From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 9, 1913. By Helen Hunt Jackson. Like a blind spinner in the sun, I tread my days; I know that all the threads will run Appointed ways; I know each day will bring its task, And, being blind, no more I ask. I do not know the name or use Of that I spin; I only know that some one came And laid within My hand the thread, and said, “Since you Are blind, but one thing you can do.” Sometimes the threads so rough and fast And tangled fly. I know wild storms are sweeping past, And fear that I Shall fail; but dare not try to find A safer place, since I am blind. I know not why, but I am sure That tint and place In some great fabric to endure Past time and race My threads will have; so from the first, Though blind, I never felt accursed. I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung From one short word Said over me when I was young— So young, I heard It; knowing not that God’s name signed My brow, and sealed me his, though blind. But whether this be seal or sign Within, without, It matters not. The bond divine I never doubt. I know he set me here, and still, Am glad, and blind, I wait his will. But listen, listen, day by day To hear their tread Who bear the finished web away, And cut the thread And bring God’s message in the sun, “Thou poor, blind spinner, work is done.”
Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald
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Spinning
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The God of War
From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 8, 1913. By Israel Zangwill. “To safeguard peace we must prepare for war”— I know that maxim; it was forged in hell. This wealth of ships and guns inflames the vulgar And makes the very war it guards against. The God of War is now a man of business, With vested interests. So much sunk capital, such countless callings: The Army, Navy, Medicine, the Church— To bless and bury—Music, Engineering, Redtape Departments, Commisariats, Stores, Transports, Ammunition, Coaling Stations, Fortifications, Cannon Foundries, Shipyards, Arsenals, Ranges, Drill Halls, Floating Docks, War Loan Promoters, Military Tailors, Camp Followers, Canteens, War Correspondents, Horse Breeders, Armorers, Torpedo Builders, Pipeclay and Medal Vendors, Big Drum Makers, Gold Lace Embroiderers, Opticians, Buglers, Tentmakers, Banner Weavers, Powder Mixers, Crutches and Cork Limb Manufacturers, Balloonists, Mappists, Heliographers, Inventors, Flying Men and Diving Demons, Beelzebub and all his hosts, who whether In Water, Earth or Air, among them pocket When Trade is brisk a million pounds a week!
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He Never Smiled Again
From The Birmingham Age Herald, July 1, 1913. By Felicia Hermans. The bark that held a prince went down, The sweeping waves rolled on; And what was England’s glorious crown To him that wept a son? He lived—for life may long be borne Ere sorrow breaks its chain; Why comes not death to those that mourn? He never smiled again. There stood proud forms around his throne, The stately and the brave; But which could fill the place of one, That one beneath the wave? Before him passed the young and fair, In pleasure’s reckless train; But seas dashed o’er his son’s bright hair— He never smiled again. He sat where festal bowls went round, He heard the minstrel sing, He saw the tourney’s victor crowned Amidst the knightly ring; A murmur of the restless deep Was blent with every strain, A voice of winds that would not sleep— He never smiled again. Hearts, in that time, closed o’er the trace Of vows once fondly poured, And strangers took the kinsman’s place At many a joyous board; Graves, which true love had bathed with tears Were left to heaven’s bright rain, Fresh hopes were borne for other years. He never smiled again.
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An Optimist
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 23, 1913. By Samuel Minturn Peck. “I cannot answer yes,” quoth she, As I knelt down to sue; “One heart is not enough, you see, For all who come to woo.” “Alas!” I cried, “my fate is rough!” Then flashed a thought profound: “Still - though you have not hearts enough - I’ve arms to go around!”
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The Summons
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 16, 1913. By Reginald Wright Kauffman. Oh, Summer’s in the land again, and Summer’s on the sea; Across the blue horizon rim the old gods beckon me; The little ships ride restless at their anchors in the bay; The birds are trooping northward, dear, and I must be away. I see the Savoy mountains white; I hear the sheep bells ring Below me in the valley where the little children sing; And high above the timber line, along the glacier track, The ice field and the summit snows, they whisper me: “Come back.” It’s well I know your tender heart and kindliness and grace, And well I know the gentle light that sanctifies your face; Unworthily, yet truly, I love you, Heaven-sent, And nowhere dear, save in your arms, shall I secure content; But sun and wind are calling me throughout the livelong day From distant lands I used to know - from all the Far-Away; Oh, Summer’s in the hills again and Summer’s on the sea, And summer’s in my heart, and you — well you must set me free!
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One Way to Be Content
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 15, 1913. A happy hearted citizen Went gaily to his work; He had no wish to lie in bed And no desire to shirk. His daily duties brought him cheer Because he did them well And let no hard luck cast him down, No matter what befell. This happy hearted citizen A good example set, Who simply had no time, he said, To cherish vain regret. And when his earthly race was run, Most always with a smile, The many years he’d spent in toil Seemed just a little while.
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Worldly Hopes
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 14, 1913. “I’m climbing from the lowlands,” A weary pilgrim said, “Far up the hills of morning, Whose tops are tipped with red. I see the sun’s rim blazing Beyond the highest peak; There lies the goal of all my dreams, The goal for which I seek.” He climbed up from the lowlands, He scaled the peak he sought, Through many a whirling tempest, Through many a battle fought. High on the hills of morning He faltered in dismay; They were but foothills after all, And darkness closed the day. ’Tis ever so with dreamers With eyes fixed on some goal, For which they strive through many years And times of heat and cold, And spend their lives and break their hearts, To find when all is past, The prize is not worth half the toil By which ’tis won at last.
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A Suspicious Circumstance
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 12, 1913. I met a happy fisherman Exhibiting his catch; He seemed to think his finny spoils Were very hard to match. I did not see him pull them out Of any lake or brook; I did not see him drop his line Nor lightly bait his hook. I did not even see him go And come back laden down; But simply met him as he strolled Quite chestily through town. I do not seek a method of Discrediting his tale, But he was near a market place Where there were fish for sale. And as I poked a finger out Remarking, “This one’s nice,” It felt so cold I could have sworn That fish had been on ice.
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The Bench-Legged Fyce
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 7, 1913. By Eugene Field.
Dictionary.com: feist, also fice, fyce. Chiefly South Midland and Southern U.S. A small mongrel dog, especially one that is ill-tempered; cur; mutt.
Speakin’ of dorgs, my bench-legged fyce Hed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice. Some folks called him Sooner, a name that arose, From his predisposition to chronic repose; But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat— Yer bet he got thar on all his four feet! Mos’ dorgs hez some forte—like huntin’ an’ such, But the sports o’ the field didn’t bother him much; Wuz just a plain dorg’ an’ contented to be On peaceable terms with the neighbors an’ me; Used to fiddle an’ squirm, and grunt, “Oh, how, nice!" When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce! He wuz long in the bar’l, like a fyce oughter be; His color wuz yaller as ever you see; His tail, curlin’ upward, wuz long, loose, an’ slim— When he didn’t wag it, why, the tail it wagged him! His legs wuz so crooked, my bench legged pup Wuz as tall settin’ down as he wuz standin’ up! He’d lie by the stove of a night an’ regret The various vittles an’ things he had et; When a stranger, most like a tramp, come along, He’d lift up his voice in significant song— You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz space In that bosom o’ his’n to hold so much bass! Of daytimes he’d sneak to the road an’ lie down, An’ tackle the country dorgs comin' to town; By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe, For what he took hold of he never let go! An’ a dude that come courtin’ our girl left a slice Of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce! He wuz good to us kids—when we pulled at his fur Or twisted his tail he would never demur; He seemed to enjoy all our play an’ our chaff, For his tongue ’u’d hang out an’ he’d laff an’ he’d laff; An’ once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench legged fyce! We all hev our choice, an’ you, like the rest, Allow that the dorg which you’ve got is the best! I wouldn’t give much for the boy ’at grows up With no friendship subsistin’ ’tween him an’ a pup! When a fellow gits old—I tell you its nice To think of his youth, and his bench legged fyce! To think of the springtime ’way back in St. Joe— Of the peach trees abloom an’ the daisies ablow; To think of the play in the medder an’ grove, When little legs wrassled an’ little hands strove; To think of the loyalty, valor, an’ truth Of the friendships that hallow the season of youth!
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An Alabama Garden
From The Birmingham Age Herald, June 1, 1913. Along a pine-clad hill it lies, O’erlooked by limpid southern skies, A spot to feast a fairy’s eyes, A nook for happy fancies. The wild bee’s mellow monotone Here blends with bird notes zephyr-blown, And many an insect voice unknown The harmony enhances. The rose’s shattered splendor flees With lavish grace on every breeze, And lilies sway with flexile ease Like dryads snowy-breasted; And where gardenias drowse between Rich curving leaves of glossy green, The cricket strikes his tambourine, Amid the mosses nested. Here dawn-flushed myrtles interlace, And sifted sunbeams shyly trace Frail arabesques whose shifting grace Is wrought of shade and shimmer; At eventide scents quaint and rare Go straying through my garden fair, As if they sought with wildered air The fireflies’ fitful glimmer. Oh, could some painter’s facile brush On canvas limn my garden’s blush, The fevered world its din would hush To crown the high endeavor; Or could a poet snare in rhyme The breathings of this balmy clime, His fame might dare the dart of Time And soar undimmed forever!