The shopping had been tedious, and
the rain
Came pelting down as she turned home
again.

The motor-bus swirled past with rush and
whirr,
Nought but its fumes of petrol left for
her.

The bloaters in her basket, and the cheese
Malodorously mixed themselves with
these.

And all seemed wrong. The world was
drab and grey
As the slow minutes wept themselves
away.

And then, athwart the noises of the street,
A violin flung out an Irish air.

"I'll take you home again, Kathleen."
Ah, sweet,
How tender-sweet those lilting phrases
were!

They soothed away the weariness, and
brought
Such peace to one worn woman, over-
wrought,

That she forgot the things which vexed
her so:
The too outrageous price of calico,

The shop-girl's look of pitying insolence
Because she paused to count the dwindling
pence.

The player stopped. But the rapt vision
stayed.
That woman faced life's worries unafraid.

The sugar shortage now had ceased to be
An insurmountable calamity.

Her kingdom was not bacon, no, nor
butter,
But things more costly still, too rare to
utter.

And, over chimney-pots, so bare and tall,
The sun set gloriously, after all.