  SHE told a wonderful story, the mother so fair and good, Of the deep and strange old mystery men have never understood. It was such a pretty story I wove it into a rhyme To read to myself, when the skies were grey, at the end of summertime. “Now listen,” she said, “my children, to every word that I say, Dear Marjory, share the hearthrug with your restless sister May, And you, my lad, with the great dark eyes, may share the couch with me, While the baby-girl, with doll in arms, shall sit upon mother’s knee. Your faces change as I carry your thoughts through the ebb and flow In Marjory’s eyes as we talk of elves in their wild and wanton glee, When they make the dim old forest ring with the sound of revelry. But May cares only to listen when I tell some quaint home tale, She likes a cot on a wooded hill, and flocks of sheep in the vale, While you, my lad, with the dreamy eyes, you love the prose and the rhyme, The deeds of daring, the deeds of might, of good King Arthur’s time. To-day May asked me a question, and I’ve pondered it for hours, God’s acre, she said, is full of bloom—do the dead folks turn to flowers? There’s a tender story, my children, that may comfort you some day When mother sleeps in God’s acre, and the flowers blossom gay. The soft-voiced angels of Life and Love they whispered to Christ one day That we in the golden dawn may go alone where the sleeper lies, And sing in the solemn silence the songs learned in Paradise.” Answered Christ, “Go sing till comes springing up, up from the sod beneath, The lily, white as a ransomed soul, the rose with its fragrant breath.” A silence fell on the little group, there were tears in Marjory’s eyes, It was a wonderful story, and mother was O, so wise! Then the wee girl clapped her dimpled hands, and said in her loving way, “When you turn to a posy, mamma, I’ll water you every day.” It was such a pretty story I wove it into a rhyme, To read to myself, when the skies were grey, at the end of summertime. [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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