappings, the bulky newspaper. In all its brightness the little seed glowed at her — "My garden!" breathed Mary Ellen. The Kind Lady's eyes were moist as she looked at the child's gift. She thought of the flower committee's astonish- ment when they saw the dandelion, and she made up her mind that it should have a place of honor. Suddenly she drew the little girl into her arms. 94 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS *'Your garden shall go to church, dear," she said, "and He, Himself, will watch it as it grows !" The church was wonderful — just as the conservatory had been wonderful. Masses of white lilies and green ferns breathed of love, and springtime, and resurrection. At first the little dandelion, in the shadow of a tall plant, was rather frightened and ashamed. It shivered with nervousness, and then — All at once a breath of something stole through the huge room — something sweeter than the perfume of the lilies, sweeter and infinitely thrilling — it was music. Unexplainably, with the music, a light of understanding crept over the little seed. It began to realize something about life and the meaning of life. It began to realize that, even though it was only a weed, there was a place for it in the world. It began to realize that a weed may be useful — even beautiful. The music swelled into a tone that held the mystery of springtime after the cold of winter, of life eternal after death; and the little seed sank back restfully until its small golden face made a spot of color against the green — color that looked like the sun. And still the music sounded — music that as- cended grandly to a wonderful chord before it melted away into silence. And when the music stopped the little seed breathed a prayer — a prayer to live. It had found itself. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 95 THE JOY OF EASTER The Boy Soprano fixed his deep blue eyes on the little window high up in the ceiling, and smiled with radiant ex- pression of a cherub. Then he opened his mouth and sang, while the huge congregation stiffened in their seats and clasped their hands. "Christ the Lord is risen today !" told the Boy Soprano, happily, "Alleluia, Alleluia." The lilies nodded fragrantly and the organ music swelled softly through the church. "Sons of men, and angels say," the second line rang out clearly above the sound of the organ, and the Stout Man with the Diamond Stick Pin drew his hand over his eyes. "Eaise your joys and triumphs high ! Alleluia, Alleluia," sang the wonderful voice tenderly, and then triumphantly: "Sing ye heavens ! and earth reply ! Alleluia, Alleluia." The sexton coughed softly and the Little Lady in Fluffy Black rested her head on the seat in front of her, while the golden voice fluttered on above the golden lily hearts. And then the benediction was pronounced and the people drifted homeward. It was a rich congregation, and the men and women were gorgeously dressed. They had listened to a good sermon, and they had complacently put a large offering into the silver plates. But the Boy Soprano had sung the hearts out of them and they were leaving with a certain feeling of joy. So for the day the Fat Man with the Diamond Stick Pin did not talk shop, the sexton did not grumble as he cleaned up the church, and the little lady in black did not cry as she placed flowers under the picture of a certain chubby little girl. It was Easter and the sun lay over the world, a great world 96 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS of flowers, and prayers, and kind deeds, and new hats. Men who had not been to church for a year read the Bible to their wives and thought of a Cross and a Eedeemer. Spring entered souls and hearts sang. It was Easter Sunday. But on the day after ; when a fine rain fell on the awaken- ing earth and the streets grew sloppy and gray; the Boy Soprano tracked mud into his mother's clean parlor, and the Man with the Diamond Stick Pin went back to business and swore at his clerks, and the Little Lady in Black shut herself into a room and sobbed questions to God, while the little picture girl smiled, and a thousand children with the Picture Girl's great wistful eyes sat in the rainy streets — Homeless. It was the day after Easter. I once knew a girl who was not strikingly religious. She admitted frankly that she did not think that she appreciated church, or the Bible, or Heaven. "The world all seems to be present to me," she said once, "and past. I can't quite guess about the future. I can't quite believe the things they tell me !" It was early spring time and I was calling on her. Some- how, though, I didn't understand her, she wakened my interest and curiosity. "Are you going to Church on Easter ?" I asked — this same curiosity having been aroused. "Oh, yes," said the girl gayly. "I always go on Easter because I will have a new suit and gloves and hat. I wouldn't miss it for anything. If you want me, I'll go to church with you." So on Easter I stopped for the girl, and, a vision in blue, she came out to meet me, the sun caught in her hair, the sky prisoned her eyes. Together we went to church. There was, for some reason, a visiting minister that day. He was tall and thin and unimpressive looking and we were rather disappointed. But when he opened his lips and began to talk to us we forgot about his looks. . . . Slowly the stained glass windows, and the heavy pews, and the choir loft seemed to melt away, and we saw a hillside REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 97 covered with armed men, and crying women and cursing thieves. And there on a cross was a form, blood-stained and weary. . . . The hillside faded away and again I looked at the tall figure in the pulpit who was telling, Oh, so simply, a beautiful story. Then I looked at the girl beside me. Head bent forward, lips parted, she was drinking in every word. Her dress was crumpled just a bit and her hat had slipped back a little, but she was absolutely unconscious of them. And as I looked at her I saw that her cheeks were flushed and that a beautiful light shone in her eyes. After the service we went home together. She didn't say a word, and I was silent too. Words somehow were unneces- sary, for she was seeing a cross; I was thinking of a pair of radiant eyes with a soul lying back of them. It was only when we parted at her door that she seemed to remember me. "I'm glad that I went this morning," she said softly and I knew what she meant. For her, that Easter would last through life. Spring time is of all the happiest time in the year. People ought to be glad in the spring time, they should want to sing and praise God, and do good when the world is awakening and the trees are beginning to have tiny buds, and the grass is springing up through the dirt and dust of the ground. And when Easter comes — Easter, with its carols and rejoicing, its lilies and song-birds, its sermons and its resurrection — the joy of spring time is at its height. Oh, people, there are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year. Every four years there are three hundred and sixty- six. And Easter Sunday comes only once a year ! It seems as if we could carry the happiness, and the rejoicing, and the goodness away with us for longer than a day, a week, doesn't it?" So when the sun streams down, and the lilies lift their golden hearts and the Boy Soprano tells us that "Christ the Lord is risen today" let us try to promise ourselves that we shall help and pray. And when a shadow comes between us 7 98 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS and the sun let us think of a shadow that lay on a hillside long ago — the shadow of a cross ! And when the sunset glows over the world at evening, and we fold our hands with the feeling of a task well done, remember that it is Easter time (whether it be spring or winter, summer or autumn). For long ago a Man died, suffering, for us and He is risen. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 99 MOONLIGHT When moonlight breathes a throbbing hymn, Across a sea of dreams ; Then troubled day lies far away, And every shadow seems To hold a promise, sweet, of peace. Of God's own country bright ; And no one fears as midnight nears. For heavy hearts grow light. Ah ! Wars may rage and folk may die, And nations sad may be; But God is gracious when He sends. The moonlight to the sea. When moonlight breathes a silver prayer, Across the sea of life ; Then saddened hearts forget their smarts, And all the din of strife Fades from the mind, and troubled souls Are lifted up on high ; And angels bright with holy light. Sing softly from the sky. What though the voyage be all too short? God's hand is strong to save; And through the clouds our eyes may see. The moonlight on the wave ! 100 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS WHY, YOU KNOW! Do I love you ? Can you ask me such a thing ? See that bird way up above us, see his wing, How it seems to touch the blueness of the sky? Dear, my love for you is reaching just as high ! Do I love you ? Watch the sunlight on the sea. See the lights and shadows dancing far and free ? Makes the water all a-glisten, gold for miles. That's the way my love is gleaming 'neath your smiles ! Do I love you? See the meadows stretching far. And the grass — just think of all the blades there are ! My, you couldn't count them, could you, in a year. But my love is twice their number, for you, dear ! Do I love you? Ah, my darling, if this land, Were my own I'd put it gladly in your hand. How is one poor tongue to tell — I love you so, Dearest, are you laughing at me ? Why, you know ! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 101 BLACK Don' yer cry, m' baby. Did they tease yer hard ? Chased yer from th' schoolhouse, Ter yer own back yard ? Whut were it they called yer ? Hush — they won't come back, Called yer Nigger baby. Called yer black? Don' yer cry, m' honey, They don' mean no hurt ; They cayn't see th' diff'rence 'Tween yer skin — an' dirt. They cayn't guess, pore chillen. Ain't a one 'at knows. That yer mammy calls yer. Little yellar rose. Don' yer cry, m' darlin'. Wipe yer shiny eyes ; Smile at 'em right lovin'. Take 'em by surprise. Tell 'em that th' Father, Made yer heart as white. As th' little snowflakes Dancin' by so light. 102 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Don' yer cry, m' baby, Did they tease yer hard ; Chased yer from the schoolhouse, Ter yer own back yard ? Made yer tears flow over. Honey, smile 'em back ! Mammy loves her baby, Though he's black ! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 103 XO, I AM WITH YOU ALWAY" Beside the plow He walks with me, And if my step he slow, He pauses, waiting so that He May lead me where I go. I feel His presence at my side. His hand upon my hair ; His love sweeps boundless, like the tide, About me everywhere. Beside the plow He walks with me ; I cut the furrows deep, I know His gentle eyes will see The harvest that I reap. His guiding touch is on my arm, And well I know the care That keeps me safe from sin and harm Is with me everywhere. Beside the plow He walks with me. And all my troubles sweep Away, I know that there will be No time to pine or weep : My very oxen seem to feel The rapture in the air ; The love that lives to bless and heal Surrounds us everywhere. Beside the plow He walks with me. And lo, the sun shines down : The same that smiled on Galilee, And on a thorny crown. God grant that when the shadows creep Across the mountain fair His love may still be wide and deep About me everywhere. 104 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS VACATION DAYS Vacation days of gold and blue, When fairy tales seem almost true ; When eyes are bright and glad hearts sing, When I am queen and you are king ! When boats are swift with sails of pearl. And I — in heart a tiny girl — Laugh light with all the joy of life, Without a fear, pain or strife. Vacation Days ! When all the earth, Is just a vale of sun and mirth ; When laughter ripples on the breeze, And song birds flutter in the trees. When every mountain top so high. Steals sunlight from the glowing sky ; When every river seems to sing — Of youth and an eternal spring. Vacation Days ! Along the sands, The waves stretch out entreating hands ; And every gleam that tints the sea. Spells happiness to you — and me. Of all the world you love me best. And I — but oh ! you know the rest, For every breeze sings sweet and low — A song that says "I love you so !" Vacation days of gold and blue. When all the world is good and true — When I am queen and you are king. When eyes are bright and glad hearts sing. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 105 THE KIND CONDUCTOR I STEPPED gratefully on to the trolley car and sub- sided, near the door, into the only vacant seat. It was a very crowded trolley car; crowded with men and women, half-grown children and little crying babies, and as I looked interestedly down the aisle I saw workingmen in dirt-stained overalls next to women in broadcloth suits, prosperous people in fur-lined overcoats sharing their seats, unwillingly perhaps, with ragged immigrants. It must have been extremely cold out on that back plat- form, for the conductor was holding his fingers before his face blowing on them. He had a blue, pinched look about the mouth. As I smiled quite unconsciously out of the door, he pulled his lips frozenly together and smiled back at me cheerily. The conductor had a pleasant though rather commonplace face. He had tiny laughter lines around his eyes, deep smile wrinkles at both sides of the mouth. His sandy hair was brushed back from a high forehead, and his eyes, deep-set blue eyes, twinkled at some small joke even as he tried vainly to blow the numbness from his finger tips. I found myself imagining him with a beard and long white hair, and I almost laughed as I realized how much he would look like Santa Claus, or Saint Valentine, or any of the other merry-men of childhood, if he could suddenly become old. A fat woman with a thin, just-beginning-to-walk baby started to lurch toward the door. The car was going very fast, so fast that she stumbled from side to side, while the frightened child, with a look of vague despair on its poor little face, reached groping hands toward the firmness of the seats. Involuntarily I stretched out an arm to steady the little 106 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS thing, but as I touched its small coat sleeve the conductor pushed open the door, lifted the child and steadied it until the car stopped. His eyes smiled as he handed it to the fat woman and watched her hurry off down some side street. A little girl, a rather fluttery, nervous little girl with an old-looking face, stepped on at the next corner. She gazed hopelessly, helplessly at the conductor as she handed him her fare. "I've got to go to normal school," she told him worriedly, "but I don't know how t' get there ! The car doesn't go right past, does it?" The conductor put the coin into his fares pocket and beat his cold hands against each other. "I'll let you out, Miss," he told her kindly, "at a corner just two blocks from the school. Walk straight away from the car tracks and the first big building you see will be the one you are looking for. I'll call out when we get to the street." And with the nervousness fading from her face the little girl passed inside. A faded old woman and a pretty young one were sitting far to the front of the car. They had attracted my attention several times, for the young one had her arm protectingly around the shoulders of the old one, who sat leaning heavily back with closed eyes and pale, nearly grey face. They were both dressed shabbily in very neat clothes, and as I was wondering what their story might be I saw the girl get up and help the old woman to her feet. When I saw them pressing do'wn toward the door, the one tenderly solicitous, the other with tight-drawn lips and halting step, I realized that the older woman was desperately sick. When they reached the platform the chilly-looking conductor smiled reassuringly at the girl as he stopped the car. While they stood hesitating in the doorway at the top of the cruelly long steps, he jumped to the ground and held up his arms. The old woman was a very little old woman and he was a very big conductor. Gently, tenderly, as a trained nurse might have done, he lifted her from the high place and set her on the ground. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 107 "You're good," the girl murmured; "she's very sick, my mother is, just out of the hospital — an' she can hardly walk." The conductor didn't answer. He only grinned — a cheer- ful, radiant, combination Santa Claus and Saint Valentine grin. Then he climbed back on the platform again and pulled the bell rope. The car was beginning to thin out, and as I gathered my things together I thought of conductors in general. I thought of the cross ones, who wouldn't wait, and the snappy ones, who wouldn't help, and the occasional surly ones who growled. I compared them with this conductor. While I was doing it the car stopped at the corner and a man got on, a man who looked almost objectionably prosperous from the soles of his patent leather, cloth-top shoes to the tip of his shiny imported hat. He held a bill out and waited im- portantly for change, while his small eyes looked curiously at the face in front of him. "I'm glad I haven't your job," he volunteered, not un- pleasantly; "it must be pretty bad in winter out on the back platform in the cold !" Comfortably he snuggled down into the depths of his fur-collared overcoat. The conductor switched open the door and held an Italian woman's heavy market basket for her as she clambered stiffly down. He pulled the bell rope before he answered. "Oh, I don't mind it," he answered cheerfully as he handed out the change— "y' know I like it — rather." It was then that I decided to write this article. I had arrived at my destination, for the car was slowing down to the right street. I got off slowly, and the conductor smiled at me with his happy smile while I stepped to the ground. The car swung heavily, clumsily around the corner and I saw him plainly on the back platform — for the last time. He was blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. 108 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS IN THE APPLE TREE *'TT THAT," asked a small, girl-voice from the branches of W the apple tree, "what are you doing in my garden. Ogre man?" The man who sat under the apple tree jumped and looked up. His frown faded away as he gazed blankly into the screen of nodding green leaves. "Who," he stammered, "what—" The leaves parted rather marvellously and a face peered down at him, dryad-like, from between the branches. It was a deeply tanned little face with dancing blue-grey eyes, and a wistful mouth, and soft elf-locks of brown hair. The man scrambled to his feet as he looked. He scrambled a bit awk- wardly for one leg dragged in a limp rag-dollish way. "Pardon me," he said rather shortly, "I didn't know it was your garden — anybody's garden." "Oh," answered the voice from above, "oh, it isn't my truly garden — it's just my pretend garden. I'm the princess of this country, you know." The man gazed out over the rolling hills, the orchard, the green meadows. The sunlight danced goldenly between the trees, the white road stretched far off into the distance — perhaps to fairyland. "It's a beautiful country, your high- ness," he murmured, falling in with her mood. "May I stay in the garden — this once ?" There was a rustle in the soft foliage of the tree, and a hand — rather dirty from climbing — waved graciously over his head. "Of course you may stay," answered the voice, "that is, if you'll stop looking like an Ogre, and smile !" The Man settled back luxuriously on the grass with an REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 109 exclamation that was half a groan, and half — almost — a sigh. "You wouldn't smile," he scowled up at her, "if your foot were permanently out of business. You'd look like an Ogre if you had to — limp." He snarled the last word. "But," said the voice from above, consolingly, "you have lovely brown eyes, and the longest lashes !" In sheer amazement the Ogre man stopped frowning. In grim surprise he stared blankly up at the wall of leaves. "But I can't walk on my eyes," he snapped. "But," answered the voice just as consolingly, "you can make 'em dance. Please do !" The Ogre man laughed half-heartedly. "You're just a kiddie," he told her — "little princess. You don't under- stand . . . what's your name?" The voice, a bit hurt, came down to him after the space of two golden minutes. "You must be all of twenty-five yourself," it said, "kiddie !" The tone was scornful. "And as you're curious, and I'm in an apple tree, we'll say my name is Eve. The name doesn't matter — ." The Ogre man was twenty-eight and flattered himself that he was blase enough to pass for thirty. He started to frown, but as he looked up he saw the face again peeping through the leaves. The face was smiling and a dimple dented one softly tanned cheek. It was a bewildering dimple. He forgot to frown. "It's a nice day, isn't it?" he asked foolishly. The leaves snapped together, and the face was submerged in the tumbled green wave of them. The voice, slightly cold, floated down after a moment. "Very," said the voice, "very nice, indeed !" There was a deep interval of silence; all around the shadows played hide and seek with the sunbeams. All the country was brilliantly colored in emerald and gold. The man breathed a deep sigh and moved his lame foot cautiously in the grass. Above his head in the tree a calm silence brooded. He coughed nervously and raised an anxious pair of eyes to the leafy screen. The silence held. He raised his 110 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS arms above his head and yawned loudly — rudely. It had the desired effect. "Shall I sing you — a lullaby?" asked a small sarcastic voice. "You can shout war-whoops," said he contentedly — "if you'll only say something. It's lonely being an Ogre man in a far country." "It isn't a far country — " corrected the voice — "you know it isn't. But I'll talk just the same. A princess must be gracious. . . ." "Oh, yes indeed!" agreed the man. He would have agreed to anything. "A princess must be nice — even to an Ogre. How did this country happen to belong to you ?" "Well," there was a laugh running through the voice, "well — it was this way. I was walking past the orchard — and I thought 'it's a nice orchard even if the blossoms are dead — and the apples haven't begun !' And then I thought 'poor orchard, it must be lonely — with no one to love it.' And then I came to a tree. And it had low branches, and my skirt was short, and I said, 'Eve, you're a little girl in rompers.' So I climbed up. And then you came. And I was just planning a prince." The voice stopped. "And I came — " said the man harshly — "with my limp. An Ogre man instead of a prince." He relapsed into a cloud of gloom. The branches rustled faintly and the face looked out — a face with a smiling mouth but tender eyes. "You've got a sweet disposition!" said the voice. "Poor Ogre man," said the tone. The man heard the tone, he ignored the words. "I won't be pitied," he said shortly. "Hang things, anyway !" Overhead a leaf, torn into shreads, fluttered to the ground. "You think I'm a — rather mean girl, don't you?" inquired the voice from above. "Perhaps, if you tell about it. . . . How did it all happen? When?" "It doesn't matter much, does it?" answered the man REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 111 wearily. "I'm Hamilton Dean, you know — " he paused expectantly. Nothing happened. The branches of the tree rustled, but no breathless voice made a startled exclamation, and the man went on. "I was an actor — movies," he said bravely after a moment, "I did Wild West stuff — starred. Maybe you've seen my pictures. They used to have them all over. I did a lot of riding stuff, and . . . there was a girl. She worked in the same company. I thought that I loved her ... I thought that — she loved me." High in the tree the voice breathed something sym- pathetic. The man twitched on the grass, as if he was in sudden pain, and pulled his limp foot gingerly along the ground. "I did a lot of riding stuff," he repeated. "I was proud of it — so was she. It's a queer world. I was an Indian sometimes, and she played opposite me. Sometimes I was a cowboy, and sometimes I was a Mexican. I made up pretty dark. . . . She always played opposite me." The small face tipped perilously out of the tree — "I un- derstand," said the voice — "was she pretty?" The Orge man drew a deep breath. "I thought so — then," he growled — "I thought that her eyes were turquoise and her hair gold and her voice music. I know now; that I was only young — very young, indeed. Her eyes were hard ice and her hair was yellow, and her voice was rag-time. But I thought I loved her." The leaves rustled vaguely overhead, and the man heard a twig snap nervously. He laughed. "I had a stunt to do one day," he went on. "It was an Indian riding away from a crowd of whites. I had to climb down around the horse's side and hang there — to get away from their fire, you know. The horse's leg caught in a hole. He landed on my foot and smashed it. The doctor wanted to amputate, but I wouldn't let him, so he put it together a bit. I didn't want a wooden foot. When I got 112 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS out of the hospital they didn't have to say a thing. I knew that my riding days were over. I knew I'd finished with the movies. I went to the girl and told her so — she gave me back my ring and I didn't blame her much. I noticed first that day that her eyes were blue — ice-hard! I came away. ... I heard later that she had said she wasn't going to have a crippled husband on her hands to support. I haven't seen a film since. I don't want to see one." The Girl in the Tree sighed. "Poor boy," she murmured, "poor boy." The Ogre man stirred uneasily. "I had some money saved," he went on — "we were going to buy a house. I bought a farm in the country. It wasn't near the beaten track. I limped away from the world, and lived through the dreariest winter of my life. When the spring came the pain left my foot — some — and I began to remember. The picture folk were very, very near to me, and before I knew it I began to make situations for them to act. I began to write plays. It was easy. I knew the business. They fix 'em up in the city and send me a check every month. It's a pretty big check — I never come in contact with them, I never see the reels. I know a few names — Weldon Hobart, he's my star. Evelyn Martindale plays leads — Harry Fishley is my comedy man. I wonder about them — but I never want to see them. I don't care about that end of the game. But it's lonely work." The girl up in the tree laughed chokingly. "You're not an Ogre man. You're not," she told him. "You're brave. And the girl was a cat." The man shook his head. "Brave nothing," he snorted — "and the girl was only natural. Who wants to be tied up to a cripple ?" He looked gloomily at his limp foot. "What are you doing here?" he asked suddenly. "Why," said the small girl voice in the tree. It was a startled voice. "Why, I'm here for two reasons — business and a vacation." REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 113 "Business," the man laughed, "you're too young to know anything about business. What's the line — dolls?" "Why," answered the voice in the tree softly — "I'm a movie actress. And I'm up here to see a man." "What sort of a man?" asked the Ogre suspiciously. "What sort of a man?" he frowned. The girl in the tree laughed. "A man who writes my plays — " she said.. "I wanted him to see me. Some of the parts are wonders, you know, but some of them don't fit." Her voice was plaintive. The man dragged himself slowly, painfully, to his feet. He leaned against the tree trunk. "Then," he questioned slowly, "you're Evelyn Martin- dale — the leading lady. That's why you were in my orchard." "I thought it was," said the voice, "but you never can tell who orchards belong to. You don't mind seeing me, do you?" The face, a trifle flushed, peeped out of the tree. The man studied the face. The flickering dimples, the tanned cheeks, the deep eyes. Suddenly he smiled boyishly. "Fairy princess," he begged, "won't you come down? I can't come up, you know ?" The girl in the tree dropped lashes, deeply black, over the tenderness in her eyes. "If you help me," she murmured faintly, hands extended. The man took the hands in his own. They were rather dirty from tree climbing. "You were watching for a prince — " he said softly — "and an Ogre man came, with a lame foot." "I was waiting for a prince," said the girl, "and you came." A golden minute crept breathlessly away, and then sud- denly the man reached longing arms toward the face that smiled down at him. "Oh! fairy Princess," he murmured, "may I reign with you in your country?" The girl in the apple tree laughed gently and the dimple played in her cheek as she leaned toward him. 114 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE NIGHT RIDE Swift through the night, dear, The road is dark behind us, And vagrant breezes sing to us as fast the moments fly; The city streets lie far away, And not a light to blind us, Shines nearer than the silver moon that trembles in the sky. Swift through the dark, dear, A thousand voices call us, They lure us down the road that stretches ribbon-like afar ; Our searchlight cuts a path of gold, Ah, how could harm befall us, When all the world is throbbing like the heart of some great star? Swift through the dark, dear. The night is all before us; Your face is looking forward, but I feel your eyes aglow — And silence trembles all around. It droops its mantle o'er us; And not a sound is spoken of the wonders that we know. Swift through the night, dear, The world is all behind us; I touch your sleeve with outstretched hand, and in my heart I hear Your voice, and it is calling me — God grant no sorrows find us ! For all the world seems kind and good, because I love you, dear ! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 115 THE SHAME OF IT! War! The ages trembled at the word before; And battle cries have torn the years apart; And fires shooting upward to the sky Have burned themselves into a nation's heart. The cave men fought with hammers made of stone ; They knew no god, they knew no guiding hand; They battled for their rights, and quite alone They fought to keep their homes, their fertile land. And they were brave as blood-red men could be; They did not shrink at torture, or at pain; They died upon their feet, and, grasping, wished That they could fight once more — could die again. Yes, they were brutal. But the world was young; They knew no better than the beasts they killed; And we have heard their stories, bravely sung, The tales of men with strength and courage filled. We cannot blame theyn — but in war today The people know that God is judge on high ; They know the words of men, whose visions say, "Thou shalt not kill — thou shalt not cause to die 1" It is not only soldiers, strong of arms. And generals, toughened to the sight of shrouds. And sailors, who are used to war's alarms. And men who wait their death among the clouds ; If they alone could face the death they seek — Could do their wholesale murder by the score. It would be fair; but why should women weak Be made the victims of a mighty war? 116 HEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS If all the ravage that they do could be The buildings tall that grace the countryside, The battleships that rule the mighty sea, The harvests rich that flourish far and wide, We could forget in time the waste they did — But how can we forgive the hand that stayed The maiden Progress? And the hand that bid A welcome red to Famine's awful raid? God, we pray to ask that we may see The nations bright once more with glowing grain; We pray that some time soon a light may be Upon the gentle faces drawn with pain. We pray to thank thee for thy loving care, To ask that peace from our fair land may spread To other countries — glowing everywhere, A benediction on the needless dead. Peace ! The years have smiled upon its bright release, And prayers have soothed the hearts with sorrow torn, And songs of praise have fluttered to the sky To tell that Love of all mankind is born. BEAL PEOPLE — AND BREAMS 117 TO A SILENT MAN You look at me with eyelids lowered slightly, As if to hold a latent gleam of mirth; And (though of course I may not guess it rightly), You wonder how I stay upon the earth. I laugh and talk, but even in my jesting, I feel the hidden glances of your eyes; As if I were a — worm — and you were testing, My mind beneath a glass, with faint surprise. And though I try to wake the interest in you. With funny tales and clever bits of verse; I see a yawn, and when I but begin, you Will murmer, "That was bad — don't make it worse!" Oh ! if a fairy with a wand and septre would come and give me wishes one, two, three, I'd ask that you might talk, and if you didn't, that I might know the things you think and see ! 118 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS IDYL The north wind cries outside, dear, And down upon the strand, The angry, foaming tide, dear. Is beating on the land. And in the forests dark, dear. The wolves are howling low; And every bit of park, dear. Is drifting white with snow. Oh! many folk there are, dear, Who wander cold and numb. They watch some distant star, dear. And pray for dawn to come. The firelight is gold, dear, What though the night be chill? What though the ice be cold, dear, Upon the rugged hill? The stormy winds may cry, dear. Far out upon the sea. . . . The lovelight in your eye, dear. Brings summertime to me. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 119 LIFE'S SONG A love song echoed on the breeze, It was a breeze of morning; And, listening, I watched the sky, I watched the dew adorning The rosy buds upon each tree, I heard the robins singing; And down upon the ground I knelt. Where tender grass was springing. A song of passion filled the air. The heavy air of noon; And oh ! the sun beat hotly down, And blended with its tune. And I, I trembled in the glare, I shut my eyes, and falling — I knelt upon the parching grass. And heard my heart's wild calling. A song of triumph rent the wind. And tore the day in pieces — A song that always thrills the soul. Until each heartbeat ceases. I listened, filled with praise and awe. And with a cry of gladness, I knelt upon the leaf-strewn ground, Without a thought of sadness. A h3ami crept on the freezing gale, A hymn of peace and blessing; 120 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS It robbed the evening of its dark; And oh ! my heart confessing, Ejielt down before the Lord of all, And low I crouched. The greying Shades of the night time softly came, And all the world seemed praying. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 121 UNKNOWN I passed you on the street today, And passing, for a space, Your eyes met mine and seemed to say That sometime face to face — Our hearts might beat in perfect tune, Our hands might touch — and cling. Perhaps that meeting may be soon. Perhaps the years may bring No vision of you back to me — Ah, years may be so long ! And yet my soul will always see You, passing in the throng. 122 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS HOUSE CLEANING "T N the spring a young man's fancy liglitly turns to J_ thoughts of love !" sang the poet. Perhaps it does, but the poet should have added quite a bit to his lay. He should have said other things about the season of budding flowers, and returning song birds, and smiling blue skies. He should have said, "In the spring a woman's fancy turns to thoughts of — house cleaning !" Just about this time of year, as the train that carries me to the city or back home again sweeps through pleasant little suburban towns, I notice a great flutter in the small houses that line narrow side streets. There is a vague atmosphere of pulling down curtains and beating rugs and washing windows and varnishing woodwork. If the train hesitates, as it often does, I catch sight of women in gingham aprons and dust caps, brandishing long mops and wicked looking brooms and placid dust pans. For in the springtime many women, in fact most women, feel a desire to polish and dust and clean, just as insistently as the tiny birds, returning from the Southland, feel a desire to build nests and start housekeeping in the branches of a spreading tree. I know a woman who gets a very bad attack of house cleaning fever every year. She takes worn clothes out of her closets, and smudges from her wall paper, and dust from her rugs, with a persistency that would do credit to a gen- eral pursuing an enemy. In her case the enemy is dust. Well, the woman cleans — religiously. She makes her family rather unhappy with the cleaning, for their most treasured possessions (that were not ornamental) disappear, and their clothes get full of holes, and they have no place to be comfortable in and not very much to eat. They come REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 123 home at night to find her worn out with the heaviness of her work, peevish and unhappy. The woman cleans until the house is a dream of spotless, shining beauty, and then she sighs contentedly and breathes in the freshness of the spring air, and takes up the round of little duties that she has ignored for a week or two, and she smiles and feels happy and — lets the dirt collect in for- gotten corners so that next spring she may have another cleaning. And though her house grows dingy during the summer and autumn and winter months, she waits for return of the annual cleaning time. There is another kind of woman who, once a year, renews the old bits of furniture and faded draperies and worn rugs — • who polishes and washes and sweeps. But she takes her task leisurely, and every day a little more space is brightened and dressed up. At night when her family comes home they find her calm and interesting and sweet, and when at last her yearly cleaning is over her home looks just as well as the home that was worked over so very feverishly. Then during the year, instead of sitting by waiting for the return of spring, she keeps everything looking well, although she only cleans lightly. Both women have the right idea, but one is efficient and the other isn't ! I rather think that we all should do a little spring clean- ing every year; we should clear our minds and our souls as well as the actual homes that we live in. We should get rid of the garments we can no longer use, and we should burn up the reminders of unhappy thoughts and deeds. We should find out what part of our brain machinery is not running well, and we should repair it by reading, and thought, and prayer. We should polish our manners and put a new coat of the varnish of faith over any disillusionments, and we should wash the windows of our souls. And during the rest of the year we should try to keep our house smooth and dusted and in order. When I was a little girl I used to visit at my grandmother's home, and being a very active child I used to build tent^ 124 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS with calling cards, and castles with books, and oceans with billowy manuscript papers. I used to put dolls to sleep in the soft, easy chairs, and I used to build marvelous robber caves and dungeons with huge sofa cushions. When I had been playing for a short time, the room looked as if it had been struck by a young and very lively tornado. There were papers and dolls and chairs and cushions strewn in such con- glomerate heaps that it was hard to distinguish any one object. One day I chose the drawing-room for my play house. I had a gorgeous time for hours and finally, tired, I settled down in front of the open fire and began to dream stories as I gazed into the wall of leaping flame. It was at this time that a visitor walked in and settled herself in a chair, while her card was sent up. She surveyed the scene with nearly indignant eyes. As I stole quietly out of the farthest door I lingered, fascinated by her sternness, in the shadow of the portiere. When my grandmother came in with cordially extended hand, the visitor spoke abruptly: "How you do let that child get dirt around the room," she said. My grandmother glanced about with quizzically raised eyebrows. Then she put a doll gently out of one of the chairs and sat down. "Oh — but it's clean dirt," she said in a tolerant tone. I stole away. Oh! friends of mine, if we must muss up the houses of our minds and our souls so that they need a spring cleaning, may the dirt be clean dirt, that though worthless and in the way, will be harmless and full of happy memories. "In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," but a woman's turns intensely — ^to thoughts of house cleaning I REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 125 THE MOLD OF HEROINES BEFOEE the war Eva Barath was a Hungarian telegraph operator. She sat on a chair in front of a switchboard and plugged at keys and sent out code messages (isn't that what telegraph operators do?) and received many aston- ishing or commonplace messages in reply. I do not doubt that some mornings seemed very blue to her as she left her warm bed and started for work; I would not be surprised to know that often, in the dull, tired evenings, she wished, as she guarded the singing wires, that she were a rich girl who could sit on a satin-covered divan and eat chocolates and read, with never a care to worry her. We all at times have wished that same wish — distorted, perhaps, or painted a little differ- ently on the outside — but the same wish. Before the war Eva Barath was a telegraph operator. But now that the war has been raging for three-quarters of a year she has stepped lightly before the public eye, and folk read about her and honor her. For Eva Barath is a heroine. This is the story : The telegraph oflSce where Eva worked was on the Servian frontier, and one day the girl, used by that time to the dis- tant rumble of guns, was surprised and probably frightened to hear them coming very near. Before she could realize the fact, grasp it in her brain, she knew by the terrifying whir of bullets and crash of machine guns that the battle was being fought only a breathing space from the door of her office. In a case like that I think a great majority of girls — girls brought up to dull work and utter peace — would have hurried as fast as possible from the spot, leaving their work unfinished and their hat and coat on the peg by the door. 186 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Eva Barath didn't. She crouched low over her desk and, with an eye to the battle, began to plug at the little keys. A clicking sound answered her efforts. She was wiring news of the battle to headquarters. The shots rang heavily about her, and the air grew thick with smoke and horrible with screams. Oftentime the little building rocked on its founda- tions and the instrument itself, perhaps, almost broke. But Eva Barath stayed at her post until the office was destroyed by a Servian shell. Then, when she could no longer be of service to her country, she thought of herself. She had been a telegraph operator when she walked in to work that morning, but she was a heroine when she left. It was not many days before all Hungary was honoring her, not many days before she wore the country's highest reward, "the Cross of the Order of Merit," on the front of her simple little waist. It wasn't so long ago that the United States was thanking a girl who was as brave as Eva Barath in circumstances just about as trying. She was a telephone central, and it was during a great flood that she sat at her switchboard, while the water whirled up about her, warning folk of the terrible menace that crept toward them, swiftly, quietly, like a wolf in the night. She sent message after message until the valley of the flood was filled with hurrying families, who climbed to high places, where they watched their homes go down in the angry whirlpool, and thanked God that they had been saved — that they had been warned in time. As for the central — well, presently the water rose very high and the wires snapped, and the girl put down her head and went very quietly and peacefully, and I think I may say even contentedly, into her rest. She had done what she could. I like to think that in those last moments she was upheld by the divine Power which gives courage to the martyr — for she had truly given her life for others. Very many of her country-people may not recall her name, but the world still remembers the brave deed of the humble telephone girl. It's a wonderful thing to think of the divine workings of REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 127 Providence when it comes to heroes and heroines. The opera- tor on the Servian frontier might have been the coward that she wasn't; the girl who telephoned news of the flood might jnst as well have fled to safety, but she didn't! Providence had cast their natures and hearts in the heroic mold, as the hour of trial proved. I went to luncheon a few weeks ago and heard several girls talking about bravery and critical situations, and hero- ines. I heard them wondering what they would do — if the chance came; what they would say — if they had to say any- thing; how they would act — if it was necessary for them to act at all. "I," said a fluffy little girl with large eyes, and an appeal- ing mouth, and small hands that made inadequate butterfly gestures, "I know that I could never be brave. I know that I'd never win an Iron Cross or a Legion of Honor medal if I were a soldier. Why, at the first shot I would lie down flat on the ground and hope that the bullets would fly over me; or I'd get behind a huge tree and pray that the guns would point in some other direction. If they came nearer after that I'd — I'd desert!" She laughed, and bit daintily into an olive. A tall girl with a dark, intense face spoke up. "I'm ashamed to hear you talk that way, Alicia," she said a trifle sharply. "You don't mean it — not a bit. You're only saying it to sound cunning ! Why, I'd like nothing better than to lead a troop under fire, a troop of soldiers that lis- tened to my voice, and waited for my step, and followed me — into death if need be ! Think of the thrill and the ex- citement — " "And the shrieks, and the blood, and the dying, and the machine guns," interposed the small blond girl. The dark girl opened her mouth — the very movement looked impolite. Then she shut her mouth — with a bang al- most. Her eyes flashed and she turned away, as a young Jeanne d'Arc might have turned away. I listened to them in silence, and I am rather inclined 188 REAL PEOPLE — AND BREAMS to think that I sympathized with the little timid girl. I didn't exactly imagine that I would "thrill" at the sound of bugles, or be "excited" at the thought that I was leading others, perhaps to victory, probably to death. And as I thought very quietly about it all, I studied the two faces, the blond, childish one and the dark, stern, thoughtful one. I wondered vaguely what lay under the calm exteriors. I wondered if either of their hearts were cast in the mold of heroines, or if their words were little, insignificant things. I wondered, if there ever came a time of doing deeds, when there would be no time for talking, how each girl would act. Perhaps a gesture of the butterfly hand might do more to- ward quieting a panic, or soothing a multitude, or leading a troop than a flash of command from the dark eyes. Friends of mine, you must not say how you will act if something happens. Go along, day by day, doing your regu- lar tasks, and in that way prepare yourself for the emer- gency that you may some time have to meet. Eva Barath was able to be brave by doing, at an exceptional time, the same thing that she had always done, while others were try- ing to do something different. Most heroines are made that way. As for the mold — well, the mold of heroines is perhaps life and the conventions and the fears of life, that at times hide the real value that lies inside. But when the crisis comes, the moment of emergency, when hands tremble and brains whirl, when the coward is miraculously brave, and the brave one shows the white feather, if we have allowed the mold to shape us — our minds, our characters and our hearts — we shall come out with proud step and bright eyes, and folk will call us heroines. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 129 GOD'S LITTLE CROSS 'Ats a li'l dolly on my wagon draped wif flags, All w'apped up wif bandages — des like a so'jur boy; I'se a nurse in uniform . . . No one u'd ever guess 'At I was des a li'l girl — an dolly's des a toy. My li'l dress is striped wif blue, an' on my head a cap Is standin' up as stiff as stiff, an' des as w'ite as snow. An' on my arm I wear a sign 'at people all will see — For every nurse is wearin' em' — God's li'l cross, you know. My doll's lyin' des as still — des like the ones 'at fall, When dey get hurted wif a gun 'at shoots 'em frough and frough; So on my wagon are some words 'at everybody says: 'TiCt us have peace." (I'm wonderin' if dey will soon come true?) 0' course I'm only playin', for I never saw 'em fight, I never saw 'em crying for ve houses tumbled low; But still I love to act pretends — 'at I'm a li'l nurse — An' on my arm I wear a cross, God's li'l cross, you know. 130 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS LONELINESS The night wind howls in the forest, And the moon shines over the sea; And the stars gleam high in the Heavens, Away from the earth — and me. And the owl is calling, calling. Ah ! his cry is a mournful note, That strikes to the heart like a poisoned dart. While the sobs rise up in my throat. I lift my lamp with a shaking hand, And I close my door with a sigh; And I draw the blinds from the dark and gloom. But the ghosts of my life pass by ; And the night wind is just as dreary. As it was in the days of yore; And I close my heart from the pains that smart, While the memories crowd at my door. I see a face in the shadows. That is tender, and grave, and kind; But the shadows flee from a spirit shape, Drawn out of a troubled mind. And alone in the cold and darkness I pray, and my eyes are dim, Ah ! what do I care for a memory fair. When my heart has gone home — with him? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 131 THE DESERTED MILL It stands alone and silent Beside the singing stream; And at the time of twilight The sunset's fading beam Rests on it like the shadow Of some forgotten dream. Its wheels have long been quiet; It braves the rain and snow; And yet its heart is aching With emptiness and woe; And I am sure it misses The grain that used to flow. Beneath its sloping shelter, In June the lovers stand, And tell a sweet old story That lives in every land. (They think that it is sleeping And does not understand !) It stands alone and wistful Beside the sighing stream; And at the time of twilight The sunset's dying beam Rests on it like the promise Of some forgotten dream. 132 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THAT NIGHT That night, my dear, the skies were singing. The silver moon laughed softly down, And every flower sweet was springing. To God from out the earth so brown. That night, my love, the trees were leaning Together, and their blended shade, Gave every shadow, vague, a meaning, As if the angels near us strayed. That night, my own, the very sighing Of saddened hearts was turned to mirth; And everything was bright, undying, And Heaven touched the throbbing earth. Oh, every star was warm above me. That night when first you said you loved me! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 133 THE BIRTHRIGHT The call of fields that are kissed with sun. And the flowers bathed in dew, And the roads that start from the very heart Of the Heaven's deepest blue. The playful breeze in the highest trees. And the brook with its singing note, And the songs that rise to the sunfilled skies. From the depths of a robin's throat. Oh ! the dusty town and the city wide. And the mill with its steady roar; The children pale with their bodies frail, And the gloom of a tight shut door. Little fingers that sew along. On the length of an endless seam ; And saddened eyes that have lost surprise, At the sound of an engine's scream ; A light grown dim as the shoulders slim, Bend over a knotted thread; And a childish mind that is dead and blind, In a drooping uncombed head. Oh ! God who reigns in a golden land. Look down from your throne above; Their cries are weak and the help they seek. Is only a little love ! 134 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS CHRISTIANITY When yer bump against some feller in a trolley on th' street, Just because th' car is swayin', an' yer can't keep on yer feet ; If yer kick 'em on th' ankle, an' yer feelin' awful blue On account of you was clumsy — an' yer don't know what ter do. If yer try ter say, "I'm sorry — " an' yer hang yer head an' grin. Just as if yer don't know whether it's a joke or yet a sin; If that other feller tells yer, "I can hardly stand up too, Gee, this car is awful jerky," he's a Christian just like you. If yer goin' to a party an' yer break a china cup, An' yer bend, as red as fire, when yer pick th' pieces up; An' yer know that cup was costly, 'cause 'twas awful nice an' thin, An' yer wish th' floor would open so as you could sink right in. If yer say, "I didn't mean to, but my fingers sorter slide When I'm holdin' onto dishes !" an' yer wish that yer could hide. If yer hostess says, "Don't worry — 'twas th' best thing you could do — 'Twas a cup I always hated!" she's a Christian just like you. Oh ! it don't make any diiference if th' chaps you see is grand. If they speaks ter you real proper, when they shakes yer by th' hand; An' it doesn't matter — awful — if their collars aren't clean, REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 135 An' their fingers rough with workin' or their clothes is pretty mean. They kin use most fearful grammer an' kin stumble when they walk, They kin be outrageous clumsy when they try ter join th' talk; But — an' this is all important — if their hearts is kind an' true, An' they say th' words ter help yer — they are Christians just like you ! 136 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS A NATION'S BIRTHDAY WHEN" your mother and sister and brother and father celebrate their birthdays, you kiss them, don't you, and wish them many happy returns and give them some gift to show them that you love them and wish them well? You do that every year, and every year the loving words that you say grow more tender, and the gifts that you give come from a heart more overflowing with affection. One hundred and thirty-nine years ago, a little nation was born in a small courthouse in Philadelphia. The little nation had many godfathers who wrote a remarkable birthday speech and signed their names, names that will live through history until the end of the centuries, for it was baptized in the blood of a great war. As the little nation grew older, it waxed strong and vigorous and greatly beloved, but it was looked upon scornfully at first by the other nations, who were old and aristocratic and loaded with family traditions, looked upon, maybe, as we would look at a romping child who plays by itself, laughing, through the golden hours of sunlight. And so it grew. At last a time came when the little nation became sick, and gasped, and almost died, while a great wound, as broad as a river, cut it nearly in two. But it struggled, with short tortured breaths, for life, and finally it began to grow better until, in another courthouse farther south, the wisest phy- sicians of the country proclaimed that it would again grow well and strong. As the years went by the scars from the great wound grew fainter and less distinct. In time they will be no more. . . . This nation, our nation, once small but now very great and very beautiful, celebrates its birthday every year on the Fourth of July. What do we give it for a present? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 137 I was talking to a girl a few days ago who had just come home from her first trip to the national capital. I asked her what had impressed her most of all. "Why," she told me, "one day I went out to Washington's home at Mount Vernon. I went all through the beautiful rooms, and wandered around the lovely grounds until finally I came to a great tomb. It was Washington's tomb. As I stood in front of it, more or less impressed, I noticed that every man who passed by took off his hat. SomehoAv, that sight sent a deeper thrill into my heart than any other." It's a beautiful thing, this respect for a great man who has passed on. It is a beautiful thing to respect a great nation that is living. Eespect is one gift that we owe our country on its birthday. These are wonderful times — history-making times — that we are living in. We, every day, see something happening that has never happened before, or read of some startling de- parture from old laws to new. War clouds hang darkly just across the ocean, and oftentimes a bursting flame leaps out of the horizon. I remember, as a little child, playing in autumn with bonfires. It was a pastime that my mother did not approve of, so I was always closely guarded by watchful grown-ups who shooed me away from every gleaming ember that stretched snaky, inviting fingers in my direction. I would play around the fire happily, because I knew that the grown- ups would not allow me to get burned ; and when the glowing sparks had died away and grey ashes had taken the place of the leaping fiame walls, I would be unhurt, and my hands would not even be soiled by the smoke and soot. It isn't the easiest thing in the world to play with fire and never suffer from burns. It isn't the easiest thing in the world to stand in the light of a glowing wood-pile and come out with clean hands. If I had been alone while I watched the bonfire, I would probably have been seriously burnt. I would surely have been scorched a bit and made very dirty. Over across the ocean the fire may be very red 138 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS with blood and flames; it may be very black with ashes and smoke and misery; but if we have faith in the little nation (now grown big) and in the wise and capable minds helping to guide this nation, the fire may leave us unburned. It may leave us with clean hands. That's another birthday gift that we owe to our country — the gift of faith. Once, as I was walking through the East Side of the city, I saw two little boys fighting. Before long other little boys, friends of the first two, rushed toward the scene of combat and took sides in the fight there in the street. Angry words and large stones and a few tin cans were flung from one side to the other, until the uproar could be heard at quite a distance, and a crowd started to gather. Every available child for blocks around seemed to be in the midst of the melee, and because it was impossible to get through the crush of surging humanity I lingered there on the outskirts and watched with wide eyes until I saw a broad-shouldered policeman pushing himself into the thick of the fight with a club raised threateningly over the not very large com- batants. As I turned to go through a side street, I heard a small chuckle at my side, and looked down into the face of a tiny boy who had made no attempt to join in the com- bat. As I looked a smile wreathed his dirty cherub face, and he winked with a deliberate flicker of long lashes over dark eyes. "You aren't fighting?" I questioned in wonder. Every little boy in the world seemed to be fighting there on the sidewalk. "Naw !" said my small companion. "But isn't anyone a friend of yours ?" I questioned again, eager for information ; "isn't there anyone you want to help ?" The child looked up into my face with a twinkle of rogu- ish eyes. "Ain't I helpin' more by keepin' out of it?" he asked me. We owe our country that kind of help on its one hundred and thirty-ninth birthday. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 139 Have you ever been in a great hall, or at some huge band-stand, listening with the mixed crowd to the music of an orchestra? Have you ever noticed how some people were listening to the classical selections with rapt faces, while others were frankly bored ? Have you ever noticed how some people will sneer in disgust at the ragtime that other folk smile at while their feet beat time on the ground ? And then, when you have gotten the picture in your mind — and it's a picture of great contrast — have you ever heard the different instruments take up the melody of an old song, and as the violins and the cellos and the flutes blended together softly in the first chords, have you ever seen smiles chase away frowns, while hats came off and the audience, at last united in spirit, rose to its feet? That happens whenever a band or an orchestra or even a hurdy-gurdy plays the "Star-Spangled Banner," and loyal citizens are near at hand. Oh, our little nation is grown up now; it is no longer a child playing in the sun, for it has grown-up cares and grown-up difficulties. Since, each year, it grows nearer and dearer to us, on its birthday we should give it gifts. The greatest gift is love. 140 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE GIRL WHO CAME BACK SOMEWHEEE ' across the room a clock struck in a peevish way, but Ellen Thompson only leaned closer to the pad and pushed her pen firmly — albeit wearily — along the dull blue lines. One hand, the fingers buried in her tousled brown hair, twitched suddenly and the head drooped just the fraction of an inch. Her wide, unnaturally wide grey eyes followed the wavering line of her pen, as if she made them stay open by sheer will-power, and her slippered foot beat nervously on the wooden leg of her desk. ''Oh !" she murmured, "My arm's asleep, my feet jump, my head's a vacuum. "Oh !" she half groaned, "my hand aches like — fury." The twitching foot stopped for a moment, the sleepy arm wiggled, the vacuum head drooped a bit lower, but the aching hand never hesitated, the wide eyes never left the blue line on the paper as the words clattered hurriedly into sentences — pages rumbled achingly into chapters. "It's the most wearing thing I've ever done," thought Ellen Thompson, even while some other part of her mind kept the plot spinning on, "and the biggest. It's going to get me somewhere at last," she thought, even while her hero was dying artistically on a snowy country lane. "It must be done tomorrow," she moaned as she made her heroine shriek and crumple up in a silent white heap. The night hours wore on, blinking ghastly-faced hours that walked softly past her chair with cold, gleaming eyes and death-like, clutching fingers. The hand that guided the pen faltered once, and the girl who pushed it choked back a sob. Outside between tall rows of buildings a sullen REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 141 night wind moaned a dirge that beat rhythmically with the pounding words that wavered uncertainly before settling down, on the neat blue-lined page. A chill breath of air crept over her ankles, embraced her knees, but still she wrote, flogging warmth and enthusiasm into her tired mind. A man in the death house at Sing Sing knows, instinc- tively, shrinkingly, as the days pass that everything must, in the nature of things, end. A school girl, shuddering through a thunderstorm, knows that it will be over in time, even though she stuffs insufficient fingers into her ears and cries inefficient tears into the softness of her pillow. When Ellen Thompson, with a dry gasp, dropped her pen sprawlingly on the table and flung her spinning head into the depths of her arms, she felt that she would never be rested enough, but she knew that she was finished — that her work, as it stood, would be accepted — more than accepted — as her best. The numb coldness crept up through her brain and she slept sud- denly, her face buried in her arms — her arms clasped on a pile of manuscript. In the stillness of her room the clock started to strike, hesitated, and coughed spasmodically. It had broken down. It is a rather pitiful thing to see a clock break down. Some little French clocks stop counting the hours because they are ornamental, too ornamental to have competent ma- chinery; and some huge grandfather clocks stop running from sheer ancientness. But when a modern, well-built little clock stops ticking because its delicate machinery has been overstrained, watchmakers and jewelers wonder — and very often fail in their remedies. I think that there are a great many human clocks — the ornamental French kind, the an- cient kind, and the delicate, efficient modern kind. I think, too, that the Great Watchmaker often wonders — . The price that Ellen Thompson received for the Big Story was pitifully small, but she looked radiant as she held the check in payment for it in her hand. It meant a month, at least, without worry about clothes, and rent, and food. It meant that for the first time she was ahead of the game. 142 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Ellen Thompson took one week of rest. Feeling strangely weary and unambitious at the end of the seventh day she took another week of rest. At the beginning of the third week she put on a new suit, a new hat, a set of new furs and started out for a walk. She had often heard it said that folk found inspiration in walks. She came home fresh and happy, but with no desire to write. She sat down that evening to count her money. It was much more than half gone. The week crept on in a sombre way. Oftentimes Ellen sat down with a pencil in her hand and tried to put thoughts into a story, but her thoughts were vague, and her words came haltingly and her plot failed to materialize. At the beginning of the fourth week she sent a story to the magazine that published her work. It was a short, badly written story with a weak plot and characters that were mere puppets. Even she could see that. At the end of the fourth week it came back with a curt note. "Dear Miss Thompson," said the note, "I am sorry that I have to send this story back. To be frank with you, it is not up to your best work. Try to do something that is like your Big Story." It was signed with the editor's name. At the beginning of the fifth week Ellen Thompson began to see that she was no longer ahead of the game. She began to wish that she had not bought furs, and a suit, and a hat. She began to pray that she could do some- thing really good. She took to sitting at a desk with her pencil in her hand, writing sentences on paper that were ultimately thrown away. She read the first installment of the Big Story with wonder — fear almost. She began to question herself, she even tried to copy her own style. But the next story was sent back with another brusque note. "Not good enough," said the note. At the end of the sixth week Ellen Thompson went to the magazine office. And there she was quite frankly told that her work was not good. "It wasn't your best," they told her, "and it's only your best that people want. What seems to be the matter?" REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 143 Ellen Thompson didn't know. She went home and cried until her head ached and her throat was sore. Some poets say that Hope is the most beautiful thing in the world. Perhaps it is, but oftentimes it is the most mis- leading thing. Hope, a hope that turned from beauty to veritable bitterness buoyed Ellen Thompson along and smoothed over a few of the roughest places. She tried steadily to write— and failed just as steadily. Blindly she turned to verses and advertising copy, but there was no opening. And then at last one day it dawned on her that she might never be able to write again, that she might never do anything to back up her one piece of good work. That night she sat long at her desk, furiously scribbling with no interruption. Not even the clock ticked — it was broken ! The finished story was short — and puny. She sobbed as she read it. Still there was a vague hope in her heart as she tramped toward the magazine office. Perhaps the story seemed bad because she was expecting it to seem bad; per- haps it had some spark of genius that she, uneducated to genius, could not discover. The hope was short-lived. The editor was too busy to be seen. He had never been too busy in the days when the Big Story was being written. Brusquely, peevishly almost, he called his secretary to him. "Smythe," he growled, "it's that Thompson girl again. Glance over her stuff and if it has any glimmerings of in- tellect bring it in to me. If not — give it back. That girl is a disappointment." The incident was closed abruptly and the secretary went out to meet "that girl." The story had no glimmerings. Back again in her room Ellen Thompson sank into a chair. What was the way out? She picked up a pen; once it had been as light as a feather dipped in dreams; now it was wood. She flung it from her. She looked at the mantle, and the silent clock mocked her. All at once she realized that she and the clock were both failures — broken. She realized that a certain something had left them both. 144 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Out in the street a clang sounded. It was an ambulance rushing by. Like a flash she remembered that there was always a way — a coward's way — but, a way! There was the river, or poison, or a grinding death beneath car wheels. With nerveless fingers she pinned on her hat, opened the door. The room behind her was very still. The stairs were a series of tortured black blots with a grinning demon crouch- ing on each one of them. Every landing held a tantalizing ghost figure that pointed a long, mocking finger out of the gloom. Like some broken wildflower, like some torn young tree, Ellen Thompson crept down flight after flight until she reached the door. She paused for a second, irresolute, on the threshold and then suddenly struck out in the direc- tion of the river. Elvers are more comfortable than car wheels, less nauseating than poison. Your careful, com- plete suicide chooses the easiest way. The night was rather chilly and very dark. The city seemed to be sleeping — a drowsy, fevered rest — but still sleep- ing. Lights gleamed dimly through a thin fog, figures jostled against each other and broke away with hoarse-voiced mur- murings. Unexplainably the girl felt that she was alone in a ghost-ridden world, and as she trudged along her loneliness and her trouble rose up mountain-like before her. A hand organ was playing a popular song on one earner and a sad-looking little monkey crept around with a small tin cup in his hand. Eor some reason Ellen Thompson felt less lonely when she saw him. He was tiny and tired — per- haps troubled, too. She had a wild desire, since she could no longer write, to carry a tin cup like the forlorn little animal. Quite suddenly she laughed and there was a note of hysteria in her voice. A small park rose before her, a lonely little park built on a rocky bit of ground. Somewhere on the other side of that park lay the river — somewhere across a tiny space of rocky, grassy field lay the answer — the great answer to every- thing ! WHEN sunshine paints the sky with gold, And crimson streaks the west; When every bird has settled down Into its tiny nest — When evening quiet fills the farm. My sorrows from me fall, For, as I watch, the ducks come home To answer Molly's call. The barnyard noise has died away^ Into a drowsy hum, The cows and pigs and horses wait/ For supper time to come. .-i^ Ah, somehow as I stand and watch,' Life seems serene and sweet, When Molly calls her feathered flock. And gives them food'to eat. m REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 145 A line of trees rose gaunt and starved-looking to meet a row of narrow, cold iron benches. There was a woman in a shawl huddled on one of them, a pair of whispering lovers sat on the farthest one. The mist made a grey frame around them all. Quite suddenly Ellen Thompson felt a weak sensation in her knees. She wondered childishly if they were made of jelly. Over across the park lay the river; she tried to push on but the traitor knees failed her. She sank limply on the edge of the nearest bench — the bench that the woman — the shawl- wrapped woman, was sitting on. All at once she felt a wild desire to cry. The shawl-wrapped woman looked up sharply as Ellen Thompson sank down on the bench. Her face, seen mistily through the fog, looked white and drawn and hopeless. She gazed long at the girl and then suddenly her eyes dropped to a huddled bunch that lay under the shawl on her lap. All at once it moved, and she gave a dry, despairing sob. "Oh ! God— God ;" she cried. Ellen Thompson looked with startled eyes at the other end of the bench. Thoughts, blurred thoughts, swept through her troubled brain. Selfishly she was almost glad that other people were sad — that other prayers went unanswered. "God — God — " moaned the woman. "He's dyin', my baby." Like a flash the cloak of Ellen Thompson's indifference fell from her shoulders. Why, there was a bahy wrapped in the shawl. She might have known — but then it was such a quiet baby — perhaps — The woman was moaning again. Her white face, lifted appealingly to the sky, was strained with despair and fear. "He's dyin'," she muttered. "God— God!" Swiftly Ellen Thompson rose to her feet. Two short steps took her to the shawl-wrapped woman's side. "Can I help?" she questioned timidly. The woman raised haggard eyes to her face. One thin hand swept away the shawl. 10 146 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS "My baby," she sobbed weakly, "my baby!" Ellen Thompson, in the old days, had known many mothers with fat, placid, well-fed babies. She always pic- tured them with cherub faces and innocent blue eyes. Some- times at night the vision of them came to her and left her lonely, with outstretched arms. She loved babies and yet she started back, with a cry, at the thin wraith of a child that lay silent in the shawl-wrapped woman's lap. Its little face was pinched and blue, its great eyes were filled with a vague terror and the shadow of death stretched a menacing hand toward its throat. With a half sob Ellen Thompson fell on her knees in the path while her hands gripped on the woman's ragged skirt. "What's the matter with him?" she asked breathlessly. "No home," said the woman gruffly. Her voice was heavy with unshed tears. "No food — cold." Her voice broke sud- denly. Like a flash of lightning it struck Ellen Thompson that she could do no good after all. Her purse was nearly empty — her money was gone. Perhaps in a week she would have no home — perhaps tomorrow she would herself be dead — drowned at the bottom of the river. Her hands loosened their hold on the woman's skirt. "I have very little," she sobbed — "very little, but — " she thrust her thin purse into the woman's hand. "But perhaps this will help — some." The woman in the shawl looked passively at the purse in her hand. Her lips curled contemptuously as she looked, and her eyes grew hard. "A little money," she sneered. "It's not money that he needs, it's a doctor, a miracle. It's God's hand he needs!" The baby lay on its back and stared blankly up at the misty sky. Every few minutes a slow shudder crept over his tiny form, crept over his small white face. As the girl looked she too felt that only a miracle could save him. She looked at the purse, the pitifully small purse, she looked at the baby and at the cold, grey mistiness. Not nEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 147 far off the young lovers rose to go, and their hands touched softly as they walked into the foggy distance. "Oh ! God, a miracle !" she prayed as she rose slowly to her feet. God has different ways of sending miracles. The un- initiated sometimes call them coincidence, or mental telep- athy, or chance, but they are God's miracles in common- place form. As Ellen Thompson rose to her feet she saw the answer to her prayer coming down the path. The Miracle was a medium-sized young man in a loose coat, with a felt hat pulled over his eyes. He switched at the small trees with a light cane and whistled softly as he walked. The woman in the shawl was sobbing wildly as she clutched the little, nearly rigid form in her arms, but Ellen Thompson looked at the approaching figure with a feeling of comfort and awe. Perhaps, on this silent night, in this sleeping city, God had, after all, li.stened. The Miracle was very near now. Ellen Thompson clasped her hands nervously and watched him. Everything — the shawl-wrapped woman, the baby, the night, even, was strangely quiet. She stepped out into the path. "Oh, Sir!" she grasped, "Oh — please — " her voice was imploring. .'*-f« .it The Miracle stopped in his tracks. His face — outlined vaguely in the greyness — showed a faint interest, a faint surprise. "What — " he murmured. The woman on the bench leaned forward and her wan eyes gazed up into the man's face. Quite suddenly one of her thin hands shot out and grasped his coat sleeve. Wildly she began to cry. "It's him— it's him," she sobbed. "It's th' doctor !" Her sobs drowned out the rest. Like a straw, swept away on the tide of circumstance, Ellen Thompson stepped out of the path. She felt like an onlooker peering onto the stage of a great theatre from a 148 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS seat in the wings. The shawl-wrapped woman had forgotten her. The Miracle was kneeling where she had knelt on the path. "It's Mrs. Murphy !" he exclaimed, and there was real surprise in his pleasant voice — "It's Mrs. Murphy — and in trouble — " he paused. With a movement, at once hopeless and trusting, the woman drew the shawl away from the baby's wasted little form. "It's my baby," she whispered — "it's my baby ! He's dyin' — and I didn't know where to' go an' I'm new in this place — " her voice died away. The Miracle was not listening. His hands, infinitely tender, were loosening the dress at the baby's throat, smooth- ing the damp hair from its pale forehead. Ellen Thompson, fascinated, drew nearer. "Can I — help?" she questioned. The Miracle looked up briefly. His eyes took in the white girl face, the sad eyes, the wistful mouth. "You can run," he told her abruptly, "to the nearest drug store — any store. Telephone for the Charity Hospital's ambulance. Tell 'em to come here." He bent his head over the baby. Ellen Thompson stooped to pick up her flat little purse. In the moment of emergency she remembered that it costs five cents to telephone. Then, with knees no longer weak, she ran. The river lay in the opposite direction. Time, at a crisis, either runs exceedingly fast or creeps in a terrible, slow manner. It seemed only a few seconds when Ellen Thompson, after hurrying to the store, phoned and found herself back again beside the park bench. But the Miracle had his coat spread on the grass and was work- ing silently over a wraith-like little figure that lay stretched upon it. As one in a daze the girl passed the shawl-wrapped woman who sat strangely huddled on a bench, and knelt down on the other side of the improvised bed. Unused to sick people, unused to physical suffering of any sort, she found herself feverishly following directions, vaguely helping. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 149 Once she almost laughed at the absurdity of it all — that she, Ellen Thompson, who had gone out to take a life was saving one. The ambulance came at last with a clanging of bells and a jangling of machinery, and a white uniformed interne sprang out. The Miracle straightened up and lifted the baby in his arms. His face was smiling whitely as he looked over the small bundle at the shawl-wrapped woman. "Your baby," he said slowly, "will live." The shawl-wrapped woman gave a great cry and stumbled to her feet. Ellen Thompson, looking at her face, was re- minded of a famous madonna that she had seen in a museum. All at once she blinked to keep the great tears from her lashes. The Miracle turned to the interne. "Take these two to the hospital," he ordered — "and take care of 'em. Feed the woman and be careful of the baby — he's a very sick kid !" The interne took the baby into tenderly skillful arms and walked away toward the ambulance, but the shawl- wrapped woman, hurrying after, paused by the Miracle's side. One hand grasped his arm, the other groped for Ellen. "May God bless you," she sobbed, "may God bless you !" Her eyes wandered from one face to the other. "Some day when you've children of your own you'll understand !" she told them brokenly. She hurried after the interne and Ellen Thompson was left alone with the Miracle. The park was filled with a soft, throbbing darkness, strangely fraught with mystery. The sky sang and the earth answered. Ellen Thompson smiled. Her purse was light, but then her heart was curiously light, too. The Miracle saw the smile. With a firmly molded hand he lifted the hat from his head and looked thankfully up at the dim stars that tried to gleam through the greyness of the sky. Suddenly he too smiled and his smile was good to see. "Perhaps," he ventured, "perhaps you'll let me take you home? It's rather late. And since we've come together under rather odd circumstances, you'll tell me your name? I'm Doctor Harvey." 150 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Very few people who go out, wearily, to commit suicide, come back with attractive young Miracles named Dr. Harvey. It was not hard for the girl to tell him her name, and before they had gone many blocks Ellen Thompson found herself confiding her business, and her ambitions; her hopes and her successes. For some reason she did not tell him of her discouragements and her fears. It seemed quite natural to be walking away from the river toward her home. She forgot the Big Story, the clock that had stopped ticking. The city was no longer ghost-ridden — it was the city of the Sleep- ing Beauty and she was a fairy princess. The Miracle talked, too. He told how he had received his training in a far-off city and how Mrs. Murphy (the shawl-wrapped woman) had been one of the cooks in a large, grim building where he had first dashed about on an am- bulance and answered emergency calls. It was a mighty queer coincidence, he said, that he should have been the means of helping the kind Irish woman who had, not so long ago, smuggled pie and cake to the lonely boy that he had been. He told of her disappearance from his sight, of his call to another city, but he did not need to tell about the strange meeting in the park — Ellen had seen that. He too had hopes and ambitions that he confided boyishly. The walk to Ellen Thompson's door was not very long. It was with a start that she paused suddenly before the stone steps and held out her hand. '''It's goodbye!" she said regretfully. The Miracle took the hand in both of his. All at once his eyes looked deep into hers, looked until a flush rose up over her cheeks. She felt a sudden warm beating in her temples. It was not unpleasant. "Do you believe in fate ?" he questioned suddenly, breath- lessly — almost. "Well, it was fate that brought you and then me to the park this night." His grasp on her hands tightened and Ellen Thompson, for one throbbing moment could feel his pulses stirring madly against her own. "I may see you again?" he questioned hoarsely. BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 151 Ellen Thompson jerked her hand away. Something in her breast was singing a glorious Te Deum. "Yes," she murmured softly and fled through the doorway. Coming down the stairs had been a ladder leading to a bottomless pit. There had been a grinning demon on each step. Going up a light from heaven shone across her way and a smiling cherub dwelt in each shadow. She opened the door of her room and lighted the gas. It was all as she had left it. The desk, the pile of manu- script, the mantle, its silent clock; but Ellen Thompson smiled as she crossed the room. She had gone out, beaten by circumstances, but in the space of a few hours she had seen tragedy and comedy, commonplaces and miracles, life and death and — the beginning of love ! With firm fingers she lifted the clock from its place. "You're still," she said, "still as — the grave, and worn out and done, but I'm — I'm alive !" Her voice broke as she thought of herself, brought pale and dead, with dripping hair, from the river. All at once she laughed and there was a note of triumph in her voice. "You can be quiet all day," she said, "and I don't care !" With a fling of her arm she tossed the clock into the corner. It was a night of miracles. The clock struck heavily on the floor and lay with its little white face staring at the ceil- ing. Perhaps it was the bang, perhaps it was just God, but all at once — as many human clocks do — it gave a little cough and took up the work that it had been made to do. It began to strike the hour that it had never finished. Ellen Thompson crossed to her desk. There was a pen lying on it and a pile of loose papers. Suddenly she sat down in her little chair. She thought of the getting- well baby and the Big Story. She thought of the doctor who was coming again. She smiled. In the corner the little clock lay face upwards. It ticked merrily. . . . Elleji Thompsori took up her pen and began to write. 152 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS JIMMY NEALAN'S SACRIFICE Through the corn-field troops were dashing, Shot and shell Turned the waving golden glory- To a hell. Horses screamed and wounded heroes Writhed, and lay Silent in the summer splendor. Of the day. Poppies grew among the cornstalks, Not as red As the vivid spots of color, Where the dead Lay in crumbled useless torment. Cannons spoke Sharply through a veil that quivered . . . Powder smoke. Jimmy Nealan scouted bravely Through the corn. He had been at work — yes, killing — Since the morn. All alone he crawled and fired. Till at last Something, whirring swiftly, held him Still and fast. Minds in battle are unsteady: Jimmy lay Stiff and silent, watching armies Dash away. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 153 "God!" he murmured, as he lay there, "Am I dead?" Blood was on his shirt, and dripping From his head. Cornstalks golden make a halo In the sun — Jimmy, lying senseless — almost, Thought of one Who had hair that gleamed as golden, Cheeks as red As the poppy flowers, scattered By the dead. "Will she know," he pondered slowly, "Where I fell? Will she cry for me, I wonder. When they tell ? Will she know that I was fighting Till the last? Will she know my thought was of her When I passed?" Jimmy groaned, as if an answer Came a cry, "Oh! dear Father," sounded faintly, "If I die— Who will keep my wife — my children Free from fear?" Jimmy, moving, saw a soldier Lying near. Jimmy tried to smile and couldn't, Swift he spoke; "Gee, that's tough!" he murmured softly Through the smoke. 154 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS "It ain't awful hard — this djdng 'Cross the foam, When yer haven't got a family, Waitin' home." On the soldier's face beside him. Terror cold . Stamped the features that were always Brave and bold. Fever made his eyes glow brightly Like some gem — "God !" he cried, "don't take me with you, Leaving them !" Jimmy stretched a hand out slowly. Then he spoke — Very soft his voice, and feeble Lest he choke. "Tell a feller 'bout yer fambly, Pard," he said, "It's such tired work — this lying Half way dead." On the soldier's ghastly features Crept a smile, "Boy," he said, "I'll tell a story Worth your while. There's a wife — her picture lying On my breast — And three kiddies — say they're dandies, Are the rest ! They were brave when I was going. Bless their hearts; But I know I leave a vacant Place that smarts. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 155 And my wife, when last she kissed me, Whispered low : 'Boy, be brave, and come back — for — I Love— you — so !' " Just about tlie most distressing Sight to stand Is a strong man crying weakly. Jimmy's hand Eubbed across his eyes and aching Filled his brain. (For at last he knew the awful Depths of pain.) Shadows flickered on the corn field, All was still. But a distant roar of battle From the hill — All alone the dead and dying Gasping lay. In the glowing sunset splendor Of the day. Twilight came and very faintly From afar. Shone the first vague silver glory Of a star. Jimmy heard a stifled breathing, And he guessed That his wounded friend was gaining Needed rest. Jimmy sighed, and watched the night time Creeping dark. In among the waving corn stalks. Watched some spark 156 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Crawling slow across the hill-top Far away — Jimmy gasped and speaking vaguely. Tried to pray. "Now I lay me," murmured Jimmy, "Down to sleep. God of all the hosts of battle. Let me keep Brave until the end o'ertakes me. Let me rest, Like a little child that slumbers. On your breast!" Suddenly across the corn-field. Walked a form — White his suit, as snow that glistens In a storm. On his sleeve he wore a symbol Poppy red — And he murmured soft to Jimmy, "Are you dead?" Jimmy gasped — his prayer was answered — Whispers came. To his lips grown stiff and blackish. "In His name, Who are you that comes?" he murmured, "Will you save Me an' him — my wounded comrade — From th' grave?" Swiftly bent the doctor over, "Well," he frowned, "I've a stretcher — only one here — On the ground. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 157 I can take you or the other, Not the two — He's asleep, he'll know no difference. Him or you?" All the heroes do not perish In the light, Jimmy's tired eyes stared weakly, Through the night. In each star a face was glowing . . . Yes, the girl. Corn silk was her soft hair blowing All a-curl. Jimmy tried to speak — but didn't For a sound Came to him from that faint sleeper On the ground. And the tears that touched his cheekbones Made a track. For his comrade murmured, "Darling, I'll come back!" Jimmy rose upon his elbow, And he faid. As the lifeblood spurted fiercely. From his head, "I ain't got no wife," he shivered, As from shock; "He's a better man than I am. Take him. Doc !" 158 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS PASTURE LAND The shadows fall, a velvet brown, Across a stretch of pasture land ; The trees are silent, scarce a breath Of wind is stirring. God's own hand Has smoothed the troubles of the world Away to some far distant shore; What though the echo of a gun Proclaims that somewhere there is war? The grass is short, and heavy feet Have worn it level with the soil; The cows have cropped the clover blooms, And, coming from his daily toil. The farmer pauses in the shade. And breathes, perhaps, an honest prayer. To thank his God for health and peace, And summer in a world so fair. When shadows fall, a velvet brown. To tell that toil, and day, must cease, When all the world, its trees and grass. Is covered with a veil of peace — Then let our feet, that may be worn, Pause for a bit, that we may stand Among the cows, and send a prayer To God from his own pasture land. nEAL PEOPLE — AND DEEAMS m) A POOR MAN'S LOVE LETTER If one is very very poor, And humble, too, And yet, if one with all his heart Loves only you ! If one whose very eyes when closed Can see your grace — If one, in every dream at night, Dreams just your face, If one, when tired can not rest. Because your eyes Look at him from each quiet nook With sweet surprise — If one is sure, oh ! very sure. That years away There'll be no heart-throb less of love, Than lives to-day. . . . Oh ! dear, you know — you surely know, My hope so true. But: If one has just oneself to give, What can one do? 160 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE WORLD OF SAND All alone in a world of sand, By the side of a smiling sea, A small girl played with a wooden spade. As happy as she could be. The sun beamed down on her dimpled feet, The wind kissed her ruffled hair — And she ruled in a land, a world of sand That was vast to her eyes — and fair ! All alone in a world of sand. By the side of a summer sea. She used her shoe (and her stocking too) To fashion her castles wee. The waves sang softly to see her there, And high where the sunbeams shone. The angels smiled as they watched the child Who played in her world — alone. All alone in a world of sand. By the side of a roaring sea, We often roam, who are far from home; God, that we might be free To cast our cares on the summer wind. To take up a spade in hand. And learn to play, in a childish way. In the heart of a world of sand! GEESE 'r- When folk do silly, foolish things. Then people laugh, and cry: "Why, they are geese ! " and yet, you know, I often wonder why. For geese are stately, queenly birds, loo grave to fly or sing; And I have never seen a goose That did a foolish thing. An ostrich has been famed in jokes. Because he hides his head; And chickens run across the road, 'Neath cars that leave them dead — But geese — they walk with solemn grace; They seldom shriek or call; Perhaps you'd like, for all folk say. To be one after all! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 161 WHEN NIGHT COMES The night steals up all dark and grey. The cliffs rise bleak and cold; And not a beam is in the sky, To touch the waves with gold. And yet I know that when the day Has come, the night will slip away. And sunbeams bright will dance and play. When night steals up all grim and dark. When cliffs rise cold and grey; Eemember that it is the night, Remember that the day Will touch the brooding sky with blue. The sun will send its light, and you Will find your hopes and dreams come true ! 11 162 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE THINGS THAT ARE HARD TO GET "X"TTHAT shall I do?" whined the cross little girl as y y she slapped her doll with a tiny, dimpled hand. "What shall I do ? I'm tired of my governess, and my books. I'm tired of playing and having tea parties — I'm tired." "I'm bored to death," muttered the blas6 schoolgirl as she conjugated her French verbs. "I hate our parties, and our basketball, and our clubs. The girls are always the same and the boys are never interesting. I'm bored to death." "What's the use of it all?" murmured the woman who had tasted only the sweets of life; "the round of gaiety, the hypocrisy, the scandal ! I hate to gossip, and yet I can't help it. It's born in me. I hate to play bridge and go to endless dinners. I'm growing old and the world is beginning to pass by on the other side of the street. What's the use of it all?" But the little seven-dollar-a-week girl sitting on her high platform over a counter adding figures, wiggled her small stubby toed shoes and smiled happily: "I'm ahead o' the game this week," she was thinking. I'm gonna win out with a dollar over. I'll buy some near silk and copy that waist that I saw'n the French department. I bet Jack'll like it." She thought for a moment, the elusive little dimple flickering in her thin cheek, then she smiled and her smile was like the flash of the sunlight at dawn. "I'm ahead o' the game," she hummed to herself. « 4: 4t ^ * * Don't think that I'm talking, girls, making things up out of my imagination. For it's the one who gets everything REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 163 that is discontented. The workers never find time to search for the word "bored" in Mr. Webster's dictionary. I went to a dinner party one evening — a party at the home of a rich girl that I know. I met there many charm- ing people, people with carefully modulated voices and care- fully marcelled hair. We talked of interesting subjects — interesting enough — and we noticed each other politely and covertly. I saw girls gowned in model frocks from the most expensive stores — and they saw me in a dress that had seemed very pretty at home. Somehow I could not really enjoy the dinner. A few days later I went to a luncheon party in a tiny house on an unpretentious street. My hostess did her own work and she laughed happily and naturally as she changed the plates. The girls were dressed simply, prettily, in street suits and tailored blouses. Although I had made my own hat I did not feel uncomfortably out of place, as I had felt at the other party. I was conscious that it looked as well as any other hat. When we talked, we talked of intimate subjects, about Helen's new furs, and the baby cousin's first tooth. We praised the simple dishes and we commented upon the way our friends did their hair. Above all we enjoyed ourselves. When I came home from the fashionable party they asked me: "Did you have a good time?" "Oh, y-e-s," I drawled in unenthusiastic answer. But when they asked me the same question after the luncheon I never hesitated. "I certainly did !" I answered. I know a girl, an amusing, clever little girl who earns her living by writing stories or sketching funny little things, or making appealing little songs. She should be rich, but she is very nearly poor. "My income is an uncertain thing," she told me once. "But you know that I wouldn't have it different if I could. What fun would I get out of a new dress if I could just 164 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS walk to a store and buy it? Would I like grapefruit so well if I had it every morning for breakfast? Would a trol- ley car be a luxury if I had a limousine waiting for my orders ? It's the lack of a dollar and twenty cents that makes the dress worth having. It's the "once every two months' feeling" that makes grapefruit taste so mighty good. It's the blister from worn shoes that makes you appreciate the ride that you pay five cents for. I'd hate to be rich." The girl is an optimist — a happy, look-on-the-bright-side- of -things optimist. And, although I would like to have a large bank account and perfect freedom from money mat- ters, I agree that the dress it takes two months to buy is more of a satisfaction than the gown that grows up like a mushroom at the wave of the magic wand called money. Did we ever hear the story of the child who wanted the moon? Shall I tell you? Once upon a time there was a tiny boy — a prince. His rooms were a treasure store of toys, rocking horses of silver, and gold soldiers; games and dolls and puzzles; jewels for marbles, and tiny singing birds for music. And as time went by he was very happy But one night the happiness bubble broke, for the prince, who was rocked to sleep in the late afternoon, awoke and saw a silver moonbeam glimmering on his jewel studded wall. Quickly the prince jumped to the floor and ran to the window. It was there that he saw for the first time the ball of monstrous size hung in the sky. And because it was far away and beautiful he set up a princely wail. His father and his mother came rushing in with several courtiers. "What do you want, Prince?" they asked him. "That," said the prince, pointing a chubby finger at the moon. "Take this instead," said the king, offering a monster ruby. But the prince screamed, "No ! I want the new one." "My darling," said the queen, as she clasped her son's hand, "that we are not able to get for you." The prince had never been denied before. In open- mouthed wonder he stared at his court, then — REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 165 "Is it so beautiful because I cannot have it?" asked the prince. That is the way of the world, friends of mine, and you will notice it more and more as you grow older. For the things that you want, and the things that you appreciate, and the things that are worth th» having are the ones that are hard to get. 166 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS GOD'S CHILDREN I SAW a smiling little child, with glances shy and sweet, as I was walking down along the crowded city street. Her tiny fingers nestled in her father's loving hand, and in her other arm she held a doll. I wished to stand and watch her till she disappeared across the busy way. It is not often that I see a sight so young, so gay, in this great town of grief and toil, where tear and laughter meet — where sor- row touches happiness upon the busy street. I thought of her throughout the day and often saw her smile, and in the hurry and the rush I wished that, far a while, I too might be a little child, with mind quite free from care, but as I thought my day dreams burst into the empty air. The world seemed full of war that day. The papers screamed of strife, and everywhere the headlines told that Death had conquered Life. "Six hundred thousand killed," they said, "in one deciding fight" — a cry to arms, a hail of shot, a fire in the night, and cities were in flames and homes were ruined by the score. Ah ! people do not understand the ravages of war! So, from the thought of happy smiles and shining baby eyes my mind swung to the thoughts of blood and snarling battle cries, and from the thoughts of childish play, of dolls and other toys, my aching heart was filled with grief for dying, gasping boys, and men away from home — alone on some sad battlefield, drowned in the rain of bursting shells, without a thing to shield them from the specter dark and grim, that urged along the fight — the phan- tom grey that chuckled as the flames grew huge and bright. The world seemed full of war, but oh ! the papers only spoke about the bloodshed at the front, about the powder REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 167 smoke; about the guns that rumbled in the distance, and the pain that soldiers suffered who would never see the day again. I thought of them — the dying men — and pitied them and prayed, and asked that God might help them for the courage they displayed. I never thought about the ones who waited home in tears — who had no way of feeling that their doubts and awful fears were groundless, who quite far away could hear the cannon speak, who in their minds saw loved ones die — saw life blood slowly leak from some kind heart that never more would sing at honest toil — the pawn of kings — a unit in the war god's mighty spoil. I thought of them until a picture small was brought to me, the picture of a little girl — a Belgian refugee. Her face was smiling, and her arms were clasping to her heart a broken baby doll, and as I looked a sudden dart of pain shot through my soul, and where I had just seen her face I saw a rainbow (made of tears) that covered up the place. For she is only one of them, of millions that are left with- out a home, without a bit of anything — bereft of fathers, brothers, uncles, that they loved ; they are too young to know that they arQ mounted on life's ladder, that the rung their tiny feet are standing on is small and prone to shake, that in the stress of war the foothold weak is sure to break and leave them helpless, lying in the waste of wreckage small — the boards that built a cottage home, a tiny garden wall, a little pile of torn-up plants, a heap of ashes grey, a bone or two, a crust of bread. Ah ! wreckage, did I say ? And though the baby smiles are bright and baby cheeks are round, it will not be for long, for on the cold and friendless ground they will be left alone to die, to cry with childish grief while famine steals beside them like some sulky, prowling thief. And at the father's knee their prayers will never more be said ; for, shattered by a shell, the father may be lying dead ! And mother's arms will not be soft to hold her baby fast, for she will sit, a huddled heap, with wild eyes, staring past the wasted harvest, lying for a farmer's hand to reap, past all the death and sorrow to that land of endless sleep. 168 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS A little girl, a broken doll, eyes yet unfilled with pain; oh, can it be that killing these will be accounted gain? A heart with purity and light and lips o'errun with song, and feet that dance and frolic as they carry her along. It cannot be that such as these can be condemned to die ! Not while the Christian folk can hear their plea for help, their cry ! It is enough that men should go to still the hungry wail of Death, that they should heroes be, but why should women fail to have the comforts that they need, and why should children small be robbed of warmth, and food, and clothes, and shelter, and their all? And why should kings and em- perors have wine and food to eat, while on a tiny crust a day a whole small family cheat the cries of famine and of dread that follow them around for lack of living, breathing men to till the fertile ground? friends, we do not understand, for seas are rolled be- tween us and the sufferers, and God has kept our country clean. We do not realize as we sit by tables crowded high with steaming food, that other folk will waste away and die for want of it ; we do not know that babies shake with chill — our own are warm and happy and we have no thought of ill. We cannot understand the work of armies, drenched in blood, that struggle through the country lanes, the brooklets deep with mud. We cannot picture in our minds the peasant woman, thin, and begging for a crust to eat, where crops have always been. We cannot seem to understand why they are cursed with fear, while we have food within our hands — our loved ones standing near. The little smiling girl I saw upon our city street — I wish that every other child could be as calm and sweet as she was while she walked along and held her father's hand. And yet, as I am wishing hard I seem to understand that God the Father up on high will walk beside the ones made orphan by cruel war's alarms, its terrors, and its guns. And I am sure, within my mind, that if we help and pray, the dawn of peace may come to them not many months away. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 169 THE GARDEN SPOT THE Country Girl who lived in the city looked out of the window a bit unhappily, a bit wistfully. Her eyes saw tall buildings and cobble stones and concrete pavements; a tiny speck of brown dirt and a tiny glimpse of grey sky; but the soul of her looking far out over trivial things like skyscrapers and avenues and cities saw the country home that nestled birdlike on the side of a tall, grassy hill. She thought of the buzzing wind that whispered through just-beginning-to-sprout leaf buds and she thought of the springy garden ground that was being tilled for grain, the fertile beds that were being made into jewel boxes for geranium rubies, and fern emeralds, and violet amethysts. She sighed as she thought of the mother who could make anything from a dry stick to a with- ered leaf grow; of the father who looked like a silver-haired immortal as he went into the fields with a plow. It is a sad thing to have to work in the city when there is a beautiful home in the country waiting for your tiny snatched-from-work visits. It is a terrible thing to love flowers and to see them only in shop windows when you know that not very many miles away there are dozens of them — hundreds of them — that wait to be picked. No wonder the Country Girl sighed and refused to see the dullness of the city landscape. "If only," she sighed, "people would know just how much folk needed flowers and plants, I am sure that there would be a garden on every street corner in every city. Sometimes it seems as if I'm so hungry for the sweetness of them that it hurts." It was not a cold day even though it was grey and gloomy. 170 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The Country Girl who lived in the city threw up the window and looked out into the crowded friendlessness of the city streets. The damp breeze that fluttered softly against her cheek was a breeze from the south land that somehow carried with it a message from her home. As she leaned on the sill she wondered just what flowers were being planted under the bay window — just what bushes were being set out along the stone wall. Something tapped her on the face softly, but somehow very insistently. With a hand that was not very gentle she brushed it away and it fell with a small thud on the window seat, where she sat. A little curiously she looked down to see whether it was a bug, a stick, or a bit of plaster. It was none of them. For there staring at her brazenly from her best green cushion lay a seed with small wing-like leaves on each side of it — a hard, brown little country seed. The girl looked at it, puzzled for the moment. As far as she knew there was not a tree or a plant or a sprig of green for miles around — at least she had not seen them. And yet it was unmistakably a seed from some bush or tree that had come softly in at her window, like a messenger — from home. With an eager little cry she caught it up in her hand and pressed it lovingly against her face until the hard brown little leaf wings cut into her cheek. "You darling," she whispered, "to find me here. You darling. . . . I'll plant you V Dirt — the kind of dirt to plant flowers in — is rather hard to find in a rented city room. But the Country Girl had heard somewhere that some seeds would grow in water. With her little brown messenger clasped tight in her hand she found an old blue dish and filled it from a tiny pitcher. Then she dropped the seed into it, and placed it in the sunniest spot on the window ledge. This is almost the end. The Country Girl who lived in the city forgot about the seed. But while she was busy for- getting the seed was busy — ^growing. And then one day as she leaned out of the window wishing for the home and the REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS lYl mother and the flowers she saw a sprig of green against the dullness of the city landscape, for the seed, in a little way that seeds have, had taken root and sprouted out, and blos- somed with tiny leaves and buds. Oh! people everywhere who love flowers, if you have a spot of ground that is your own to grow flowers on, remem- ber the folk who are longing for God's growing things and plant a garden of your own. And you, girls — and boys — who live in the city but long for the country, if you have a bit of a dish and a few spoonfuls of dirt, or if you only have a tiny cup of water for your garden plot, plant some- thing, if it is only a bird seed or a little unknown messenger that drifts in on the breeze, and watch it grow. That will take you near to the country, God's country. 172 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS CHILDREN'S DAY The Child: I wonder who can tell me What makes up Children's Day? I want to know the answer, Perhaps the only way Would be to call from Heaven, The gentle winds that blow. . . . First I will ask the South Wind, For she will surely know. The South Wind: I come from the land of the glorious sun, Where breezes are gentle and sweet, Where skies are like turquoise and clouds are like pearl, Where waves kiss the sand at my feet. I come from a land where the sunbeams are gold. Where bright colored birds dart and play; And so I can tell you (because I am sure), That sunshine makes glad Children's Day. The Child: Oh East Wind, can you tell me what makes the day so fair. Why joy is on the faces, and songs are in the air? The East Wind : I come from a land that is filled with a dream. Where lilacs and roses are fair; Where daisies are blooming and violets of blue. Send perfume aloft in the air. I come from a land where the cherry trees bloom, A vision of radiant white. And 80 I can tell you (because I am sure), That flowers make Children's Day bright. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 173 The Child: Oh West Wind, merry West Wind, come blowing o'er the sea. And see if you can answer my wonderings for me. The West Wind : I come from a land that is filled to the brim With laughter and frolic and song, And rosy-cheeked children I see everywhere, All talking and dancing along. The blue of the heaven shines bright from their eyes. The gold of the sun in their hair; And so I am sure that the gay Children's Day, Is made for their joy everywhere ! The Child: Oh, North Wind from the regions of gleaming ice and snow. Perhaps you found my answer where frozen rivers flow? The North Wind: I come from the land that is freezing and white, A land made of sea and of sky; And nothing is seen that is warm to the heart. Or homelike and bright to the eye. And yet, all alone Math the sleet and the snow, I gather a message of calm; For God is the Reason for all days on earth, ': The Father who keeps us from harm. The Child: Ah, I have found the secret, And each wind had its part In giving me a message; For every Christian heart Must know that little children, And flowers sweet that sway, And God and golden sunshine. Make up our Children's Day ! 174 BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS A GREETING When someone's starting something new. You grip him by the hand And say: "You have my best, Old Boy! And all your pals will stand Beside you when the way gets rough, To help you safely through." And that, my friend, is what I ask. And hope that you will do ! When someone's starting something new. You don't turn up your nose; And stand aside until you see. How very well it goes. You smile, perhaps, to give him heart. Your laugh rings clear and true; And that, my friend, deep in my heart, Is what I think you'll do! When someone's starting something new, You don't make fun or sneer. Or say the biting, clever things. That he is sure to hear. You speak a little word — to help. When he is feeling blue, Or pat a fellow in the back. That's what I know you'll do! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 175 YOUR SOUL I am alone dear. . . And yet in the stillness, I hear the sound of your hurrying feet; And though I know that the miles roll between us, All of my pulses have quickened their beat. Dear, are you lonely? The bright stars of Heaven Echo my prayer, full of love, in their shine. Ah ! but the miles cannot mean much, my darling, When through the stillness your soul comes to mine! I am alone dear. . . And yet in the darkness I feel the touch of your lips on my hands. But as I whisper your name I am knowing It is a shadow and not you that stands Here close beside me. The winds of the nighttime Speak, as they wail, with my sorrowful heart. Ah! dear, I love you — and, dear, you must know it When all the miles cannot keep us apart. 176 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS WHERE JESUS WALKED Slowly the warming sunbeams fall Across the quiet way, The far off beat of passing feet Fills all the fading day. A thrill of war is in the air, And far away a gun Speaks shrilly through the evening calm, And lo! some life is done. And yet, where blood and smoke and flames Curl up to meet the sky, The Saviour walked long years ago — Where armies fight and cry, He told men how to live their lives. And how in time, to die. Perhaps, beneath some crumbled arch, He laid his gentle hand On one whose life was torn with strife, And said, "I understand!" Perhaps, where streets are seamed with shot, And noises born of Hell Shriek from afar, the shattered stones The Saviour's love could tell. AVhere dying men gasp out their lives, Where rumpled banners sway — Where blood lies on the dusty road. Where hate is fierce today — Perhaps some flower, blooming, shows Where Jesus knelt to pray. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 177 MY CASTLE IN SPAIN I once had a castle in Spain, dear, I dreamed of a country of gold. Where gifts could be had for the asking. Where people could never grow old. I dreamed of a garden of flowers, Where roses and lily buds grew; The coin of my realm was the sunshine. My diamonds were moulded of dew. I dreamed of a castle in Spain, dear. But I was a boy, and untried, I fought with the world for a living, And all my imaginings died. And then when my visions had faded, I met you — your eyes were aflame. Your lips were my garden of roses. The lily buds murmured your name ! I once had a castle in Spain, dear, With skies that were gleaming above; But now it is gone, and my sunshine Is bright with the gold of your love. I watch as your hands weave enchantments, The music grows thrilling and sweet; Ah ! all of my castle in Spain, dear. Lies here, with my heart, at your feet! 12 178 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS A LULLABY Go ter sleep — shut yer eyes, Air am full o' lullabies. Winds is singin' as they blow. Bees is croonin' as they go, Birds is callin' to an' fro — Shut yer eyes — go ter sleep — Close yer mammy watch will keep, Till each little silver star Guards th' cradle where you are, Shinin' from th' sky afar. Go ter sleep — shut yer eyes, While th' night time swiftly flies; Every hour goes so fast. That th' dark'll soon be past. And th' momin' come at last. Shut yer eyes — go ter sleep. Here th' sand man softly creep Down from out th' purple skies. Stilling lil' children's cries — ^ •!• 'P "I* Air am full o' lullabies. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 179 A MINCE PIE THANKSGIVING I WAS talking to a small boy not long ago (a small boy who was large enough to read remarkable novels, and play rather good baseball, and discuss war news). "What," I asked him casually, "is Thanksgiving Day?" "Aw, don't you know ?" he questioned, round eyes on my face, "Why, Thanksgiving^s a day when th' fambly comes to th' house and tells you how much you've grown. Thanks- giving's a day when you eat, and eat, and eat ! Thanksgiving's a day o' turkey and mince pie." Years ago, when this land was very young indeed a few settlers — half starved, half discouraged, almost half dead, gathered together and prayed. As a result of the prayers that they offered harvests were rich, and trees bore their first fruits, and flowers bloomed peacefully on lonely graves. Then, to show God that they loved Him for His goodness and mercy, the settlers put aside a day and made a great feast and invited friends and erstwhile foes to come and share their plenty with them. The day was called Thanksgiving. Perhaps, after awhile when good harvests had come to be commonplace, the men who originated the day forgot the lean years that stretched grimly in the past, and the arrows of the hostile redskins, and the loved ones who had given their very lives to start a new colony. Perhaps, when com- fortable homes began to spring up in place of the rough log huts, and when the savages — no longer masters of their land, crept sullenly into the wilderness, they forgot the Hand that had guided them to a comfortable haven. Per- haps, in the excitement of building a new government they forgot (just a bit) in Whose Name they were working. At any rate, now that centuries have hurried by, nine out of 180 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS every ten people — when asked to tell in one word what Thanksgiving means to them will say, "a holiday," or "tur- key," or even "mince pie." On the first Thanksgiving I rather think that they would have said "prayer" or "love." One Thanksgiving not long ago I spent the day in a well-to-do home. The hostess was giving a dinner party and as she fluttered about, between the kitchen and the dining room, I heard many snatches of conversation. "The turkey won't be done," she murmured distractedly. "Oh, dear! And the pie isn't brown enough — Aunt Sallie's so critical she's sure to tell some one that we don't have good pie. This butter plate has a nick in it — oh, I wish I had a new set of dishes, these look so, so worn ! Harry,' this to her young and interested son who stood expectantly sniffing the air, "take those smudgy fingers off the tablecloth ! Do you s'pose I want streaks all over it when we have so much company? Oh, dear!" her voice rose in a wail that would have been funny if she had not taken herself so seri- ously, "Oh, dear, I'll be glad when this day is over — it's a perfect bug-bear to me every year. We always have so many fussy people here watching me, and I do make mistakes ! I hate Thanksgiving!" And yet the Pilgrim fathers made the day so that there might be a time each year when friends could meet together, and give thanks and pray. Another year I spent the day (rather, a part of the day) in a very different manner. I walked down through the slums of New York, past the furtively awake Chinatown, along crowded Mulberry and Eivington streets. I saw shiv- ering, half-dressed children with big eyes and blue, pinched cheeks; I saw feeble old women in ragged shawls, and shifty eyed men with soleless shoes and frayed coat sleeves; I saw wailing babies who protested against the discomfort of numb fingers and stiff little bodies — a discomfort that they could in no way understand. And then, because I felt that I had missed the spirit of the day I stepped inside the half opened door of a mission house. FEAL PEOPLE — AND DEEAMS 181 I expected to find a breath of peace — an atmosphere of calm, perhaps, in the mission house, but as I walked softly- down the narrow hall I was somehow made conscious of a vague excitement — an almost imperceptible stir that filled the very air. When I reached the one large assembly room I met a current of humanity, that, in its eagerness, almost swept me off my feet. Long lines of women jostled each other for first place while their nervous, hungry fingers clutched tickets, or fumbled with their threadbare shawls. Some of the women led wondering-eyed children by the hand. At the end of the room stood a table and toward this all eyes seemed to be focused. As I glanced in that direc- tion I saw that it was covered with baskets — well filled bas- kets. They held packages — probably of tea and flour, po- tatoes and meat and bread. As I stood in the doorway, fascinated by the strange company a name was called by the kind faced superintendent and an aged woman walked up to the table. Her steps were slow and feeble; she clutched at chairs as she went along. I leaned forward, breathlessly, as she received her basket. Somehow, perhaps it was my imagination, the room seemed to grow quiet, and in the stillness I watched two shaking hands grasp the heavy basket, I saw two dull eyes peer into the depths of it, and then suddenly I saw an old face begin to work painfully under a crown of grey hair. "Thank God !" said the woman in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper but was still unbelievably penetrating and distinct above the murmur of the throng. And I ... I turned and went out into the street, for my eyes were heavy with unshed tears. But as I walked down the cold, dreary way I felt the glow of the huge log fires ; and saw the glint of light that touched warmly on the sombre pilgrim dress and the copper skins of the savages and the golden hair of gentle maidens. I smelt the fragrance of cooking dinners and my soul chanted a glorious Te Deura that had echoed down to me from hundreds of years. For the first time in my life, I think, I realized how the Pilgrims 182 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS must have felt on that feast day that they set apart from other days and called Thanksgiving. It isn't hard, if you stop and really think, to remember a number of things to be thankful for. If you have to toil hard at the work of earning a living be glad that you are able to work — that you have the health and strength. If you grow tired of the quiet monotony of your home be glad that you have a home to grow tired of (many people haven't) . If your dearest friend has deserted you or your most cher- ished illusion has fallen away from your life, be glad that the world is full of friends for the making and there are always dreams that may come true. Be glad that you are yourself and not the old woman who sells newspapers on the windy street corner who has only a dark past to look back on and a darker future stretching ahead. I received a letter a few days ago from a little stranger girl who lives in the west. I am going to quote a part of it : "I am a cripple," she told me, "and I live on a ranch far away from any town. The postman hardly ever stops at our house (so far away from civilization the postman's visit is an event). As for our nearest neighbors — well, we simply haven't got any near neighbors. . . . As I sit by my window I can follow the heavy line of wind tossed grass with my eyes. Far off I see it, still wind tossed, touch- ing the sky. "Do you wonder if I am lonely? Well, I am — at times, but underneath it all I'm glad that I'm alive (even though I can't walk) and that there's a beautiful earth, and a beau- tiful Heaven — to come." That's the secret of the right Thanksgiving spirit, I think. We can all be glad, everyone of us, that we are alive and that there's a beautiful earth and a beautiful Heaven to come. It was for that reason that the Pilgrims set aside a day of prayer and love. Perhaps if we try — just a bit — to remem- ber, the day may lose its turkey and mince pie significance and come back into its own. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 183 COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS "^^OUNT your blessings," said the landlord complacently \^ as he folded his plump, well-manicured hands over his immaculate white waistcoat. "Count your blessings, Mrs. Grady." He smiled placidly into the fire that crackled on the hearth. The widow Grady twitched her thin work-reddened hands on the faded black skirt of her dress. "Shure," she told him, wearily, "it's precious few blessings I have, Misther Cockrane !" The landlord looked at the tear-stained, crumpled, nerv- ous little woman before him "You have something on your mind, Mrs. Grady?" he asked, not unkindly. "Suppose — " he paused waiting. The widow Grady's thin hand crept up toward her throat. "It's — it's — " she hesitated. "It's — me husband always paid ye the rent on time, didn't he, Misther Cockrane?" The landlord stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Yes," he told her, "your husband always paid on time." "God rest his soul," murmured the widow piteously. A tear hung on her faded lashes. "It's about that — the rent — that I came" — then with a rush — "I haven't the money for this month, nor the others — for the work is scarce in these times, and the children — have to eat." Her voice sank to a whisper. , The landlord looked away from the fire. "Mrs. Grady," he told her, "I've never been called a hard man, but don't you see I can't help?" The widow Grady clasped her hands tightly in her lap. "It's such a small house," she pleaded — "such a small house, an' it's in the back of yer yard where nobody else 184 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS could use it, and I'll pay you when I get the money." She paused, fighting back the sobs that rose in her throat. "That's what you said last month," the landlord told her. His face was gloomy, heavy-looking, "and the month before. No, Mrs. Grady, I can't help. It's my business, and it's a matter of principle. I have other tenants who are waiting for an excuse to fall behind in their payments and you'd be the excuse. No, Mrs. Grady, I can't help !" His tone was final. The widow Grady rose stiffly to her feet — one thin hand brushed her eyes. "Then it's away I must go?" she asked tearfully. "An' the three children, so little, an' tomorrow Thanksgiving?" She waited in the doorway. The landlord was staring into the fire. He did not seem to hear the pleading voice. Softly, with one hand pressed against her dry throat, the widow Grady closed the door after her. Like some wounded forest animal she crept down the long, thickly car- peted hall and through the kitchen that was filled with the unmistakable signs of Thanksgiving. A row of pies stood on a table, a huge pumpkin, a turkey ready to be stuffed. "Some people have everything," murmured the widow Grady. She choked down a sob and walked quickly out of the back door. Somewhere from the window of an upper room came the muffled cry of a baby. The widow quickened her pace. "It's them that can have children," she thought bitterly — "they that has money and can do for 'em. Mine — " her thoughts swept ahead to tiny Timmy and Kathleen — to the baby. "Mine ain't got anything." The little garden path was narrow and short, but it seemed to the widow Grady a long time before the cottage, with its grey, unpainted sides, peered out at her furtively from behind the trees. Standing at the window were Timmy and Kathleen, their small faces eager, their small noses flat- tened button-like against the pane. Two grimy little hands waved a welcome to her. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 185 The widow Grady opened the door slowly, and as she stepped into the bare, neat room the two small figures threw themselves into her arms. Over on a bed in the corner her baby crowed happily and waved a white-stockinged leg at her. '^Mummy,'^ it was Kathleen, the oldest, who spoke, tugging on her hand. "Mummy — you have been gone a long, long time !" She nestled close to the rigid figure in rusty black. Outside the shadows were drooping heavily over the land- lord's garden. The widow Grady wrenched herself from the clinging fingers. "It's not long I've been gone," she told them harshly. "There, don't bother me ! I want to get you some supper." The children drew back, hurt. Tiny Timmy vainly tried to keep his lip from quivering and a tear hung on Kathleen's lashes. The baby on the bed, too young to feel the trouble, gurgled softly. The widow Grady cut two thick slices of stale bread. She slapped them on two saucers and poured a thin, gold-brown stream of molasses over them. '^ou can eat," she told them sharply. "But, mummy," little Kathleen crept to the table — "but, mummy — your dinner?" The widow Grady laughed. Her laugh was not pleasant. "I ain't hungry," she said shortly. She crossed over to the bureau and begain pulling the clean, patched garments out of the drawers. "What" — little Timmy, his mouth full of bread and mo- lasses, looked at her with large owl eyes — '^hat you doin', mummy ?" "I'm packin'," answered the woman. Again the sobs rose to her throat. Silence — a heavy, thick silence — hung over the little room. The children, too young to know the cause, realized that the situation was strained. The little boy looked at his small, older sister pleadingly. She came to the rescue. "Mummy," she questioned, "have you forgot what day's tomorrow ? It's Thanksgivin' ! Ain't you glad ?" 186 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS The widow Grady laid down a roll of black stockings. "There ain't any such day," she choked fiercely. "An' don't you speak to me again — hear?'^ Tiny Timmy broke into a wail of grief and little Kathleen sniffed hard. Over on the bed the baby began to whimper, The widow Grady kept on packing. The children went to bed early. Kathleen was clever at unbuttoning tiny clothes. They looked askance at the mother who sat, a huddled figure with her back turned, across the room. Wasn't she going to hear their prayers? Wasn't she going to kiss them good night ? Wasn't she going to sing, "Sleep, Baby, Sleep ?" As the darkness settled down, velvet-like, they dozed off, still wondering. The widow Grady sat in the tiny rocking-chair, a sad figure with tightly shut lips and bright eyes that looked intently into the future. She did not move, only her hands twitched nervously. She saw herself and her children stand- ing in the road shelterless; she saw herself asking for work — and not getting it — because of the two small figures that held her skirts, the soft bundle in her arms. "Ko one," she thought, "wants a married woman with three children. No one wants a baby in the house — unless it's their own. There's no place for us — no place." A little thought tugged at her brain, a persistent little thought. "If it wasn't for the children," she told herself, "I could get work — lots of it — if it wasn't for the children." Over on the bed little Kathleen cried out sharply in her sleep. The widow Grady hardened her heart. "There are places," the little thought whispered slyly in the woman's ear, "there are orphan asylums where they take children — whole families. Of course you wouldn't ever see them again —but—" Kathleen cried out again. She was having a bad dream, and the widow Grady suddenly sobbed: "I've got to do it," she cried. "They won't miss me and I'll get work. It's that I need." Her bent shoulders shook convulsively. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 187 It was late and the room was dark. The widow Grady rose stiffly to her feet. "I'll get work," she said. There was a light step on her tiny porch, and the door was flung in. The widow Grady saw a little woman standing in the doorway with hands stretched out beseechingly. A little woman with wavy yellow hair, falling over her quilted silk wrapper, and wide terror-filled blue eyes. The widow Grady had seen her many times — she was the landlord's young wife. "What is it?" she questioned harshly. The little woman swayed in the doorway. "I was alone," she sobbed brokenly, "and my baby was taken sick — he's choking to death ! The telephone's broken and I couldn't get the doctor. I was all alone — I came for you — ^my husband is away." "It's lucky ye found me in," said the widow Grady sav- agely. "I'm movin'." But the little woman never heard. "Come with me!" she begged. "Help me — he's alone, dying !" The widow Grady stood still. "Your husband," she said, "wouldn't help me. And my children have to eat !" "My baby !" moaned the little woman. Over on the bed small Kathleen moaned again — and the widow Grady turned to the landlord's wife. Her face was cold and grey. "I'll come," she said. They went out together. The big house was reached quickly. Like one in a night- mare the widow Grady followed the frantic mother up the wide stairs to the large nursery. On the gilt crib lay a tiny boy with a blue face. The widow Grady gave him one look. "Croup," she announced brusquely ; "get hot water !" She had brought up three children — "and paregoric," she added. The widow Grady was left alone in the nursery. Gently she picked up the little, coughing figure and held it tightly against her breast. *'Mine have all had it," she thought. The baby opened eyes, widely blue and terror-filled, like 188 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS his mother's. A mist came before the woman's sight as she looked. "Shure, he has eyes like the baby," she murmured. All night long they worked side by side — the poor widow and the landlord's wife. The baby was bathed in hot water and wrapped in blankets — given paregoric and ipecac in large doses. And still he choked on. "It's the phlegm in his throat," said one woman to the other one — "unless we can get it up — " "I wish my husband was here," sobbed the other woman. "Dear God," her voice broke in prayer. It was then that the change came. The baby coughed a little harder and his face grew slightly pink. "Put hot water on his throat," said the widow Grady to the praying mother. "It'll help him get his breath." And then a few minutes later : "He'll get better now," she said. The landlord's wife broke down. "You're too good," she sobbed, "too good. You've saved my baby." The widow Grady held up a warning finger. "Hush," she said, "Dearie. He's restin'." Quietly she laid the limp little figure that was growing warm and pliant on the bed. The thin ghost of a smile played on the baby's face. "He smiles like Kathleen," she said. It was in the grey Thanksgiving dawn that the widow Grady walked home through the narrow little path. Behind her, in the big house, a mother and tiny baby lay sleeping — in front of her the cottage looked out, a dark blot from the misty greyness. It was an eager hand that opened the door, eager feet that carried her across to the bed. She fell on her knees beside the heavily sleeping children — Tiny Timmy, the baby, Kathleen. Her hand crept caressingly over their tumbled, curly little heads. "My darlin's, my darlin's," she sobbed, "an' mother came near lettin' you go—" she caught her breath sharply. "What REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 189 if work is hard to get?" she demanded of the dawning day. "What if people don't want women with children?" Her voice arose defiantly. "What do I care," she cried, "my dar- lin's ? We'll fight it out— together." An hour later the landlord walked in with a huge basket — a basket bulging with turkey, and pies, and vegetables, and plum pudding. He found her kneeling there — her arms flung over the bed. On her face was a happy look — a listen- ing look. "Mrs. Grady," he told her huskily, "you've made me a very thankful man, and you've made me very much ashamed. I can't pay you ever ! But," he hesitated, "I've brought din- ner for you and the children — and you can have the house — always." The widow Grady turned her head. The morning sun- light fell over her face and wove itself into her hair. She had not heard him, but a radiant smile smoothed the lines of care from her face. "It's countin' my blessings I am," she said softly. 190 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS TURKEYS IN THE SUMMERTIME Turkeys in the summertime, with azure sky above them, Bronze and blue and scarlet too, upon the velvet plain ; All the joy of living when the world is at its sweetest, Kissed with golden sunshine and with fragrant silver rain. Turkeys in the summertime, with gentle breezes blowing, Silence deep like restful sleep, and shadows on the grass; Waves of peace that settle down upon the trampled pasture. Birds that swiftly flutter by and murmur as they pass. Turkeys in the summertime, a mass of vivid color. Throaty cries and beady eyes — they do not guess their fate ; Turkeys in the summertime, a living glowing picture. But turkeys in the wintertime upon a steaming plate ! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 191 THANKSGIVING Blue skies and true skies with autumn's haze below them ; Haystacks steep and yellow in the sunlight's golden glow ; Pumpkins lying wreathed in vines that creep away to show them; Crimson leaves upon the bough and apples down below. Light air and bright air with joy and laughter ringing; Pipes of Pan and gipsy calls that tingle on the breeze ; Brooks that dance above the stones — a million anthems sing- ing; Flocks of birds that flutter South among the highest trees. Small prayers and all prayers that fly to God, the Master; Harvest-time within our souls and peace within our land ; Eyes filled with happy tears and hearts that beat the faster; Benedictions from the Lord and bounty from his hand. 192 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS OH! EAST IS EAST- When the sun is slowly setting, Off beyond the farthest hill; When the shadows soft are creeping. And the breeze itself is still — Then I'll breath a little message, Half a hope — and half a prayer; Trusting it will wander westward. With the sun — and find you there ! When the sun is rising brightly. To the East of where you stand- When its glory shines untrammeled. Over all the smiling land. Pause a minute, dear, and gazing Out across the dreaming sea. Let your thoughts creep back to eastward, Till at last they come to me 1 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 193 TYPEWRITER SOLDIERS Oh ! they talk of mobilizing in the countries far away, They speak with pride of soldiers who are ready for the war; They brag about the troops that they can muster in a day. And say that fighting men like theirs were never seen before. We do not contradict them for we're neutral — praise the Lord — And yet we know in one small room, on one small black machine. That we could raise a million men, a mighty little horde ; To go a-marching through the world and leave the nations clean. Oh ! we do not brag about our men, but every one is standing. With gun on shoulder, waiting for his officer's command; And though we do not say it, we would like to see them landing. And marching on, victorious, across some hostile land. Oh ! Alexander's troops were weak, and so was Cesar's legion, Compared with all our army that is scouting, grim and slow; And woe betide the enemy that does not leave the region, When every regiment is out with bullets for the foe. Oh ! the army's always ready for a fight, and on their faces If you look close, you'll see a gleam of pleasure, and a smile ; They're never in disorder for they never leave their places, Unless they march together through the country for a while. 13 194 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS They'll face the strongest fire for a cannon does not shatter Their ranks — and not a siege gun made could frighten or displace them; There's only one grave weapon — and I'm sure it does not matter — For who would take the trouble to creep up and then erase them? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 195 THAT'S HEAVEN! When the sky is hlue and shining, And the sun is full of light, When the autumn leaves are falling From the trees from morn till night; When you see the childish faces Growing rosy red and bright. That's heaven! When the crippled ones are laughing (And their minds are free from pain) ; When the babies roll together In the autumn's golden grain; Then you hear the angels singing. And their voices sweet explain, ^'That's heaven !" 196 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE FABLE OF THE POISON IVY ONCE upon a time, when there were witches and fairies and dragons with fiery eyes (that lived in the nar- row minds of the people), there was a girl who dwelt in a little house on the edge of a fair city. She was a slender girl, with light wavy hair, and blue eyes that glittered with the coldness of ice, and a mouth that was a straight hard line and the color of a roseleaf. She lived alone in the little house, but she had many guests; for the idle women of the city who had more time than they knew what to do with would bring their sewing to her home and would sit there and talk during the long afternoons. When the idle women who had more time than they knew what to do with would visit her, she would sit listening to them as they talked, and, sometimes, when they men- tioned a name in their conversation, she would raise her eyebrows ever so lightly and twitch up the corners of her mouth in a sneery little smile. And when the idle women saw her smile, they would stop talking and glance in her direction, and at last one of them would say, perhaps de- fiantly, "Well, isn't she nice? Why do you look at me that way?" And the girl would laugh a little laugh as hard as sleigh-bells echoing over a frosty meadow, a laugh that was bright and musical and cold, and she would say: "Yes, she's very nice, but — " And she would laugh again. It was not always a girl they talked about, these idle women. It was sometimes a prominent lord who lived in the city, or a great lady, or even the king and queen them- selves that bore the brunt of the gossiping. And the girl who lived in the little cottage, because she was no respecter REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 197 of persons or rank, would smile her little smile and would say: "Yes, she's clever, but I know — " and she would leave it unfinished. Or perchance when they talked of a great lady, she would raise her eyebrows and murmur, "Indeed she is beautiful; and not only the women think so. Oftentimes I see — " and she would laugh her hard laugh. And the idle women, after they finished their sewing, when the sun was going down to rest behind the highest hill, would walk slowly home. And in their hearts there would be a bit of an unspoken doubt about some fair lady, or great lord, or poor girl. And the doubt in their hearts would take root and grow, until finally it would be a certainty that they confided to their dearest friends, who in turn confided it to their dearest friends, until the whole great city drew aside its skirts when certain folk passed and whispered com- ments behind obviously raised hands. Once, in the midst of a deep snowstorm, a woman came to town. Because the girl's cottage was the first she saw, the woman stumbled down upon the doorstep frosted with the cold, and asked for shelter. The girl, who never did anything unkind — with her hands — took the woman in and fed her and warmed her by the fire. And as a glow of coIot began to creep back into the woman's face, the girl watched her with ice-blue speculative eyes — eyes that saw every de- tail of the threadbare dress and ragged shoes and sad ex- pression. But she asked no questions; she never asked question-s. The woman did not stay the night. When she was rested, she stumbled to her feet, and said that she had business in the city that she must attend to. And the girl raised her eyebrows and offered no resistance. Why should she urge a beggar woman to stay in her home, and eat more than was necessary of her food, and bask in the light of her fire? She had been kind enough. The woman appreciated the kindness, for she had been cold indeed before she had found the cottage door, before she had Been the warm light streaming out on the snow 198 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS through the little windows. As she reached the door she turned to the girl, and, in the manner of the day, raised her hands high above her head. "You have been good to me," she said, ''good as one Christian is to another. I am an old beggar woman with no gifts to give you and no blessing worth the while to leave behind me. Only this will I say: Your face and your form are flower-like; you are like some beautiful growing thing in the wildwood. May you grow more and more like!" And the woman opened the door and was lost to sight among the swirling snowflakes. Time went on and news came that the old woman was living in the fair city. She did no work and seldom passed out upon the street. But she had food to eat and clothes to wear and she was evidently happy, very happy indeed. Naturally folk talked, and finally one day the idle women who were sewing in the girl's little parlor brought up the subject; and, as always, the girl raised her eyebrows and smiled her smile. "Indeed," she said, in her coldly musical voice, "indeed it seems no mystery to me. The woman on her way to town, at the time of her arrival, stopped at my home for shelter and warmth and food. She was ragged, and starving, and I gave to her of my plenty. In return she gave me noth- ing, for she said that she was penniless. But she told me that she had important work that night in the great city . . ." The girl laughed scornfully for a minute before she went on. "As you know," she said, "there have been robberies — " And she left her sentence unfinished. It was then that it happened. The door opened as if it had been struck by a gust of wind, and the woman came in and stood with accusingly pointed finger on the threshold. Although her face was sad and her clothes were ragged there was a certain dignity about her that awed the idle women into silence. With hand upraised in the fashion of the day, she faced the girl. "I thought," she said, "that you were kind, but I find REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 199 that you have a poisoned soul. I will add to my original blessing: May you grow to be the flower, the woodland plant, that you most resemble !" As she stood there with her hand upraised, a wonderful thing happened. The sky grew suddenly overcast, and a flash of lightning filled the room with a blue-white light. In that flash all things for a moment stood out distinctly; and then, as suddenly as she had come, the woman disap- peared. And the idle women who had come to gossip fled shrieking toward home. They never stopped to see what had happened to the girl. No one went near the little cottage on the outskirts of the city for months. For once the idle women had feared to repeat the story that they had seen acted before them. But one day in the early summer, they crept back to the spot they had so often visited. The cottage stood Just as they had left it with the door wide, and there was no sign of occupation, but all over the little porch there grew a vine, a slender vine with graceful green leaves growing three on a stem. And the women remembered the prophecy that they had heard. "Ah," said one of them, "it is our friend !" And with a frightened hand she reached out and touched the swaying green vine, and as she touched it her hand swelled up and blisters appeared on it, and it burned and itched and smarted as many minds had burned and itched and smarted when the girl's words had touched them. And for the second time the women fled shrieking toward home. This is the end of the legend. Since that day, so the story tells, on the outskirts of town and in the woods and over deserted cottages, there has grown a vine, beautiful and graceful and decorative, but — poisonous. And since that day folk have avoided it. It is called the poison ivy. 200 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS LOVE OF PEOPLE TWO girls were walking through a Fifth Avenue picture gallery one day. It was a wonderful picture gallery filled with soft carpets, and brilliant tapestries, and glowing masterpieces set, jewel-like, in exquisite frames. ''Oh !" breathed one of the girls, "I love art." "So do I," agreed the other girl enthusiastically, "so do I, hut I love people better." Have you ever been down through the city's east side in the summertime when the babies were lying on the pavement gasping for a breath of air ? Have you ever tramped f rozenly down the Bowery on a blustery winter day when folk passed you with discouraged steps and looked at you with furtive eyes gleaming from blue faces? Have you ever stood on Second Avenue, "the boulevard of the east side," on a glowing spring afternoon and watched the gorgeous bird-of- paradise crowds saunter past? I remember the first time that I ever came to New York alone. I stood on the street corner in front of a dangerous crossing, afraid to walk to the other side; and as I hesitated there I found myself studying the sea of faces that whirled around me. I saw the nervous, overdressed boys who darted from beneath horses' hoofs, and watched the rouged young ladies who found time, while an automobile was dashing madly upon them, to raise long-lashed eyes effectively toward admiring men. I saw country women and ragged children who ran past, I saw an old world lady in a black shawl ... I forgot that I wanted to cross the street and stood there fascinated. A clever interviewer once asked President Wilson what every-day amusement gave him the most enjoyment. I think that the president must have smiled when he answered. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 201 "Why/' he said (although I cannot remember the exact words), "why, I think more than anything that I enjoy getting into the midst of a crowd where I can see people!" Perhaps that is why he is able to be a leader of men. There are a great many folk, I think, who forget to love people as well as art. I have seen a rich woman spend a great deal of money buying a wonderful rug and then, on the way from the shop to her limousine, draw her skirts away from a ragged child with a dirty cherub face who sat on the curb stone. She forgot that the rug (which she had gone into ecstasies over) was a man-made work of art, while the ragged child was one of God's own masterpieces. I have seen overdressed, little-souled men and women riding by in their carriages who have gazed blandly over the surg- ing throng with never a smile. I have seen girls exclaim over a dress without thinking of the living human being who wore it. Get next to people. Don't try to stand high above them and look far out over their heads at the wonder of a man- decorated world. Mingle with the crowd, stand on a street corner with the crush of humanity swirling about you, wander through the quiet of a country town or the noise of a city slum. And then, if perchance, you should some day walk through the glories of a Fifth Avenue picture gallery, see if the beauty (although you love it) doesn't seem nearly lifeless to you. 202 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS SEE SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL! "T HATE this ride," said the girl, as our train swung J|_ like some giant worm across the meadows that make the entrance into the outskirts of the city. "It's so horribly tiresome. The levelness is so unbroken by any tree or building, and it's all the same dull green color. I hate this ride!" I looked out of the window, and my mind echoed the words that she had spoken, for the heat waves of an August day crept dully over the duller landscape — a landscape that met a greyish, warm-looking sky. It was level, it was dull, it was unbroken by any tree or building, that stretch of meadows ! I sighed, "I don't wonder that you sigh," said the girl ; ''you look at it every day. It must get on your nerves." Again my eyes traveled out over the meadows, and as I looked, as if in answer to her challenge a tiny breeze flew straight down from heaven and fled murmuringly across the dull green of the grass. And as I looked, I saw the long spears bend their heads and ripple as the waves of the sea ripple. I saw a strangely silver shade in the midst of the greenness, and I realized as I gazed that a dull meadow, in August, can be a very beautiful thing indeed. It's rather odd, when you stop to think, how many really beautiful things we take for granted in this world of ours. Of course, the beautiful things are sometimes very little, sometimes things that we have seen so often that we are completely accustomed to them ; but they are beautiful never- theless. It's a wonderful thing to know that God has taken the trouble to form each clover leaf into a picture, and make a masterpiece of each cloud, to put the sunlight in a girl's hair or rosy flower tint in a baby's cheek. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 203 Some famous writer once said, "You should see some- thing beautiful every day." If you follow that rule it makes life happier, and smoothes out a great many of the rough places that make the way hard. When you dislike some- thing or are bored by something or are absolutely indifferent to something, if you stop to analyze it you will doubtless find something remarkable that you have never noticed before — that you have never taken the trouble to notice. I have a friend who works in a dingy office in a dingy part of the city. Because it is necessary for her to work, she was obliged to take a position that did not interest her, that had nothing fascinating about it. She tried to do her work well, but every day the task grew duller and more grey-colored and more downright hard. After she had had the position for a month, she came to see me and I noticed the change in her usually cheerful face. "Why, Marion," I said, "what is the matter? You look so worn out and discouraged and almost sick. Has any- thing gone wrong?" "No," sighed the girl, "nothing's gone very wrong. Per- haps that's part of the trouble. In my work nothing ever goes wrong — or very right either, for that matter; it just keeps on being tiresome and dull and — sordid, I hate it so that it's beginning to get on my nerves, it's beginning to take the happiness out of my heart. It's beginning to ruin my disposition. What shall I do?" It's rather embarrassing to have one's friends ask advice. What should I tell her? I racked my brain for an answer, and then suddenly, like a flash of light in a dark spot, the thought of the famous writer's words swept across my mind. "Have you ever tried to see anything interesting or funny or beautiful in your work ?" I asked. The girl wrinkled up her forehead for a moment and thought. Suddenly a pink little blush crept up to her pale cheeks. "Why — why, no," she stammered, "I never have. I've only seen the horrid side of it. I've only tried to see the horrid side of it!" 204 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Several weeks went by before I saw my friend again. In that time I wondered about her very often; wondered if she had been able to find anything bright in the sordid little office, or the dull part of town, or the uninteresting people she came in contact with. And then one day my unspoken questions were answered, for I met her by chance in the street, and one look at her rosy, happy face swept away all of my misgivings and wonderings. "It's better, isn't it?" I said by way of greeting. "You don't hate it so much, do you?" The girl looked at me with something very like wonder in her large eyes. Quite suddenly she laughed. "Oh," she grasped, between giggles, "oh, you mean my position. Why, I've forgotten that I ever did dislike it, it's so interesting now. Why, I'm crazy about the work !" I stood before her with open-eyed amazement, there on the street. It was such a change, such a remarkable change to come about in a few weeks. "How does it happen," I' questioned, "that things seem so much better?" The girl puckered up her brow in an effort to think. "It happened," she told me, "the day after you spoke about seeing something interesting. I was sitting up in the window looking way down the street, and instead of thinking of the people who were walking so far below me as little black ants (I always had thought of them as little black ants), I began to imagine that each one had a personality. And then, after I felt a little happier about the streets, I looked around the office — it was empty then — and instead of think- ing how dirty and dull and unpleasant it looked, I thought instead, 'Why, the wall's a good color — under the dust; and the table would be real pretty, if it wasn't so mussed up, and new blotters would do wonders to these desks.' "I hadn't much to do that day, and so whenever I was alone I dusted and straightened up and cleaned. The next day I did the same thing, and by that night the change was really remarkable. When that cross Mr. Blank came through on his way home, he almost jumped, he was so surprised. UEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 205 *Do you know/ he told me, 'I haven't seen the place looking so well for years/ He smiled, and for the first time I noticed that he had pleasant eyes and a good face." She paused. I sighed appreciatively. "So that's why you're happy?" I questioned. 'TTes, that's why I'm happy," said my friend, and her voice was very musical. "Things have been different ever since. Everybody's been nicer, and the room is beginning to look awfully pretty. One of the men put up some shelves for the books, and another one had a furniture shop take away the desks to be polished. Mr. Blank has smiled — often, and," suddenly she laughed again, "and I love my work now!" she told me. No, it isn't hard to brighten up your life if you try to see beauty in commonplace things. I fancy there's very little that couldn't seem beautiful, if you pick out the best points and ignore the disagreeable ones. There isn't a swamp that hasn't some beautiful flowers growing in it, and there are mighty few unpainted, weather-stained barns that haven't got a swallow or two keeping house under the eaves. If you open up the dullest grey oyster, you may find a pearl in it, and if you look at a buzzing, biting mosquito in the right kind of a light you will see what gauzy, chiffony things its wings are. It's a good rule to live by, this famous author's rule: "See something beautiful every day." And if you make it a little stronger and say, "See something beautiful in every- thing," you can even get a thrill from watching a tiny breeze play over a field of dull meadow grass. 206 RMAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS READING AT TWILIGHT She sits by the window reading, In the last red glow of the day; When the sun, like some monarch's ruby, Is vanishing swift away. And her hands that are worn with working, Rest light on the printed page ; While her mind forgets pain and sorrow, And toiling and care and age. She sits by the window reading. And day that is almost done. Lights her face with a golden glory. Sent down by the dying sun. And her heart, that is tired, maybe. And weary and worn with pain. Responds to some writer's message, Like a plant to the fragrant rain. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 207 THE DEAD FLOWER What are you dreaming of, little maidf Your eyes looh tired and half afraid. Is life too much for your shoulders thin? A burden darJc on your soul within? Why are you dreaming, my little maid. Your eyes looh tired and half afraid. I saw a child in the city street, A wan little wraith was she ; Her eyes were deep as a well of tears, And sad as two eyes could be. And as I looked, on her little face A sorrow showed that was out of place — And I said: "Tell it all to me!" She raised her eyes from the dusty street. Her eyes that were hurt and wide; And, "What do you think?" she said to me, "My one lil' flower — died. 'Twas the only one that I ever saw, I don't believe there can be no more T And she put down her head and cried. "You had a flower?" I asked her then— "Why, child, there are plenty more ! They grow in fields in the country, wild, IJp close to my very door. You shall have a plant, yes— or two or three !" But the child raised her eyes that were sad to see And sobbed as she sobbed before. 208 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS "Don't cry," I urged, "there — please dry your eyes. Far off where no weeds can shove. Your plant will grow 'neath the care of God, Close up to His throne above !" "Yer foolin' now," said the child to me, "There ain't no flowers that I can see — An' . . . what do I know of love?" What are you dreaming of, little maid? Your eyes looJc tired and half afraid. We can't expect that you know a love You never felt, from the land above — Why are you dreaming, my little maid. Your eyes looTc tired and half afraid. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 209 A GOLDEN WEDDING When the days are shining with blue and gold, And the leaves come fluttering down; And the fruits are stored in a shining hoard For the king of the autumn's crown. When the brightest days from a season fair Have banished all doubts and fears; Then with joy and love from the God above You take the harvest of years. Fifty summers all gay with green, Fifty winters of cold; When the winds have moaned, and the trees have groaned, Life the wolf on a fearful fold. But always the sun has come out again. And the star gleams sweet and dim Have lent their light to a harvest bright, A harvest of years to Him. 14 210 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS KINDNESS They say: "Be kind to animals, Don't pull the pussy's tail — An' pat the horsie on the nose, An' fill his dinner pail ! Don't slap the doggie when he barks; In kindness never fail." They say: "Do deeds to other folks That you would have them do If they were here to fill your place. An' bein' nice to you !" We learn a text at Sunday school 'At tells it straight an' true. So when I get a sugar lump (Or maybe two or three), I give 'em to you, Mister 'Coon, So you can plainly see What I would like — if you were I, To have you do to me. But my ! you're big an' awful rough, Your face is like a moon. So round, and oh ! so scary, too . . . Your growl is out o' tune ! Oh please don't jump (I'm bein' kind!) Don't bite me. Mister 'Coon! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 211 TO A LION IN A ZOO Lion, standing grim and silent. In your cage — Do these jeering human beings Make you rage? Do their faces — sneering, staring, Haunt you? Does their laughter, coming sharply. Taunt you? Years ago you roamed the jungle. Wild and free; Made your home beneath the shadow Of some tree. You were king of all the forest; From your play, Birds and beasts and crawling serpents Crept away. All the woodland feared the thunder Of your roar — Ah ! all creatures knew the tearing Of your claw. Eagles high above the tree-tops Screamed and flew; You were monarch of the jungle, And — ^they knewl Men came — came with guns and lances. Unafraid, You, of all the forest creatures, Near them strayed. 212 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS Eopes they had, and fighting fiercely. You were tied. . . . Did you wish that in the struggle You had died? In an iron box they brought you, O'er the sea — Lonely for your home, no longer Proud and free. To a park they dragged you helpless, Beat you, too; In a narrow cage they thrust you, In a zoo. Lion, standing wistful, hopeless. In your cell, Does your kingly soul feel burning Blasts from hell? Do these faces, sneering, staring. Taunt you? Does their lack of understanding Haunt you ? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 213 MISTS O' THE SEA The mist creeps up, a ghostly white, The wind wails on the sea; And oh! I try to close my ears, For it is telling me Of trenches filled with blood and snow, Of men that stagger as they go. Of hungry children crying low ; Of dark without gleam of light; Of suffering and tears. The mist creeps up — a ghostly white. The surf groans on the sand; I clasp my hands before my eyes, But in that other land The women pale with bitter tears, Are wondering if many years Can smooth away their pain — their fears- I seem to hear through all the night. Their pleading cries. 214 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE MIRACLE OF THE SWAMP THEEE is a swamp not far from my home — a swamp with a small round pool in almost the center of it. It is a disagreeable little place at best, this pool, for the water is dark and slimy, and the banks are covered with unhealthy looking mud. One knows instinctively (al- though it is impossible to see to the bottom of this pool) that there are tree roots, and tin cans, and snakes somewhere beneath the opaque surface of the water. In the winter I saw this pool covered with ice; not the blue-white sparkling ice of a healthy little lake, but the greenish brownish slime-filled ice of a sordid little swamp pool. Later, in very early spring, I saw the ice melt and the natural unpleasantness return. In late spring, however, I began to see a change, for green shoots began to appear above the water and small leaves of a deep velvety substance began to open — and to grow. It transformed the pool into a perfect fairy bower — a meeting-place for Titania and her band. It was not until sunset time on one summer day that I saw the miracle. I cannot help calling it a miracle, for the slimy pool had been very slimy indeed. As I passed by the swamp I first noticed a vague perfume, very different from the usual musty odor of it, and then suddenly the pool, bathed in the rainbow light of the sunset, came before my eyes. It was a pool glorified, for it was covered with golden- hearted lilies that were as pure and white as snow. Once, some time ago, I had a friend who was nearly a philosopher. He used to talk vividly on life, and one of the points that he used to bring out as I sat round-eyed and utterly believing, in the early twilight, was this: REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 215 "All people," lie said, "are born with an equal chance! The son of a beggar has just as much chance as the son of a millionaire!" Perhaps — You all, maybe, have seen beautiful gardens. You have seen roses blooming in well-ordered beds, and pansies smil- ing happily from a velvet lawn. You have seen tulips and sweet peas and asters cultivated beautifully. Then again most of you have been in greenhouses. You have perhaps seen rare orchids and carnations and ferns thriving among all the conveniences of modern gardening, and, either in the garden or the greenhouse, hasn't this thought occurred to you : "Well, why shouldn't they be beautiful ? Haven't they every reason to grow?" Few of you, perhaps, have seen the miracle of a lily blooming in a swamp pool. But when you see such a thing you can't help feeling as if the lily deserves more credit than the roses or orchids that grow in the carefully cultivated beds. It is easier to grow beautiful where everything else is beautiful than it is to come up, pure and white — with a golden heart — from the mud of a swamp. I have been reading a book today that told of the struggles of a waif who was literally taken out of the slums of a city. With a murderer for a father and a drunkard for a mother (both of whom died when she was very young), she is left to battle alone with the temptations of the world. I can- not begin to tell you the trials that she walks through un- scathed, but when, in the last chapter, she marries a noble- man and lives happily ever after, I gave a very profound sigh of relief. The book was unreal? Yes. Noblemen aren't marrying many slum girls. But the book was fascinating and in a way it gripped you. For the girl was a lily and her environment was the pool in the swamp. She might have been a little weed in the mud on the banks — she might have been the slime even (it would have been easier), but she kept her heart and her soul pure — and she won ! Oftentimes girls write to me or talk to me about their 216 REAL PEOPLE — AND DBEAMS lives. And oftentimes I hear one of them say: "If I had a different chance I could do differently !" "If my home were in the country (or in the city, as the case may be) I could work out my own salvation !" "If my family would help me, I could succeed!" Oh, friends of mine, there are many, many "ifs" in this world and they are the roots that hold you down to the bottom of the pool where the slime of discouragement, and the mud of horror, and the snakes of despair live. Of course it's easier to stay in the bottom, to never look above the surface of things; but it's braver, and greater, and more beautiful to rise to the surface (even though the struggle bruises you, and at times makes your heart heavy and your thoughts sad) ; for when you rise to the top, there will be fragrance and sunlight and happiness waiting for your pure white soul and your golden heart. Girls, dear, some of you may be rich and happy, with a future spreading brightly before your eyes. I hope that you'll read this article, but it isn't so much for you as it is for the girls who have been unhappy, who — perhaps — cannot see up to God through the muddiness of the little pool that they live in. There's a rule that they will have to follow to reach the top, a rule that Lincoln, and Napoleon, and David, who was a shepherd boy, must have followed to make them leaders. This is the rule: Keep learning, and hoping, and praying, and pushing ! That's the rule that turns a swamp into a place of miracles ! REAL PEOPLE^'AND DREAMS 217 ON COUNTING CHICKENS IEEAD a story long ago, when I was rather small, about a girl who was so poor, so very poor, that all she owned was just a basket full of eggs, but still she planned that some day she would be quite rich in houses, stock and land. She said that when the eggs were hatched the chickens she would sell, and with the money that she gained she'd buy a cow, and well — before she knew it she had made a million, more or less, there in her mind. But as she thought her hands (I must confess that dreamers oftentimes are careless with their arms and legs) slipped from the basket and she dropped and shattered all the eggs ! It's easy sitting by the road to while away the time, when just a little longer walk — perhaps an hour's climb up some steep hill — will take you to the goal of your desire before the sunset comes; and yet you rest and climb no higher, but sit and dream of all the things you'll do when you get there — of money and of fame, perhaps, of health and beauty rare And then at last when all the glow has faded from the sky, you rise to go along, but to your dream-filled, tired eye the way will seem a thousand miles, the goal a misty token ; and as you tramp along you'll know your eggs have all been broken. If s easy, friends, to smile at folk who plod along the road, who work and struggle by themselves and drag a heavy load, while you sit near and tell yourself the things that you will do — the treasure that your wealth will buy when all your dreams come true. It isn't hard to count the gold that you may never own, or hear the whirr of motor cars when you must walk alone. 218 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS And yet, if you would work and build a little bit each day, the gold and cars might come to you — might meet you on the way. Get to your toil ! Don't worry much, smile on the world a bit; and don't let others forge ahead as by the path you sit. Dream only when the heavy task is folded on the shelf, and do not plan to spend your gold until you have, your- self, earned every penny. Then your soul with strength and courage backed, will reach your expectation's goal with every egg intact. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 219 CONVICT No. 66 THE day was drawing to a close, but no crimson rays from the setting sun came into the cell of Convict No. 66. For the cell was under ground, and the light was the same all day; that gloomy twilight which makes the sentimental weep and think of home. Convict No. 66 did not weep and he did not think of home — he had none. Moreover, he was not sentimental. He had had all that knocked out of him long ago. Still, he occasionally allowed himself to think. He did now. Here he was in the prison; he had been there for many years, and would stay there until death should cut his chains. It would not be long now, for his eyes were growing dim and his hair was white. He remembered the happy childhood when he had played with his little brother and the Girl. She had been a mighty pretty little girl, with long curls and big blue eyes. He had gone to the inevitable little red schoolhouse, also with the Girl, and had said his lesson, and failed, and been whipped. And then in the evening when he told mother all about it, she had rocked him and had sung his song to him : Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight. And then the night when he had told the Girl how much he loved her, and she . . . Then his mother had died, and he, in the confidence of his youth, had gone to the city to win a fortune. He had done well, very well, until he met a man who seemed to be his friend. He had a drink with this friend, then another, and another. A tough had swaggered into the 220 BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS saloon and called him "country." Urged on by the friend that he trusted, and being mad with the fire in his brain, he seized a knife from the bar and lunged at the man again and again with all his strength. Convict No, Q% sighed. How clearly he remembered it all! Oh, so clearly! The trial in which he had given an assumed name, for the Girl must never know; the sentence for life ! the long, long years. A voice in the next cell began to sing. Convict No. 66 listened. It was the new boy, homesick. He sang : Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight; Make me a child again just for to-night. Mother, come back — The boyish voice stopped in mid-air with a sob, but Con- vict No. Q% did not hear it. His head had fallen upon his breast and his lips held the shadow of a smile on them. He was a child again — for always — and perhaps his mother was rocking him to sleep. The cell was very still. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 221 A THORNY ROSE Ah, darlin', there's a rose bush by th' little cabin door. An' every time it blossoms I am missin' ye the more; For we planted it, together, in our love's first rosy glow. An' I've tended it an' loved it from th' time ye had t' go. Shure, dear, me tears have watered it, me smiles have been its sun; I have plucked its flowers faithful, I have kept them every one. An' beside it, standin' weary, in the dusk and early mom I have listened f er yer comin' but . . . me rose bush has a thorn. Ah, dearest, there's a rose bush by th' little cabin door; When I look at it I love it though me heart is achin' sore ; For th' blossoms pink are tellin' me th' words ye uster say About me cheeks a-matchin' them. The very winds at play Deal lightly with me rose bush, an' its slender tendrils twine About me little doorway, as yer fingers once held mine; Ah, ye left me, darlin' — tell me was it pride, or love or scorn ? I have waited fer yer comin', but . . . me rose bush has a thorn. Ah, sweetheart, there's a rose bush by th' little cabin door. When I sit inside, its shadder sways across th' earthen floor, An' I wonder as I watch it if th' time will ever be When you'll be comin' back again to Ireland and to me. Machree, I love ye ! Can't ye hear ? — ^me words should travel far, Fer if a love be strong an' true, th' miles but inches are — Shure, me arms are reachin' toward ye, but me heart with sorrow's torn. An' I'm waitin' fer ye, darlin', but . . . me rose bush has a thorn. 222 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS HARVEST GOLD If God came down from out the sky. To count His harvest gold ; His eyes would look past orchard land, Past plain and fold. His eyes would see a gleaming light — Cornstalks and sun; But He would dream of shout and scream, Of sword and gun. If God came down from out the sky, To count His harvest wealth; He would not feel the winds that glow With life and health. For every breeze would bear a sob — A sob for peace; And on the air would be a prayer, For swift release. If God came down from out the sky, To count His harvest store; His fragrant fields would seem unreal. For bones and gore Are cast amid the broken sheaves. And dead men lie. Wrapped in the haze of autumn days. Beneath the sky. If God came down from out the sky. To count His harvest gold; His eyes would look with wistful glance. O'er countries old. Where harvest days are days of hate. Of cries and tears, Where shot and shell are fruits — of Hell — To blast the years. // God should count His harvest gold today, What would He say? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 223 FRAGMENTS Dearest, ask me questions. Ask me — ask me true, ''Do you love me?" Silly, Why of course I do ! Ah ! dear, if I should try to tell How much I love you. My head would bow. And tears would fall Because I could not tell you all; I know not words enough, and well, I vow — In many years I could not tell How much I love you! I lived for years and never knew you, darling; The years were bright — but they were empty, too . And then you came, your eyes seemed searching for me. You smiled — as only I have seen you do. And quickly, as a homing bird at twilight, I sought your arms — I felt your kisses sweet — And then, my dear, I knew that I was living. For all my world at last was made complete ! That night — my dear! The mysteries of Heaven touched the earth. And life and happiness and joy and mirth Were crowded in one second, breathlessly — And, all at once I knew that I could die Content — and never question reasons why I left the earth — ^for all of joy and light Were in that night. 224 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 'IF" If all the sea were made of tears That fell from saddened eyes, This world would be a sorry place; The sound of wails and cries Would echo from the morning light. Until the darkness told of night. If all the winds were made of sobs That came from souls in pain. Each summer breeze would be a sigh, Each gentle summer rain Would bring a message dull and drear. For saddened folk on earth to hear. If all the hills were made of care. And worry, and regret. No one would try to scale their heights. Or climb their sides, and yet — The hills would grow to reach the sky, And many folk would wonder why! If every sunbeam were a smile That left some heart aglow. The weary earth would raise its head And laugh to see it so — And folk would happy, happy be As far as eyes could look and see. If every little grain of sand Were just a bit of love — A song would ring through all the land, And God who reigns above Would lean from out the Heavens crown, And send a benediction down. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 335 A MOTHER'S PRAYER AT CHRISTMAS I hold my baby up to Thee, So that, perchance, his eyes may see A greater love than even mine, A love divine. Oh! Master, Make my baby's life A happy journey. Ease his strife With care, and toil and want and pain; Let not the fear of loss or gain Blot out the gladness in his eyes, Or dim the light that in them lies — The very light of Bethlehem's star, That shone afar. Dear Jesus, With Thy boundless care. Make bright his pathway — everywhere; Let not deceit, or craft, or guile Turn to a sneer his tender smile. For many hundred years ago, When all the land was clothed in snow. Another Baby smiling lay. On Christmas Day. My Savior, Hear this humble prayer, Keep Thou his tiny hands so fair, 15 286 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS All pinkly tinted like a flower, Away from heedless wealth and power; But let them always open be, To sufferers that he may see — As once Christ's baby hand uncurled, To bless the world ! I hold my baby up to Thee, So that His eyes may look and see. The promise of a love divine, Greater than mine ! REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 327 THE LONELY LADY'S CHRISTMAS STORY THE Lonely Lady sits in her sunny window during the day — before her glowing fire in the evening. She has a cat, and a ball of knitting, and when folk drop to talk to her she takes out a fascinating tea kettle and lights the alcohol lamp under it with a blue-veined slender hand. But, though she laughs charmingly, and tells gentle little jokes, and talks sympathetically, a shadow dwells behind the soft- ness of her eyes, that may be hurt, or wistfulness, or both. It "was a dark blowing night outside, with a sharpness of steel in the air, but the Lonely Lady's room glowed like the heart of some great rose. It was just a week before Christ- mas and as the wind blew fiercely against the shutters it sounded as if all the homeless children in the city were wail- ing and beating with their fists, to be let in. The Lonely Lady shivered and moved closer to the fire. "It was on such a night — the night before Christmas — that it happened," she sighed. "Fifty-five years ago I" "It?" I questioned. Stories in front of an open fire- place with the wind outside — I loved them ! The Lonely Lady stared into the fire. Tiny flames were creeping along a huge log and the sparks crackled out merrily. "Fifty-five years ago !" she said again — "and now my hair is white" . . . she shaded her eyes with her hand. "Jim and I were at church," she began softly, "practicing for the Christmas music. There were old carols — 'God Eest Ye, Merry Gentlemen,' 'It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,' lots of them. Jim had a good voice and I often stopped sing- ing my own parts to listen to him. ... I was engaged to Jim. 228 EEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS "We practiced for a few hours and then we started home over the fields — fields full of snow, silver in the moonlight with little dark paths running crossways through them. I held Jim's arm and he hummed as he went along. 'Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men,' he hummed. Jim had a sweet voice — I was happy listening. "We walked along slowly until we came to a fence. Jim was letting down the pasture bars when we heard a faint sound. It seemed like a kitten to me, but Jim started and turned around. " *A baby,' he said. "'Nonsense,' I told him nervously, 'nonsense, let's go home !' "Jim stopped his humming. His eyes looked strange in the moonlight. Jim had grey eyes like cold steel sometimes, and sometimes like the sky on an October day. " 'I'm ashamed of you, girl,' he said (he always called me girl). "'We'll go see who's in trouble." "The snow blew about our ankles as we hurried along. It was damp and sticky and I held close to the rough sleeve of Jim's coat. Presently we came to a dark bundle in the snow. It was a baby. Jim lifted it tenderly in his arms while I stood shivering. " 'It's all wrapped up in a blanket,' he said, 'poor little thing, and — girl — there's a note pinned on it.' He struck a match and he read a feeble line of writing on a scrap of paper. " 'This is Jesus' birthday,' it read, 'for His sake take care of my baby!' " 'It's a trust,' said Jim solemnly. " 'Jim,' I fairly shrieked, 'you won't — keep that baby ?' " 'Why not ?' questioned Jim. His voice was as cold as the moonlight on the snow. " 'Because — it isn't anybody's baby,' I sobbed, 'it might grow up — to be bad. You don't know about its mother or father. You don't know anything about it. Please don't keep the baby, Jim, dear!' REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 229 "The little figure in the blanket began to cry loudly, and — well my dear, I was young. I pushed pity away to one side and hardened my selfish little heart. " 'Jim/ I pleaded, 'Jim, do you love me ?' " 'Girl — girl!' he cried, and the arm that was not holding the wailing baby went out to me, 'how I do love you.' " 'Then,' I chose my words carefully, 'then, Jim, you'll do as I say. You'll take the baby to the poor farm — tonight !' I touched his arm. "Jim looked down at the tiny wrinkled up face. Then he looked at me. " 'Girl,' he said huskily, 'you don't mean it. Why, the note — it's a sign, and the baby's so little — ' "I drew myself up to my full height and looked at him there in the moonlight. 'Then,' I said, 'you must choose between me — and the baby !' I stopped. "Jim's face grew deadly white and his hands came to- gether tight — tight — on the little blanket. " 'Do you mean it ?' he asked in a curiously hushed tone. "'I mean it!' I answered back. " 'Then I choose the baby,' he half sobbed. 'Oh, girl— don't you see — why are you so hard ?' But I walked away." The Lonely Lady paused for a moment. "I never saw him again," she said in a low tone, "he went away soon, and I — I went away too. The town was full of people, but the loneliness killed me — almost. I never saw the moon that I didn't think of that night and the look in his eyes — I never saw a tiny child that I didn't think of the little forsaken baby. I've thought many times what has become of it and wondered. ... My house is very quiet — there are no footsteps on the stairs, no smiling little faces; to peep out at me from the shadows!" Her voice trailed off into the stillness. "But," I questioned, "didn't you ever hear anything, at all?" "Jim was an orphan," answered the Lonely Lady, "and at first I was too proud to ask questions — later on people did 230 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS not know. They said, '^out west' — but the country was a larger, harder country fifty-five years ago." She sighed, "I have never married," she said. Outside the wind was wailing as it banged with frost- bitten fingers at the shutters, but inside the soft rose glow of the fire fell over the silver hair, the sad face and the somber dress of the Lonely Lady. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was calm, but her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. The little flames — grown huge, cut into the log and with a small crash and a shower of hissing golden sparks, it fell into the grate. The Lonely Lady lives alone. She has a glowing fire, and a sunny window, and the cat, but she lives alone. And though she laughs charmingly, and tells gently little jokes, and talks sympathetically, a shadow dwells behind the soft- ness of her eyes that may be hurt, or wistfulness, or both. BEAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 231 THE GREAT GIFT YEAES ago in the sweetly scented, hay-filled warmth of a stable a Mother bent over a smiling Baby and kissed his little face. And as she kissed him the angel chorus sang an anthem high in the heavens, and a glorious star shone over the land. It was the first Christmas day — but you all know the beautiful story. You know how the shepherds crept in to adore him, and how the sheep huddled together and watched the scene; you know how three wise men hurried from the East bringing gifts to lay at the feet of the infant Savior. It is about these gifts that I want to talk. One of the wise men brought gold with him, glittering yellow gold, and the other two brought frankincense and myrrh — ^two very costly products of the Orient. The gold, frankincense and myrrh were the most valued possessions of the three wise men, and yet they gave them at the silent bidding of a gleaming light that shone from Heaven and led to a stable. Since the first Christmas the giving of gifts has grown until it has become a mighty custom, a custom followed by nearly all of the inhabitants of Christian nations. And al- though some of the gifts are gifts inspired by a holy light, other gifts are very commonplace things, very, very far from God. I know a girl who begins long before Christmas to make and buy a multitude of presents. For months she works and saves and worries (for she is not a rich girl), and the day after Christmas she crumples up, and smiles whitely, and says: "I'm glad, glad, that it's over for another year!" 238 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS "If you feel that way," I said once, "why do you bother to give so many presents? Surely they don't all go to rela- tives and dear friends." The girl laughed mirthlessly. "To tell you the absolute truth," she answered, "I have fewer relatives than any of the girls. As for friends — sometimes I think that there is no meaning to the word !" My eyes opened very wide. "Then," I wondered out loud — "why do you give so many gifts?" "Because" — she hesitated a moment before she answered — "because they all give presents to me and I've got to do something in return. It takes all of my money, and most of my time, but it's got to be done." The spirit of Christmas isn't in this kind of a gift, but oh, friends of mine, how many of you have never given a present from a sense of duty? There is another type of gift that is just as unpleasant, just as foreign to the true Christmas spirit as the gift of loveless duty. It is the gift given by a person who worries about it, makes other folk uncomfortable, and then finally hurries out at the last minute, dashing down crowded aisles, tiring already tired shopgirls, and finally getting the wrong thing in the whirl of nervousness and excitement. It is called the Thoughtless Gift. But then, shining through the mist of unhappiness caused by the wrong kind of giving, there is the Gift of Love, and every gift of love balances a number of thoughtless ones. I know a woman who lives alone in a tiny apartment. She has no family, and not a great many people get near enough to her to be truly her friends. Christmas is a lonely season to her — for Christmas is essentially a family day. Some people would sit in a corner and cry because they were alone, but this lady has lived in the city long enough to know its secrets. She has seen tenement rooms that nine hungry, sleepy, tired people live in, and her Christmas time is spent in trying to bring a little joy into their lives. The REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 233 elaborate dinner that she could have is turned by magic into baskets full of simple food, the clothes and toys that she would buy if she had children of her own, into gifts for children who have never before seen a whole garment or a present. It is her kind of giving that makes Christmas — Christmas. A month or so ago I got a bulky note from a dear cor- respondent of mine. In the course of her letter she spoke of Christmas, and told me a charming little incident. "Per- haps you can use it," she wrote. I am going to tell you in her own words as nearly as I can remember. A little girl was sitting at her grandmother's knee telling about the gifts that she had purchased for her family and friends. She named them over gleefully ; a muffler for father, a scarf for mother, a jacknife for brother. "Nobody," she finished happily, "is forgotten !" The grandmother, a dear old Scotch woman, looked down tenderly into the glowing face, and when she spoke her voice was very soft, very reverent. "Dearie," she said, "dearie, dinna ye forget that 'tis Jesus' own birthday? What is your gift — to him?" Friends of mine, "God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son !" And the gift made so many years ago, the gift that began so gloriously in a manger and ended so heroically on a cross, has left a heritage of love for hun- dreds, for thousands of years. And yet on that Son's birth- day we often forget a gift to him ! A gift to God sounds rather subtle, rather difficult to understand, doesn't it? But when you stop to think it isn't very hard to find a suitable birthday present; for a gift to God is usually a gift that, like your face in the mirror, re- flects back to you. Perhaps a bright smile when your throat is choked up with sobs, a cheery word when you feel like saying something cross, would be an acceptable present. Perhaps a bit of love to one of the Father's unhappy chil- dren, or a helpful hand to one of his frightened ones, would be a thoughtful gift. Perhaps looking at the sunset when your 234 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS heart is near to bursting with thunder clouds would make him understand. Oh ! it seems to me that we should give God a Christmas gift — a present that would last through all the year — even as his gift to the world has lasted through all the ages. I read a story one day about a little girl who wanted to give her mother a present on her birthday. The family were buying beautiful gifts, but the little girl owned one round copper penny — and no more. At last the birthday came and the mother — a radiant mother who thanked God for her children — was given the gifts that the older ones had saved up their money to buy. When the last box had been opened, the little girl, with tear- filled eyes, handed her a small crumpled letter with a penny enclosed. "Deer Muvver," it read, "this is the only muney I have, but I'm giving you all my luv with it." Oh, people every- where, no matter how poor we are, we can still give our love — and that is the Great Gift. "For God so loved the world that he gave his only be- gotten Son." And on the day of his giving the wise men followed a star of heavenly brightness that led to a dimly lighted stable. Near — oh, so near — in the sky of our souls there is a star glowing with a pure silver light leading us, and if we follow it we shall surely reach holy places here on earth. The wise men brought their most precious posses- sions, gold, frankincense and myrrh, to lay at the Christ child's feet. . . . What shall we give to Him ? REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 235 CHRISTMAS EVE The night is thick with snow and sleet, and yet the stars are shining, And stores have flung their portals wide to shelter all the throng; And holly berries gleam like gems, and mistletoe is smiling A message full of Christmas joy to folk who crowd along. The happy mothers — hats awry — are buying toys and trinkets, And yet in some cold darkened loft, the city's sorry gain. Alone, pale silence keeping, while her baby child lies sleeping, A girl with Mary's tender smile is facing want and pain. The stockings hang in well filled rows above the glowing hearth stone, And childish prayers are climbing to the God Who reigns above; And kisses soft are falling on the smiling little faces. With promises of fun and toys — with murmurings of love. Oh ! Christmas carols ring with praise, with Yule time joy and laughter. And yet around the corner from the merry sounds that rise, A baby may be lying, may be sobbing, may be dying — As hopelessly he gazes with the Christ Child's gentle eyes. 236 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS SANTA CLAUS' DILEMMA 'Twas the night before Christmas, but Santa Claus sat In his workshop, with silvered head low; His reindeer were stamping, impatient to start On their Journey to earth through the snow. His shoulders were sagging, his kind mouth was drawn, And his cheeks had lost some of their red. And his voice sounded sad as he started to talk, For he moaned: "All the children in bed Are dreaming of toys that I'm going to bring. Of Teddy-bears all in a row. Of puppies, and sailboats, and paint-boxes bright, Of trains that will wind up and go. All these I can take them, but think of the ones Who asked me for dollies with curls, And eyes that would open and dresses of silk — My dear little, poor little girls !" So Santa Claus sobbed in his home at the North, And his gift-bag seemed terribly light — For the doll-makers brave in the far-away lands Were dying of wounds at the fight. And toys that they fashioned with love and with care. And always had sent him before, Were lying unfinished, unready to start. While they now helped to model a war ! No wonder that Santa Claus trembled with pain While his kind eyes were clouded with dread, ^'It will be the first time in some hundreds of years That I haven't brought dollies," he said. Just then came a knock on the door of the shop — A knock that was gentle and light, REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 837 "I wonder," said Santa — and quick dried his eyes — "Who can call at this hour of the night?" He strode to the door and the portal flung wide, And in stepped two figures so small That he winked in surprise and in thought stroked his beard. Before he could see them at all ! Their tiny warm coats had a buckle in front. And their slippers were white as the snow; And the faces that looked from their warm little hoods Were wide-eyed, and round, and aglow. "Well, well," quoth old Santa, "and who may you be ? Perhaps you are lost from the way? But where are you going, the night is so cold?" "Oh, sir! we are dollies," said they. ''We heard that your gift-bag was empty of toys. So we hurried right ofE for your home. There are others of us — oh ! a million or more, All ready — and anxious to roam Out over the world, in your merry red sleigh. If you'll take us," they folded their hands. "I take you ?" cried Santa in accents of joy, '^hy, I'll take you to dozens of lands ! Pray, what are your names, little friends of my need, And where can the other dolls be?" "Oh, they are outside in the snow," laughed the two, "The Sunshiny Babies are we!" With chuckles old Santa Claus opened the door. And in trooped a gay, motley throng; Some planted themselves in a row by the wall. As if they would like to belong To Santa; and two of them stood by themselves; And some of them sat in small chairs; And one tiny boy held a tiny girl's hand — Until they were caught unawares. "Now where did you come from?" old Santa Claus asked Of two that sat down at a table; 238 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS He gasped in delight when they showed him a card, A "Made-in-America" label. ''You may be surprised," spoke up three of the line. In chorus, and brightly they smiled, "But home in our country the folk have all read Of war, and the toy shops defiled; And so to keep children from sorrow and wrath, They hurried and worked with a will; And hammered, and molded and painted, and sewed. And baked us in ovens until We stand here before you, with beady-bright eyes And dresses and faces, and shoes." "Ah! what do they call you?" asked Santa Claus the?!. And they giggled, "The three peek-a-boos !" Just then on the still of the frosty-cold air Came the sleigh bells' harmonious chime. And Santa Claus reached for his gift-bag, and said, "Hop in — we shall just be in time To make children happy by bright Christmas morn." And all of the dolls laughed with glee. Jumped into the bag and lay still as small mice. Till never a one could you see. 'Twas the night before Christmas, and Santa Claus sat In his sleigh, with a smile on his face. And knowing his gift-bag was full, soft he spoke, "This world is a wonderful place!" And lightly his reindeers ran over the earth, And brightly the moonbeams did play On the snow, and the east held a promise of light And the hope of a bright Christmas day. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 239 WAITING Stockings long and black and thin, Hanging on the wall; Three small children, mousy-still. Waiting for a call. What if Santa — dear old saint — Doesn't come at all? Nighties aren't very warm — Three spines shake with fear; Wind is crying at the door. Sounding mighty near. . . . What if sleigh-bells shouldn't ring, Full of joy and cheer? Eager faces, sleepless, bright. Six small folded hands. Hearts that count the clock's faint tick. Soldier-like it stands. What if all the toys are lost. In some foreign lands? Midnight — after — widened eyes, Tears that almost fall. Boards that creak like ghosts that walk In the silent hall. What if Santa — poor old saint — Doesn't come at all? 240 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS THE CHRISTMAS STREETS The lights are gay, the crowded way Is filled with tramping feet, And holly berries gleam like gems Against the snow and sleet. The stores are showing costly gifts, And colored signs are bright. But folk forget that Christmas eve Is Jesus' birthday night. The crowds whirl by, with laugh and sigh. But silent in the throng A figure stands with pleading hands And eyes that see no wrong. His tender smile is kind and sweet. And theatre signs instead Of gleaming harshly, blend and make A halo for His head. The bells ring out, the newsboys shout. And in the crowds that go. Rich satins touch with dingy rags. And dancing feet trip slow. But many eyes are blind to see. The One who breathes a prayer; And out of hundreds few can feel The Eapture in the air. REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 241 The lights are gay, the crowded way- Is filled with heedless eyes, And hearts of stone; and yet alone, Bright in the evening skies, There shines a gleam of Holy light That wise men saw afar. And through the city street there glows. The promise of a Star! le 242 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS CHRISTMAS 'Twas many hundred years ago the angels sang their story, And far above there shone a star that silvered all the snow ; And crouching in a hay-filled bam — the wise men all adoring — The Mother Mary soothed her babe with whispers soft and low. The angels' song is silent in the sky and on the meadows, The snow is trampled blackly with a nation's marching feet, And cannon thunders to the stars that silently are keeping A vigil on the men that die — while all of life is sweet. A bugle sounds, the columns dart together, and a slashing Is heard as sabre cuts through flesh, as bullet screams its mirth; And wise men cry, and brave men die as armies strive with armies, And in a blood-red way they keep the Saviour's day on earth. The city streets are crowded with the rich and poor together. And satin go\nis rub elbows with the rags of grief and shame. And golden coins are flashing as a gem — a dainty trinket — Is purchased for some thoughtless one, a present ''In His Name." Oh ! all the paths are filled with slush, and in the darkened heavens The pale stars gleam behind a mist with fitful yellow light, REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS 243 But smiling sweet, with noiseless feet, the Christ Child may be walking Throughout the earth to see how people keep His birthday night. 'Twas many hundred years ago the angels sang their story. And far above there shone a star that silvered all the snow ; And praying in a hay-filled barn — the wise men all adoring — The Mother Mary kissed the Babe of heaven here below. 244 REAL PEOPLE — AND DREAMS SUNSET Sunset at evening, When all the chill of night Is crowding in about us To steal away the light. Sunset at evening, When heads are bending low Beneath the flaming colors Of Heaven's golden glow. Sunset at evening, The day has not been long — And through it all has echoed The murmur of a song. Sunset at evening, And Heaven's golden glow Shines like a benediction. When heads are bending low.