'.'.,- ~ ^*Wp - ' VT^^' S ' '<jT ' 
 
IRA I 
 EDUC. 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 A PSYCHIC MYSTERY 
 
 By 
 
 CASPER S. YOST 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 

 EDUO. 
 
 PSYCH. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1916 
 
 BT 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 Published February, 1916 
 
PREFACE 
 
 THE compiler of this book is not a spirit- 
 ualist, nor a psychologist, tior a member of 
 the Society for Psychical Research; nor has 
 he ever had anything more than a transitory 
 and skeptical interest in psychic phenomena of 
 any character. He is a newspaper man whose 
 privilege and pleasure it is to present the facts 
 in relation to some phenomena which he does 
 not attempt to classify nor to explain, but 
 which are virtually without precedent in the 
 record of occult manifestations. The mystery 
 of Patience Worth is one which every reader 
 may endeavor to solve for himself. The sole 
 purpose of this narrative is to give the jjsible 
 truth, the physical evidence, so to speak, the 
 things that can be seen and that are therefore 
 susceptible of proof by ocular demonstration. 
 In this category are the instruments of com- 
 
 iii 
 
 425240 
 
iv PREFACE 
 
 munication and the communications them- 
 selves, which are described, explained and, in 
 some cases, interpreted, where an effort at in- 
 terpretation seems to be desirable. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAOR 
 
 THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH ... 1 
 
 NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS ... 9 
 
 PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE .... 37 
 
 THE POETRY . ...... 63 
 
 THE PROSE 107 
 
 CONVERSATIONS . . . . . . 173 
 
 RELIGION 
 
 THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY . . ,. . 
 
 INDEX . ... 287 
 
THE COMING OF PATIENCE 
 WORTH 
 
 UPON a July evening in 1913 two women 
 of St. Louis sat with a ouija board upon their 
 knees. Some time before this a friend had 
 -aroused their interest in this unfathomable 
 toy, and they had since whiled away many an 
 hour with the inscrutable meanderings of the 
 heart-shaped pointer; but, like thousands of 
 others who had played with the instrument, 
 they had found it, up to this date, but little 
 more than a source of amused wonder. The 
 messages which they had laboriously spelled 
 out were only such as might have come from 
 the subconsciousness of either one or the other, 
 or, at least, were no more strange than innu- 
 merable communications which have been re- 
 ceived through the reading of the ouija board. 
 
 But upon this night they received a visitor. 
 The pointer suddenly became endowed with 
 
; PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 an unusual agility, and with great rapidity 
 presented this introduction: 
 
 " Many moons ago I lived. Again I come. 
 Patience Worth my name." 
 
 The women gazed, round-eyed, at each other, 
 and the board continued: 
 
 " Wait. I would^speak with thee. If thou 
 shalt live, then so shall I. I make my bread by 
 thy hearth. Good friends, let us be merrie. 
 The time for work is past. Let the tabbie 
 drowse and blink her wisdom to the fire- 
 
 log." 
 
 " How quaint that is! " one of the women 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Good Mother Wisdom is too harsh for 
 thee," said the board, " and thou shouldst love 
 her only as a foster mother." 
 
 Thus began an intimate association with 
 " Patience Worth " that still continues, and 
 a series of communications that in intellectual 
 vigor and literary quality are virtually without 
 precedent in the scant imaginative litera- 
 ture quoted in the chronicles of psychic phe- 
 nomena. 
 
THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH 3 
 
 The personality of Patience Worth if per- 
 sonality it may be called so impressed itself 
 upon these women, at the first visit, that they 
 got pencil and paper and put down not only 
 all that she transmitted through the board, 
 but all the questions and comment that elicited 
 her remarks; and at every meeting since 
 then, a verbatim record has been made 
 of the conversation and the communica- 
 tions. 
 
 These records have accumulated until they 
 have filled several volumes of typewritten 
 pages, and upon them, and upon the writer's 
 personal observations of the workings of the 
 phenomena, this narrative is based. They 
 include conversations, maxims, epigrams, alle- 
 gories, tales, dramas, poems, all the way from 
 sportive to religious, and even prayers, most of 
 them of no little beauty and of a character 
 that may reasonably be considered unique in 
 literature. 
 
 The women referred to are Mrs. John H. 
 Curran, wife of the former Immigration Com- 
 
4i PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 missioner of Missouri, and Mrs. Emily Grant 
 Hutchings, both ladies of culture and re- 
 finement. Mrs. Curran is a young woman 
 of nervous temperament, bright, vivacious, 
 ready of speech. She has a taste for litera- 
 ture, but is not a writer, and has never 
 attempted to write anything more ambitious 
 than a personal letter. Mrs. Hutchings, on 
 the other hand, is a professional writer of skill, 
 and it was to her quick appreciation of the 
 quality of the communications that the start- 
 ing of the record is due. It was soon apparent, 
 however, that it was Mrs. Curran who was the 
 sole agent of transmission; for the communica- 
 tions came only when she was at the board, 
 and it mattered not who else sat with her. 
 During the first months only Mrs. Curran and 
 Mrs. Hutchings sat, but gradually the circle 
 widened, and others assisted Mrs. Curran. 
 Sometimes as many as five or six would sit with 
 her in the course of an evening. Mr. Curran 
 has acted as amanuensis, and recorded the com- 
 munications at most of the sittings, Mrs. Cur- 
 
THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH 5 
 
 ran's mother, Mrs. Mary E. Pollard, occa- 
 sionally taking his place. 
 
 The ouija board is a rectangular piece of 
 wood about 16 inches wide by 24 inches in 
 length and half an inch thick. Upon it the 
 letters of the alphabet are arranged in two 
 concentric arcs, with the ten numerals below, 
 and the words " Yes " and " No " at the upper 
 corners. The planchette, or pointer, is a thin, 
 heart-shaped piece of wood provided with 
 three legs, upon which it moves about upon 
 the board, its point indicating the letters of 
 the words it is spelling. Two persons are 
 necessary for its operation. They place the 
 tips of their fingers lightly upon the pointer 
 and wait. Perhaps it moves; perhaps it does 
 not. Sometimes it moves aimlessly about the 
 board, spelling nothing; sometimes it spells 
 words, but is unable to form a sentence; but 
 often it responds readily enough to the im- 
 pulses which control it, and even answers ques- 
 tions intelligibly, occasionally in a way that 
 excites the wonder and even the awe of those 
 
6 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 about it. Its powers have been attributed by 
 some to supernatural influence, by others to 
 subconsciousness, but science has looked upon 
 it with disdain, as, until recent years, science 
 has looked upon nearly all unprecedented 
 phenomena. 
 
 Mr. W. T. Carrington, an eminent English 
 investigator of psychical phenomena, in an 
 exhaustive work upon the subject, has this to 
 say of the ouija board: " Granting for the sake 
 of argument that the board is moved by the 
 sitter, either consciously or unconsciously, the 
 great and vital question still remains : What is 
 the intelligence behind the board, that directs 
 the phenomena? Whoever sets out to give a 
 final and decisive answer to this question in the 
 present state of our knowledge will have his 
 task cut out for him, and I wish him happiness 
 in the undertaking. Personally I am attempt- 
 ing nothing of the kind." 
 
 The ouija board has been in use for many 
 years. There is no element of novelty in the 
 mere fact that curious and puzzling messages 
 are received by means of it. I emphasize this 
 
THE COMING OF PATIENCE WORTH 7 
 
 fact because I wish to place the board in its 
 proper relation to the communications from 
 the intelligence calling herself Patience 
 Worth. Aside from the psychical problem 
 involved and which, so far as the board is 
 concerned, is the same in this case as in many 
 others the ouija board has no more signifi- 
 cance than a pen or a pencil in the hand. It is 
 merely an instrument for the transmission of 
 thought in words. In comparison with the per- 
 sonality and the literature which it reveals in 
 this instance, it is a factor of little significance. 
 It is proper to say, however, at this point, 
 that every word attributed to Patience Worth 
 in this volume was received by Mrs. Curran 
 through this instrument. 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICA- 
 TIONS 
 
 " He who buildeth with peg and cudgel but buildeth 
 a toy for an age who will but cast aside the bauble as 
 naught ; but he who buildeth with word, a quill and 
 a fluid, buildeth well." PATIENCE WORTH. 
 
 THERE are a number of things that dis- 
 tinguish Patience Worth from all other " in- 
 telligences " that have been credited with 
 communications pretending to come from a 
 spiritual source. First is her intellect. One 
 of the strongest arguments against the gen- 
 uineness of such communications has been 
 the lack of intelligence often displayed in 
 them. They have largely been, though with 
 many exceptions, crude emanations of weak 
 mentalities, and few of the exceptions -have 
 shown greater intellect or greater knowledge 
 than is possessed by the average human being. 
 
 9 
 
10 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 In a work entitled, " Is Death the 
 End?" Dr. John H. Holmes, an eminent 
 New York divine, gives considerable space 
 to the psychic evidence of immortality. In 
 the course of his discussion of this phase of 
 his subject he concisely describes the character- 
 istic features of psychic communications. 
 " Nobody," he says, " can study the evidence 
 gathered in this particular field without notic- 
 ing, first of all, the triviality, almost the in- 
 anity, of the communications received. Here 
 we come, eager for the evidence of future life 
 and information as to what it means to die and 
 pass into the great beyond. And what do we 
 get? First of all and naturally enough, per- 
 haps frantic efforts on the part of the alleged 
 spirits to prove their identity by the citation 
 of intricate and unimportant details of where 
 they were and what they did at different times 
 when they were here among men. Sometimes 
 there is a recounting of an event which is 
 taking place in a part of the world far re- 
 moved from the locality in which the medium 
 and the recipient are sitting. Again and 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 11 
 
 again there is a descent to obscurity and feeble 
 chattering." 
 
 I quote this passage, not merely because 
 it so clearly states the experience and con- 
 clusions of many who have investigated these 
 phenomena, but because it serves to show 
 by its marked contrast the wonder of 
 the communications from Patience Worth. 
 There are no efforts on her part to prove 
 her identity. On the contrary, she can 
 rarely be induced to speak of herself, and the 
 personal information she has reluctantly given 
 is disappointingly meager. " About me," she 
 says, " thou wouldst know much. Yesterday 
 is dead. Let thy mind rest as to the past." 
 She never speaks of her own acts as a physical 
 being; she never refers to any event taking 
 place in the world now or that has taken place 
 in the past. But far more important than 
 these, she reveals an intellect that is worthy 
 of any man's respect. It is at once keen, swift, 
 subtle and profound. There is not once but 
 always a " sustained level of clear thought and 
 fine feeling." There is obscurity at times, but 
 
1* PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 it is usually the obscurity of profundity, and 
 intelligent study generally reveals a meaning 
 that is worth the effort. There is never a 
 " focusing of attention upon the affairs of this 
 world," except for the purpose of displaying 
 its beauties and its wonders, and to assist in 
 explaining the world that she claims is to 
 come. For that other world she seems to try 
 to explain as far as some apparent limitations 
 permit, speaks as few have spoken before, and 
 her words often bring delight to the mind and 
 consolation to the soul. 
 
 Before considering these communications in 
 detail, it would be well for the reader to be- 
 come a little better acquainted with the al- 
 leged Patience herself. I speak of her as a 
 person, for whatever she, or it, may be, the 
 impression of a distinct personality is clear and 
 definite; and it is, besides, more convenient 
 so to designate her. Patience as a rule 
 speaks an archaic tongue that is in general the 
 English language of about the time of the 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 13 
 
 Stuarts, but which contains elements of a 
 usage still more ancient, and, not rarely, word 
 and phrase forms that seem never to have 
 been used in English or in any English dialect. 
 Almost all of her words, however, whether in 
 conversation or in literary composition, are 
 of pure Anglo-Saxon-Norman origin. There is 
 seldom a word of direct Latin or Greek parent- 
 age. Virtually all of the objects she refers to 
 are things that existed in the seventeenth cen- 
 tury or earlier. In all of the great mass of 
 manuscript that has come from her we have not 
 noticed a single reference to an object of mod- 
 ern creation or development; nor have more 
 than a dozen words been found in her writings 
 that may be of later origin than the seven- 
 teenth century, and some of these words are 
 debatable. She has shown, in what would 
 seem to be a genuinely feminine spirit of 
 perversity, that she can use a modern word if 
 she chooses to do so. And if she is living now, 
 no matter when she was on earth, why should 
 she not? (She has twice used the word 
 
14 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " shack," meaning a roughly constructed 
 cabin, a word which is in that sense so new and 
 so local that it has but recently found a place 
 in the dictionaries.) But the fact remains that 
 the number of such words is so small as to be 
 negligible. 
 
 Only one who has tried to write in archaic 
 English without committing anachronisms can 
 realize its tremendous difficulty. We are so 
 saturated with words and idioms of modern 
 origin that it is almost impossible wholly to 
 discard them, even when given every advan- 
 tage of time and reflection. How much more 
 difficult must it be then to use and maintain 
 such language without an error in ordinary 
 impromptu conversation, answering questions 
 that could not have been expected, and flash- 
 ing repartee that is entirely dependent upon 
 the situation or remarks of the moment. Yet 
 Patience does this with marvelous facility. So 
 she can hardly be Mrs. Curran. 
 
 All of her knowledge of material things 
 seems to be drawn from English associations. 
 She is surprisingly familiar with the trees and 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 15 
 
 flowers, the birds and beasts of England. She 
 knows the manners and customs of its people 
 as they were two or three centuries ago, the 
 people of the fields or the people of the 
 palace. Her speech is filled with references to 
 the furniture, utensils and mechanical contriv- 
 ances of the household of that time, and to 
 its articles of dress, musical instruments, and 
 tools of agriculture and the mechanical arts. 
 There are also a few indications of a knowl- 
 edge of New England life. Yet she has never 
 admitted a residence in England or New Eng- 
 land, has never spoken of a birthplace or an 
 abiding place anywhere, has never, in fact, 
 used a single geographical proper name in re- 
 lation to herself. 
 
 The communications of Patience Worth 
 come in a variety of forms : Conversation that 
 is strewn with wit and wisdom, epigrams and 
 maxims ; poems by the hundred ; parables and 
 allegories; stories of a semi-dramatic char- 
 acter, and dramas. 
 
 Here is an example of her conversation from 
 
16 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 one of the early records an evening when a 
 skeptical friend, a young physician, somewhat 
 disposed to the use of slang, was present with 
 his wife. 
 
 As the ladies took the board, the doctor re- 
 marked: 
 
 " I hope Patience Worth will come. I'd like 
 to find out what her game is." 
 
 Patience was there and instantly responded : 
 
 " Dost, then, desire the plucking of another 
 goose?" 
 
 Doctor. " By George, she's right there with 
 the grease, isn't she? " 
 
 Patience. " Enough to baste the last upon 
 the spit." 
 
 Doctor. " Well, that's quick wit for you. 
 Pretty hard to catch her." 
 
 Patience. " The salt of today will not serve 
 to catch the bird of tomorrow." 
 
 Doctor." She'd better call herself the bird 
 of yesterday. I wonder what kind of a mind 
 she had, anyway." 
 
 Patience. " Dost crave to taste the sauce? " 
 
 Doctor. " She holds to her simile of the 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 17 
 
 goose. I wish you'd ask her how she makes 
 that little table move under your hands to 
 spell the words." 
 
 Patience. " A wise cook telleth not the 
 brew." 
 
 Doctor. " Turn that board over and let me 
 see what's under it." 
 
 This was done, and after his inspection it 
 was reversed. 
 
 Patience. " Thee'lt bump thy nose to look 
 within the hopper." 
 
 Doctor. " Whew! She doesn't mind hand- 
 ing you one, does she? " 
 
 Mrs. Pollard." That's Patience's way. 
 She doesn't think we count for anything." 
 
 Patience. " The bell-cow doth deem the 
 good folk go to Sabboth house from the ring- 
 ing of her bell." 
 
 Doctor. " She evidently thinks we are a 
 conceited lot. Well, I believe she'll agree with 
 me that you can't get far in this world without 
 a fair opinion of yourself." 
 
 Patience. " So the donkey loveth his 
 bray!" 
 
18 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 The Doctor's Wife. " You can draw her 
 on all you please. I'm going to keep perfectly 
 still." 
 
 Patience. " Oh, e'en the mouse will have a 
 nibble." 
 
 Mrs. Curran. " There! She isn't going to 
 let you off without a little roast. I wonder 
 what she has to say to you." 
 
 Patience. " Did'st ever see the brood hen 
 puff up with self-esteem when all her chicks 
 go for a swim?" 
 
 Doctor. " Let's analyze that and see if 
 there's anything in it." 
 
 Patience. " Strain the potion. Mayhap 
 thou wilt find a fly." 
 
 This will be sufficient to illustrate Patience's 
 form of speech and her ready wit. It also 
 shows something of the character of the people 
 to whom and through whom she has usually 
 spoken. They are not solemn investigators nor 
 " pussy-footed " charlatans. There is no cere- 
 mony about the sitting, no dimmed lights, no 
 compelled silences, no mummeries of any sort. 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 19 
 
 The assistance is of the ordinary, fun-loving, 
 somewhat irreverent American type. The 
 board is brought into the living-room under the 
 full glare of the electric lamps. The men 
 perhaps smoke their cigars. If Patience 
 seems to be in the humor for conversation, all 
 may take part, and she hurls her javelins im- 
 partially. A visitor is at once brought within 
 the umbra of her wit. 
 
 Her conversation, as already indicated, is 
 filled with epigrams and maxims. A book 
 could be made from these alone. They are, 
 of course, not always original. What maxims 
 are? But they are given on the instant, with- 
 out possibility of previous thought, and are 
 always to the point. Here are a few of these 
 prompt aphorisms: 
 
 " A lollypop is but a breeder of pain." 
 " An old goose gobbles the grain like a 
 gosling." 
 
 "Dead resolves are sorry fare." 
 
 " The goose knoweth where the bin leaketh." 
 
 " Quills of sages were plucked from geese/' 
 
80 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " Puddings fit for lords would sour the belly 
 of the swineboy." 
 
 " To clap the cover on a steaming pot of 
 herbs will but modify* the stench." 
 
 " She who quacketh loudest deems the gan- 
 der not the lead at waddling time." 
 
 " Climb not the stars to find a pebble." 
 
 " He who hath a house, a hearth and a friend 
 hath a lucky lot." 
 
 She is often caustic and incisive. 
 
 " A man loveth his wife, but, ah, the buckles 
 on his knee breeks! " 
 
 " Should I present thee with a pumpkin, 
 wouldst thou desire to count the seeds? " 
 
 " A drink of asses' milk would nurture the 
 swine, but wouldst thou then expect his song 
 to change from Want, Want, Want? " 
 
 " Some folk, like the bell without a clapper, 
 go clanging on in good faith, believing the good 
 folk can hear them." 
 
 " Were I to tell thee the pudding string 
 
 * A word of this degree of latinity is very rare with her. 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 21 
 
 were a spinet's string, thou wouldst make 
 ready for the dance." 
 
 " Thee'lt tie thy God within thy kerchief, 
 else have none of Him, and like unto a bat, 
 hang thyself topsy-turvy to better view His 
 handiwork." 
 
 " 'Twould pleg thee sore should thy shadow 
 wear cap and bells." 
 
 " From constant wishing the moon may tip 
 for thee." 
 
 ' Wouldst thou have a daisy blossom upon 
 a thistle?" 
 
 6 Ye who carry pigskins to the well and lace 
 not the hole are a tiresome lot." 
 
 " He who eateth a bannock well made flat- 
 tereth himself should his belly not sour." 
 
 Aside from the dramatic compositions, som 
 of which are of great length, most of the com- 
 munications received from Patience have been 
 in verse. There is rarely a rhyme, practically 
 all being iambic blank verse in lines of irregu- 
 lar length. The rhythm is almost uniformly 
 smooth. At some sittings the poetry begins 
 
%2 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 to come as soon as the hands are placed upon 
 the planchette, and the evening is given over to 
 the production of verse. At others, verses are 
 mingled with repartee and epigram, but sel- 
 dom is an evening spent without at least one 
 poem coming. This was not the case in the 
 earlier months, when many sittings were given 
 up wholly to conversation. The poetry has 
 gradually increased in volume, as if the earlier 
 efforts of the influence had been tentative, 
 while the responsiveness of the intermediary 
 was being tested. So, too, the earlier verses 
 were fragments. 
 
 A blighted bud may hold 
 A sweeter message than the loveliest flower. 
 For God hath kissed her wounded heart 
 And left a promise there. 
 
 A cloak of lies may clothe a golden truth. 
 The sunlight's warmth may fade its glossy black 
 To whitening green and prove the fault 
 * Of weak and shoddy dye. 
 
 Oh, why let sorrow steel thy heart? 
 Thy busom is but its foster mother, 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS M 
 
 The world its cradle, and the loving home 
 Its grave. 
 
 Weave sorrow on the loom of love 
 And warp the loom with faith. 
 
 Such fragments, however, were but steps 
 leading to larger things. A little later on this 
 came: 
 
 So thou hast trod among the tansey tuft 
 
 And murr and thyme, and gathered all the garden's 
 
 store, 
 
 And glutted on the lillie's sensuous sweet, 
 And let thy shade to mar the sunny path, 
 And only paused to strike the slender humming bird, 
 Whose molten-tinted wing but spoke the song 
 Of fluttering joy, and in thy very hand 
 Turned to motley gray. Then thinkest thou 
 To build the garden back by trickery ? 
 
 And then, some six months after her first 
 visit, came the poem which follows, and which 
 may be considered the real beginning of her 
 larger works : 
 
 Long lines of leaden cloud; a purple sea; 
 White gulls skimming across the spray. 
 
24 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Oh dissonant cry ! Art thou 
 The death cry of desire? 
 
 Ah, wail, ye winds, 
 
 And search ye for my dearest wish 
 
 Along the nigged coast, and down 
 
 Where purling waters whisper 
 
 To the rosy coral reef. 
 
 Ah, search ! Ah, search ! 
 
 And when ye return, bring ye the answering. 
 
 Do I stand and call unto the sea for answer? 
 
 Ah, wisdom, where art thou? 
 
 A gull but shows thee to the Southland, 
 
 And leaden sky but warneth thee of storm. 
 
 And wind, thou art but a changeling. 
 
 So, shall I call to thee? Not so. 
 
 I build not upon the spray, 
 
 And seek not within the smaller world, 
 
 For God dwelleth not abroad, but deep within. 
 
 There is spiritual significance, more or less 
 profound, in nearly all of the poems. Some 
 of the lines are obscure, but study reveals a 
 meaning, and the more I, at least, study them, 
 the more I have been impressed with the in- 
 tellectual power behind them. It is this that 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 25 
 
 makes these communications seem to stand 
 alone among the numerous messages that 
 are alleged to have come from " that undis- 
 covered country." 
 
 An intense love of nature is expressed in 
 most of the communications, whether in prose 
 or verse, and also a wide knowledge of 
 nature not the knowledge of the scientist, but 
 that of the poet. 
 
 All silver-laced with ,web and crystal-studded, hangs 
 
 A golden lily cup, as airy as a dancing sprite. 
 
 The moon hath caught a fleeting cloud, and rests in 
 
 her embrace. 
 
 The bumblefly still hovers o'er the clover flower, 
 And mimics all the zephyr's song. White butterflies, 
 Whose wings bespeak late wooing of the buttercup, 
 Wend home their way, the gold still clinging to their 
 
 snowy gossamer. 
 
 E'en the toad, who old and moss-grown seems, 
 Is wabbled on a lilypad, and watches for the moon 
 To bid the cloud adieu and light him to his hunt 
 For fickle marsh flies who tease him through the day. 
 Why, every rose has loosed her petals, 
 And sends a pleading perfume to the moss 
 That creeps upon the maple's stalk, to tempt it hence 
 
26 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 To bear a cooling draught. Round yonder trunk 
 
 The ivy clings and loves it into green. 
 
 The pansy dreams of coaxing goldenrod 
 
 To change her station, lest her modest flower 
 
 Be ever doomed to blossom 'neath the shadow of the 
 
 wall. 
 
 And was not He who touched the pansy 
 With His regal robes and left their color there, 
 All-wise to leave her modesty as her greatest charm? 
 Here snowdrops blossom 'neath a fringe of tuft, 
 And fatty grubs find rest amid the mold. 
 All love, and Love himself, is here, 
 For every garden is fashioned by his hand. 
 Are then the garden's treasures more of worth 
 Than ugly toad or mold? Not so, for Love 
 May tint the zincy blue-gray murk 
 Of curdling fall to crimson, light-flashed summertide. 
 Ah, why then question Love, I prithee, friend? 
 
 This is poetry, but there is something more 
 than liquid sweetness in its lines. There is a 
 truth. Deeper wisdom and a lore more pro- 
 found and more mystical are revealed or deli- 
 cately concealed in some of the others. 
 
 I searched among the hills to find His love, 
 And found but waving trees, and stones 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 27 
 
 Where lizards flaunt their green and slip to cool 
 
 Adown the moss. I searched within the field 
 
 To find His treasure-trove, and found but tasseled 
 
 stalk 
 
 And baby grain, encradled in a silky nest. 
 I searched deep in the rose's heart to find 
 His pledge to me, and steeped in honey, it was there. 
 Lo, while I wait, a vagabond with goss'mer wing 
 Hath stripped her of her loot and borne it all to me. 
 I searched along the shore to find His heart, 
 Ahope the lazy waves would bear it me ; 
 And watched them creep to rest upon the sands, 
 Who sent them back again, asearch for me. 
 I sought amid a tempest for His strength, 
 And found it in its shrieking glee ; 
 And saw man's paltry blocks come crashing down, 
 And heard the wailing of the trees who grew 
 Afeared, and, moaning, caused the flowers to quake 
 And tremble lest the sun forget them at the dawn ; 
 While bolts shot clouds asunder, and e'en the sea 
 Was panting with the spending of his might. 
 I searched within a wayside cot for His white soul, 
 And found a dimple next the lips of one who slept, 
 And watched the curtained wonder of her eyes, 
 Aflutter o'er the iris-colored pools that held His 
 
 smile : * 
 
 And touched the warm and shrinking lips, so mute, 
 
28 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And yet so wise. For canst thou doubt whose kiss 
 Still lingers on their bloom? 
 
 Amid a muck of curse, and lie, 
 And sensuous lust, and damning leers, 
 I searched for Good and Light, 
 And found it there, aye, even there; 
 For broken reeds may house a lark's pure nest. 
 I stopped me at a pool to rest, 
 And toyed along the brink to pluck 
 The cress who would so guard her lips: 
 And flung a stone straight to her heart, 
 And, lo, but silver laughter mocketh me ! 
 And as I stoop to catch the plash, 
 Pale sunbeams pierce the bower, 
 And ah, the shade and laughter melt 
 And leave me, empty, there. 
 But wait ! I search and find, 
 Reflected in the pool, myself, the searcher. 
 And, on the silver surface traced, 
 My answer to it all. 
 
 For, heart of mine, who on this journey 
 Sought with me, I knew thee not, 
 But searched for prayer and love amid the rocks 
 Whilst thou but now declare thyself to me. 
 Ah, could I deem thee strong and fitting 
 As the tempest to depict His strength; 
 Or yet as gentle as the smile of baby lips, 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 29 
 
 Or sweet as honeyed rose or pure as mountain pool? 
 And yet thou art, and thou art mine 
 A gift and answer from my God. 
 
 It is not my purpose to attempt an extended 
 interpretation of the metaphysics of these 
 poems. This one will repay real study. No 
 doubt there will be varied views of its meaning. 
 
 These poems do not all move with the mur- 
 muring ripple of running brooks. Some of 
 them, appalling in the rugged strength of their 
 figures of speech, are like the storm waves 
 smashing their sides against the cliffs. In my 
 opinion there are not very many in literature 
 that grip the mind with greater force than the 
 
 first two lines of the brief one which follows, 
 
 
 
 and there are few things more beautiful than 
 its conclusion: 
 
 Ah, God, I have drunk unto the dregs, 
 
 And flung the cup at Thee! 
 
 The dust of crumbled righteousness 
 
 Hath dried and soaked unto itself 
 
 E'en the drop I spilled to Bacchus, 
 
 Whilst Thou, all-patient, 
 
 Sendest purple vintage for a later harvest. 
 
30 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 The poems sometimes contain irony, gentle 
 as a summer zephyr or crushing as a mailed 
 fist. For instance this challenge to the vain- 
 glorious: 
 
 Strike ye the sword or dip ye in an inken well; 
 
 Smear ye a gaudy color or daub ye the clay? 
 
 Aye, beat upon thy busom then and cry, 
 
 " 'Tis mine, this world-love and vainglory ! " 
 
 Ah, master-hand, who guided thee? Stay! 
 
 Dost know that through the ages, 
 
 Yea, through the very ages, 
 
 One grain of hero dust, blown from afar, 
 
 Hath lodged, and moveth thee? 
 
 Wait. Wreathe thyself and wait. 
 
 The green shall deepen to an ashen brown 
 
 And crumble then and fall into thy sightless eyes, 
 
 While thy moldering flesh droppeth awry. 
 
 Wait, and catch thy dust. 
 
 Mayhap thou canst build it back ! 
 
 She touches all the strings of human emo- 
 tion, and frequently thrums the note of sorrow, 
 usually, however, as an overture to a paean of 
 joy. The somber tones in her pictures, 
 to use another metaphor, are used mainly to 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS SI 
 
 strengthen the high lights. But now and then 
 there comes a verse of sadness such as this one, 
 which yet is not wholly sad: 
 
 Ah, wake me not ! 
 
 For should my dreaming work a spell to soothe 
 My troubled soul, wouldst thou deny me dreams ? 
 
 Ah, wake me not ! 
 
 If 'mong the leaves wherein the shadows lurk 
 I fancy conjured faces of my loved, long lost; 
 And if the clouds to me are sorrow's shroud; 
 And if I trick my sorrow, then, to hide 
 Beneath a smile ; or build of wasted words 
 A key to wisdom's door -wouldst thou deny me? 
 
 Ah, let me dream! 
 The day may bring fresh sorrows, 
 But the night will bring new dreams. 
 
 When this was spelled upon the board, its 
 pathos affected Mrs. Curran to tears, and, to 
 comfort her, Patience quickly applied an anti- 
 dote in the following jingle, which illustrates 
 not only her versatility, but her sense of 
 humor: 
 
 Patter, patter, briney drops, 
 On my kerchief drying: 
 
38 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Spatter, spatter, salty stream, 
 Down my poor cheeks flying. 
 Brine enough to 'merse a ham, 
 Salt enough to build a dam! 
 Trickle, trickle, all ye can 
 And wet my dry heart's aching. 
 Sop and sop, 'tis better so, 
 For in dry soil flowers ne'er grow. 
 
 This little jingle answered its purpose. 
 Mrs. Curran's tears continued to fall, but they 
 were tears of laughter, and all of the little 
 party about the board were put in good spirits. 
 Then Patience dryly remarked: 
 
 ' Two singers there be; he who should sing 
 like a troubadour and brayeth like an ass, and 
 he who should bray that singeth." 
 
 These examples will serve to illustrate the 
 nature of the communications, and as an intro- 
 duction to the numerous compositions that will 
 be presented in the course of this narrative. 
 
 The question now arises, or, more likely, it 
 has been in the reader's mind since the book was 
 opened: What evidence is there of their gen- 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 33 
 
 uineness? Does Mrs. Curran, consciously or 
 subconsciously, produce this matter? It is 
 hardly credible that anyone able to write such 
 poems would bother with a ouija board to 
 do it. 
 
 It will probably be quite evident to a 
 reader of the whole matter that whoever or 
 whatever it is that writes this poetry and 
 prose, possesses, as already intimated, not only 
 an unusual mind, but an unusual knowledge of 
 archaic forms of English, a close acquaintance 
 with nature as it is found in England, and a 
 familiarity with the manners and customs of 
 English life of an older time. Many of the 
 words used in the later compositions, par- 
 ticularly those of a dramatic nature, are 
 obscure dialectal forms not to be found in any 
 work of literature. All of the birds and flow- 
 ers and trees referred to in the communica- 
 tions are native to England, with the few ex- 
 ceptions that indicate some knowledge of New 
 England. No one not growing up with the 
 language used could have acquired facility in 
 it without years of patient study. No one 
 
34- PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 could become so familiar with English nature 
 without long residence in England: for the 
 knowledge revealed is not of the character that 
 can be obtained from books. Mrs. Curran has 
 had none of these experiences. She has never 
 been in England. Her studies since leaving 
 school have been confined to music, to which 
 art she is passionately attached, and in which 
 she is adept. She has never been a student of 
 literature, ancient or modern, and has never 
 attempted any form of literary work. She 
 has had no particular interest in English his- 
 tory, English literature or English life. 
 
 But, it may be urged, this matter might be 
 produced subconsciously, from Mrs. Curran's 
 mind or from the mind of some person asso- 
 ciated with her. The phenomena of subcon- 
 sciousness are many and varied, and the word 
 is used to indicate, but does not explain, nu- 
 merous mysteries of the mind which seem 
 wholly baffling despite this verbal hitching 
 post. But I have no desire to enter into an 
 argument. My sole purpose is so to present 
 the facts that the reader may intelligently form 
 
NATURE OF THE COMMUNICATIONS 35 
 
 his own opinion. Here are the facts that relate 
 to this phase of the subject: 
 
 Mrs. Curran does not go into a trance when 
 the communications are received. On the con- 
 trary, her mind is absolutely normal, and she 
 may talk to others while the board is in opera- 
 tion under her hands. It is unaffected by con- 
 versation in the room. There is no effort at 
 mental concentration. Aside from Mrs. Cur- 
 ran, it does not matter who is present, or 
 who sits at the board with her; there are sel- 
 dom the same persons at any two successive 
 sittings. Yet the personality of Patience is 
 constant and unvarying. As to subconscious 
 action on the part of Mrs. Curran, it would 
 seem to be sufficient to say that no one can 
 impart knowledge subconsciously, unless it 
 has been first acquired through the media of 
 consciousness; that is to say, through the 
 senses. No one, for example, who had never 
 seen or heard a word of Chinese, could speak 
 the language subconsciously. One may uncon- 
 sciously acquire information, but it must be 
 through the senses. 
 
36 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 It remains but to add that the reputation 
 and social position of the Currans puts them 
 above the suspicion of fraud, if fraud were at 
 all possible in such a matter as this ; that Mrs. 
 Curran does not give public exhibitions, nor 
 private exhil itions for pay; that the composi- 
 tions have been received in the presence of their 
 friends, or of friends of their friends, all spe- 
 cially invited guests. There seems r othing ab- 
 normal about her. She is an intelligent, con- 
 scientious woman, a member of the Episco- 
 palian church, but not especially zealous in 
 affairs of religion, a talented musician, a clever 
 and witty conversationalist, and a charming 
 hostess. These facts are stated not as gratui- 
 tous compliments, but as evidences of character 
 and temperament which have a bearing upon 
 the question. 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 
 
 " Yea, I be me." v 
 
 PATIENCE, as I have said, has given very 
 little information about herself, and every ef- 
 fort to pin her to a definite time or locality 
 has been without avail. When she first intro- 
 duced herself to Mrs. Curran, she was asked 
 where she came from, and she replied, " Across 
 the sea." Asked when she lived, the pointer 
 groped among the figures as if struggling with 
 memory, and finally, with much hesitation 
 upon each digit, gave the date 1649. This 
 seemed to be so in accord with her language, 
 and the articles of dress and household use to 
 which she referred, that it was accepted as a 
 date that had some relation to her material 
 existence. But Patience has since made it 
 quite plain that she is not to be tied to any 
 period. 
 
 37 
 
38 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " I be like to the wind," she says, " and 
 yea, like to it do blow me ever, yea, since 
 time. Do ye to tether me unto today I 
 blow me then tomorrow, and do ye to 
 tether me unto tomorrow I blow me then 
 today." 
 
 Indeed, she at times seems to take a mis- 
 chievous delight in baffling the seeker after 
 personal information ; and at other times, when 
 she has a composition in hand, she expresses 
 sharp displeasure at such inquiries. As this 
 is not a speculative work, but a narrative, the 
 attempt to fix a time and place for her will be 
 left to those who may find interest in the task. 
 All that can be said with definiteness is that 
 she brings the speech and the atmosphere, as 
 it were, of an age or ages long past ; that she 
 is thoroughly English, and that while she can 
 and does project herself back into the mists 
 of time, and speak of early medieval scenes as 
 familiarly as of the English renaissance, she 
 does not make use of any knowledge she may 
 possess of modern developments or modern 
 conditions. And yet, archaic in word and 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 39 
 
 form as her compositions are, there is some- 
 thing very modern in her way of thought and 
 in her attitude toward nature. An eminent 
 philologist asked her how it was that she used 
 the language of so many different periods, and 
 she replied: " I do plod a twist of a path and 
 it hath run from then till now." And when 
 he said that in her poetry there seemed to be 
 echoes or intangible suggestions of compara- 
 tively recent poets, and asked her to explain, 
 she said: " There be aneath the every stone a 
 hidden voice. I but loose the stone and lo, the 
 voice ! " 
 
 But while the archaic form of her speech and 
 writings is an evidence of her genuineness, and 
 she so considers it, she does not approve of its 
 analysis as a philological amusement. " I brew 
 and fashion feasts," she says, " and lo, do ye 
 to tear asunder, thee wouldst have but grain 
 dust and unfit to eat. I put not meaning to 
 the tale, but source thereof." That is to say, 
 she does not wish to be measured by the form 
 of her words, but by the thoughts they convey 
 and the source from which they come. And 
 
40 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 she has put this admonition into strong and 
 striking phrases. 
 
 " Put ye a value 'pon word? And weigh ye 
 the line to measure, then, the gift o' Him 'pon 
 rod afashioned out by man? 
 
 " I tell thee, He hath spoke from out the 
 lowliest, and man did put to measure, and lo, 
 the lips astop! 
 
 "And He doth speak anew; yea, and He 
 hath spoke from out the mighty, and man doth 
 whine o' track ashow 'pon path he knoweth not 
 and lo, the mighty be astopped! 
 
 " Yea, and He ashoweth wonders, and man 
 findeth him a rule, and lo, the wonder shrink- 
 eth, and but the rule remaineth! 
 
 " Yea, the days do rock with word o' Him, 
 and man doth look but to the rod, and lo, the 
 word o' Him asinketh to a whispering, to die. 
 
 " And yet, in patience, He seeketh new days 
 to speak to thee. And thou ne'er shalt see His 
 working. Nay ! 
 
 " Look ye unto the seed o' the olive tree, 
 aplanted. Doth the master, at its first burst 
 athrough the sod, set up a rule and murmur 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 41 
 
 him, * 'Tis ne'er an olive tree! It hath but a 
 pulp stem and winged leaves? ' Nay, he let- 
 teth it to grow, and nurtureth it thro' days, and 
 lo, at finish, there astandeth the olive tree! 
 
 * Ye'd uproot the very seed in quest o' root! 
 I bid thee nurture o' its day astead. 
 
 " I tell thee more : He speaketh not by line 
 or word; Nay, by love and giving. 
 
 " Do ye also this, in His name." 
 
 But, aside from the meagerness of her 
 history, there is no indefiniteness in her 
 personality, and this clear-cut and unmis- 
 takable individuality, quite different from 
 that of Mrs. Curran, is as strong an evi- 
 dence of her genuineness as is the unique- 
 ness of her literary productions. To speak 
 of something which cannot be seen nor heard 
 nor felt as a personality, would seem to be a 
 misuse of the word, and yet personality is much 
 more a matter of mental than of physical char- 
 acteristics. The tongue and the eyes are 
 merely instruments by means of which per- 
 sonality is revealed. The personality of Pa- 
 
42 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 tience Worth is manifested through the instru- 
 mentality of a ouija board, and her striking 
 individuality is thereby as vividly expressed as 
 if she were present in the flesh. Indeed, it 
 requires no effort of the imagination to visual- 
 ize her. Whatever she may be, she is at hand. 
 Nor does she have to be solicited. The moment 
 the fingers are on the board she takes com- 
 mand. She seems fairly to jump at the oppor- 
 tunity to express herself. 
 
 And she is essentially feminine. There are 
 indubitable evidences of feminine tastes, emo- 
 tions, habits of thought, and knowledge. She 
 is, for example, profoundly versed in the meth- 
 ods of housekeeping of two centuries or more 
 ago. She is familiar with all the domestic ma- 
 chinery and utensils of that olden time the 
 operation of the loom and the spinning wheel, 
 the art of cooking at an open hearth, the sand- 
 ing of floors ; and this homely knowledge is the 
 essence of many of her proverbs and epi- 
 grams. 
 
 " A good wife," she says, " keepeth the floor 
 well sanded and rushes in plenty to burn. The 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 43 
 
 pewter should reflect the fire's bright glow; 
 but in thy day housewifery is a sorry trade." 
 
 At another time she opened the evening 
 thus: 
 
 " I have brought me some barley corn and 
 a porridge pot. May I then sup ? " 
 
 And the same evening she said to Mrs. Pol- 
 lard: 
 
 " Thee'lt ever stuff the pot and wash the 
 dishcloth in thine own way. Alackaday! Go 
 brush thy hearth. Set pot aboiling. Thee'lt 
 cook into the brew a stuff that tasteth full well 
 unto thy guest." 
 
 A collection of maxims for housekeepers 
 might be made from the flashes of Patience's 
 conversation. For example : 
 
 ' Too much sweet may spoil the short 
 bread." 
 
 ' Weak yarn is not worth the knitting." 
 
 " A pound for pound loaf was never known 
 to fail." 
 
 " A basting but toughens an old goose." 
 
 These and many others like them were used 
 by her in a figurative sense, but they reveal an 
 
44 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 intimate knowledge of the household arts and 
 appliances of a forgotten time. If she knows 
 anything of stoves or ranges, of fireless cook- 
 ers, of refrigerators, of any of the thousand 
 and one utensils which are familiar to the 
 modern housewife, she has never once let slip 
 a word to betray such knowledge. 
 
 At one time, after she had delivered a poem, 
 the circle fell into a discussion of its meaning, 
 and after a bit Patience declared they were 
 " like treacle dripping," and added, " thee'lt 
 find the dishcloth may make a savory stew." 
 
 " She's roasting us," cried Mrs. Hutch- 
 ings. 
 
 " Nay," said Patience, " boiling the pot." 
 
 " You don't understand our slang, Pa- 
 tience," Mrs. Hutchings explained. " Roast- 
 ing means criticising or rebuking." 
 
 " Yea, basting," said Patience. 
 
 Mrs. Pollard remarked: "I've heard my 
 mother say, ' He got a basting! ' 
 
 "An up-and-down turn to the hourglass 
 does to a turn," Patience observed dryly. 
 
 " I suppose she means," said Mrs. Hutch- 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 45 
 
 ings, " that two hours of basting or roasting 
 would make us understand." 
 
 " Would she be likely to know about hour- 
 glasses? " Mrs. Curran asked. 
 
 Patience answered the question. 
 
 " A dial beam on a sorry day would make a 
 muck o' basting." Meaning that a sundial was 
 of no use on a cloudy day. 
 
 But Patience is not usually as patient with 
 lack of understanding as this bit of conversa- 
 tion would indicate. 
 
 " I dress and baste thy^fowl," she said once, 
 " and thee wouldst have me eat for thee. If 
 thou wouldst build the comb, then search thee 
 for the honey." 
 
 " Oh, we know we are stupid," said one. 
 " We admit it." 
 
 " Saw drip would build thy head and fill thy 
 crannies," Patience went on, " yet ye feel smug 
 in wisdom." 
 
 And again: " I card and weave, and ye look 
 a painful lot should I pass ye a bobbin to 
 wind." 
 
46 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 A request to repeat a doubtful line drew 
 forth this exclamation: " Bother! I fain would 
 sew thy seam, not do thy patching." 
 
 At another time she protested against a dis- 
 cussion that interrupted the delivery of a 
 poem: " Who then doth hold the distaff from 
 whence the thread doth wind? Thou art shut- 
 tling 'twixt the woof- and warp but to mar the 
 weaving." 
 
 And once she exclaimed, " I sneeze on rust 
 o' wits!" 
 
 But it must not b^understood that Patience 
 is bad-tempered. These outbreaks are quoted 
 to show one side of her personality, and they 
 usually indicate impatience rather than anger : 
 for, a moment after such caustic exclamations, 
 she is likely to be talking quite genially or dic- 
 tating the tenderest of poetry. She quite 
 often, too, expresses affection for the family 
 with which she has associated herself. At one 
 time she said to Mrs. Curran, who had ex- 
 pressed impatience at some cryptic utterance 
 of the board : 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 47 
 
 " Ah, weary, weary me, from trudging and 
 tracking o'er the long road to thy heart ! Wilt 
 thou, then, not let me rest awhile therein? " 
 
 And again: " Should thee let thy fire to em- 
 ber I fain would cast fresh faggots." 
 
 And at another time she said of Mrs. Cur- 
 ran: " She doth boil and seethe, and brew and 
 taste, but I have a loving for the wench." 
 
 But she seems to think that those with 
 whom she is associated should take her love 
 for granted, as home folks usually do, and she 
 showers her most beautiful compliments upon 
 the casual visitor who happens to win her 
 favor. To one such she said: 
 
 " The heart o' her hath suffered thorn, but 
 bloomed a garland o'er the wounds." 
 
 To a lady who is somewhat deaf she paid 
 this charming tribute: 
 
 " She hath an ear upon her every finger's 
 tip, and 'pon her eye a thousand flecks o' 
 color for to spread upon a dreary tale and 
 paint a leaden sky aflash. What need she o' 
 ears?" 
 
 And to another who, after a time at the 
 
48 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 board, said she did not want to weary Pa- 
 tience: 
 
 " Weary then at loving of a friend? Would 
 I then had the garlanded bloom o' love she 
 hath woven and lighted, I do swear, with 
 smiling washed brighter with her tears." 
 
 And again: "I be weaving of a garland. 
 Do leave me then a bit to tie its ends. I 
 plucked but buds, and woe! they did spell but 
 infant's love. I cast ye, then, a blown bloom, 
 wide petaled and rich o' scent. Take thou 
 and press atween thy heart throbs my gift.'* 
 
 Of still another she said: " She be a star- 
 bloom blue that nestleth to the soft grasses 
 of the spring, but ah, the brightness cast to 
 him who seeketh field aweary! " 
 
 And yet again: " Fields hath she trod 
 arugged, aye, and weed agrown. Aye, and 
 e'en now, where she hath set abloom the blos- 
 soms o' her very soul, weed aspringeth. And 
 lo, she standeth head ahigh and eye to sky 
 and faith astrong. And foot abruised still 
 troddeth rugged field. But I do promise ye 
 'tis such an faith that layeth low the weed 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 49 
 
 and putteth 'pon the rugged path asmoothe, 
 and yet but bloom shalt show, and ever shalt 
 she stand, head ahigh and eye unto the sky." 
 
 Upon an evening after she had showered 
 such compliments upon the ladies present she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " I be a wag atruth, and lo, my posey- 
 wreath be stripped!" 
 
 She seldom favors the men in this way. 
 She has referred to herself several times as a 
 spinster, and this may account for a certain 
 reluctance to saying complimentary things of 
 the other sex. " A prosy spinster may but 
 plash in love's pool," she remarked once, and 
 at another time she said : " A wife shall brush 
 her goodman's blacks and polish o' his buckles, 
 but a maid may not dare e'en to blow the 
 trifling dust from his knickerbockers." With 
 a few notable exceptions, her attitude toward 
 men has been expressed in sarcasm, none the 
 less cutting to those for whom she has an 
 affection manifested in other ways. To one 
 such she said: 
 
50 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " Thee'lt peg thy shoes, lad, to best their 
 wearing, and eat too freely of the fowl. Thy 
 belly needeth pegging sore, I wot." 
 
 " Patience doesn't mean that for me," he 
 protested. 
 
 " Nay," she said, " the jackass ne'er can 
 know his reflection in the pool. He deemeth 
 the thrush hath stolen of his song. Buy thee 
 a pushcart. 'Twill speak for thee." 
 
 And of this same rotund friend she re- 
 marked, when he laughed at something she 
 had said: 
 
 "He shaketh like a pot o' goose jell!" 
 
 " I back up, Patience," he cried. 
 
 " And thee'lt find the cart," she said. 
 
 Of a visitor, a physician, she had this to 
 say: 
 
 " He bindeth and asmears and looketh at a 
 merry, and his eye dqth lie. How doth he 
 smite and stitch like to a wench, and brew o'er 
 steam! Yea, 'tis atwist he be. He runneth 
 whither, and, at a beconing, (beckoning) 
 yon, and ever thus; but 'tis a blunder-mucker 
 he be. His head like to a steel, yea, and 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 51 
 
 heart a summer's cloud athin (within), 
 enough to show athrough the clear o' blue." 
 
 But it is upon the infant that Patience be- 
 stows her tenderest words. Her love of child- 
 hood is shown in many lines of rare and touch- 
 ing beauty. 
 
 " Ye seek to level unto her," she said of a 
 baby girl who was present one evening, " but 
 thou art awry at reasoning. For he who put- 
 teth him to babe's path doth track him high, 
 and lo, the path leadeth unto the Door. Yea, 
 and doth she knock, it doth ope. 
 
 " Cast ye wide thy soul's doors and set 
 within such love. For, brother, I do tell thee 
 that though the soul o' ye be torn, aye, and 
 scarred, 'tis such an love that doth heal. The 
 love o' babe be the balm o' earth. 
 
 " See ye! The sun tarrieth 'bout the lips o' 
 her; aye, and though the hand be but thy fin- 
 ger's span, 'tis o' a weight to tear away thy 
 heart." 
 
 And upon another occasion she revealed 
 something of herself in these words : 
 
58 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Know ye; in my heart's mansion 
 
 There be apart a place 
 
 Wherein I treasure my God's gifts. 
 
 Think ye to peer therein? Nay. 
 
 And should thee by a chance 
 
 To catch a stolen glimpse, 
 
 Thee'dst laugh amerry, for hord (hoard) 
 
 Would show but dross to thee : 
 
 A friend's regard, ashrunked and turned 
 
 To naught but one bright memory is there; 
 
 A hope now dead, but showeth gold hid there; 
 
 A host o' nothings dreams, hopes, fears ; 
 
 Love throbs afluttered hence 
 
 Since first touch o' baby hands 
 
 Caressed my heart's store ahidden. 
 
 Returning to the femininity of Patience, it is 
 also shown in her frequent references to dress. 
 Upon an evening when the publication of her 
 poems. had been under discussion, when next 
 the board was taken up she let them know that 
 she had heard, in this manner: 
 
 " My pettieskirt hath a scallop," she said. 
 " Mayhap that will help thy history." 
 
 " Oh," cried Mrs. Curran, " we are discov- 
 ered!" 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 53 
 
 ' Yea," laughed Patience she must have 
 laughed, " and tell thou of my buckled boots 
 and add a cap-string." 
 
 Further illustrative of her feminine char- 
 acteristics and of her interest in dress, as well 
 as of a certain fun-loving spirit which now 
 and then seems to sway her, is this record of a 
 sitting upon an evening when Mr. Curran and 
 Mr. Hutchings had gone to the theater, and 
 the ladies were alone: 
 
 Patience. 1 ' Go ye to the lighted hall to 
 search for learning? Nay, 'tis a piddle, not a 
 stream, ye search. Mayhap thou sendest thy 
 men for barleycorn. 'Twould then surprise 
 thee should the asses eat it." 
 
 Mrs. H." What is she driving at? " 
 
 Mrs. P. " The men and the theater, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 Mrs. H. " Patience, what are they seeing 
 up there?" 
 
 Patience. " Ne'er a timid wench, I 
 
 vum." 
 
 Mrs. C. " You don't approve of their go- 
 ing, do you, Patience? " 
 
54 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Patience. " Thee'lt find a hearth more 
 profit. Better they cast the bit of paper." 
 
 Mrs. C. " What does she mean by paper? 
 Their programmes? " 
 
 Patience. " Painted parchment squares." 
 
 Mrs. P. " Oh, she means they'd better stay 
 at home and play cards." 
 
 Mrs. H. "Are they likely to get their 
 morals corrupted at that show? " 
 
 Patience. " He who tickleth the ass to start 
 a braying, fain would carol with his brother." 
 
 Mrs. C. " If the singing is as bad as it 
 usually is at that place, I don't wonder at her 
 disapproval. But what about the girls, Pa- 
 tience? " 
 
 Patience. " My pettieskirt ye may borrow 
 for the brazens." 
 
 Mrs. P. " Now, what is a pettieskirt? Is 
 it really a skirt or is it that ruff they used to 
 wear around the neck? " 
 
 Patience. " Nay, my bib covereth the neck- 
 band." 
 
 Mrs. H. " Then, where do you wear your 
 pettieskirt? " 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 55 
 
 Patience. 6 ' 'Neath my kirtle." 
 
 Mrs. C. " Is that the same as girdle? Ljet's 
 look it up." 
 
 Patience. "Art fashioning thy new 
 frock?" 
 
 Mrs. H. " I predict that Patience will 
 found a new style Puritan." 
 
 Patience. " 'Twere a virtue, egad! " 
 
 Mrs. H. " You evidently don't think much 
 of our present style. In your day women 
 dressed more modestly, didn't they? " 
 
 Patience. " Many's the wench who pulled 
 her points to pop. But ah, the locks were 
 combed to satin ! He who bent above might see 
 himself reflected." 
 
 Mrs. C. " What were the young girls of 
 your day like, Patience? " 
 
 Patience. " A silly lot, as these of thine. 
 Wait!" 
 
 There was no movement of the board for 
 about three minutes, and then: 
 
 " 'Tis a sorry lot, not harming but bore- 
 some!" 
 
56 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Mrs. H. " Oh, Patience, have you been to 
 the theater?" 
 
 Patience. "A peep in good cause coulo^ 
 surely ne'er harm the godly." 
 
 Mrs. C. " How do you think we ought to 
 look after those men? " 
 
 Patience. " Thine ale is drunk at the 
 hearth. Surely he who stops to sip may bless 
 the firelog belonging to thee." 
 
 When the men returned home they agreed 
 with the verdict of Patience before they had 
 heard it, that it was a " tame " show, " not 
 harming, but boresome." 
 
 The exclamation of Mrs. Curran, " Let's 
 look it up," in the extract just quoted from the 
 record, has been a frequent one in this circle 
 since Patience came. So many of her words 
 are obsolete that her friends are often com- 
 pelled to search through the dictionaries and 
 glossaries for their meaning. Her reference to 
 articles of dress wimple, kirtle, pettieskirt, 
 points and so on, had all to be " looked up." 
 Once Patience began an evening with this 
 remark: 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 57 
 
 " The cockshut finds ye still peering to find 
 the other land." 
 
 " What is cock's hut? " asked Mrs. H. 
 
 " Nay," said Patience, " Cock-shut. Thee 
 needeth light, but cockshut bringeth dark." 
 
 " Cockshut must mean shutting up the cock 
 at night," suggested a visitor. 
 
 " Aye, and geese, too, then could be put to 
 quiet," Patience exclaimed. " Wouldst thou 
 wish for cockshut?" 
 
 Search revealed that cockshut was a term 
 anciently applied to a net used for catching 
 woodcock, and it was spread at nightfall, hence 
 cockshut acquired also the meaning of early 
 evening. Shakespeare uses the term once, in 
 Richard III., in the phrase, " Much about 
 cockshut time," but it is a very rare word in 
 literature, and probably has not been used, 
 even colloquially, for centuries. 
 
 There are many such words used by Pa- 
 tience relics of an age long past. The writer 
 was present at a sitting when part of a ro- 
 mantic story-play of medieval days was being 
 received on the board. One of the characters 
 
58 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 in the story spoke of herself as " playing the 
 jane-o'-apes." No one present had ever heard 
 or seen the word. Patience was asked if it had 
 been correctly received, and she repeated it. 
 Upon investigation it was found that it is a 
 feminine form of the familiar jackanapes, 
 meaning a silly girl. Massinger used it in one 
 of his plays in the seventeenth century, but 
 that appears to be the only instance of its use 
 in literature. 
 
 These words may be not unknown to many 
 people, but the point is that they were totally 
 strange to those at the board, including Mrs. 
 Curran words that could not possibly have 
 come out of the consciousness or subconscious- 
 ness of any one of them. The frequent use 
 of such words helps to give verity to the archaic 
 tongue in which she expresses her thoughts, 
 and the consistent and unerring use of this 
 obsolete form of speech is, next to the char- 
 acter of her literary production, the strongest 
 evidence of her genuineness. It will be no- 
 ticed, too, that the language she uses in con- 
 versation is quite different from that in her 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 59 
 
 literary compositions, although there are defi- 
 nite similarities which seem to prove that 
 they come from the same source. In this also 
 she is wholly consistent: for it is unquestion- 
 ably true that no poet ever talked as he wrote. 
 Every writer uses colloquial words and idioms 
 in conversation that he would never employ in 
 literature. No matter what his skill or genius 
 as a writer may be, he talks " just like other 
 people." Patience Worth in this, as in other 
 things, is true to her character. 
 
 It may be repeated that in all this matter 
 and it is but a skimming of the mass one 
 may readily discern a distinct and striking per- 
 sonality; not a wraith-like, formless, evanes- 
 cent shadow, but a personality that can be 
 clearly visualized. One can easily imagine 
 Patience Worth to be a woman of the Puri- 
 tan period, with, however, none of the severe 
 and gloomy beliefs of the Puritan a woman 
 of a past age stepped out of an old picture and 
 leaving behind her the material artificialities of 
 paint and canvas. From her speech and her 
 
60 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 writings one may conceive her to be a woman 
 of Northern England, possibly: for she uses 
 a number of ancient words that are found to 
 have been peculiar to the Scottish border; a 
 country woman, perhaps, for in all of her com- 
 munications there are only two or three refer- 
 ences to the city, although her knowledge and 
 love of the drama may be a point against this 
 assumption; a woman who had read much in 
 an age when books were scarce, and women 
 who could read rarer still: for although she 
 frequently expresses disdain of book learning, 
 she betrays a large accumulation of such learn- 
 ing, and a copious vocabulary, as well as a de- 
 gree of skill in its use, that could only have 
 been acquired from much study of books. " I 
 have bought beads from a pack," she says, 
 " but ne'er yet have I found a peddler of 
 words." 
 
 And then, after we have mentally material- 
 ized this woman, and given her a habitation 
 and a time, Patience speaks again, and all has 
 vanished. " Not so," she said to one who ques- 
 tioned her, " I be abirthed awhither and abide 
 
PERSONALITY OF PATIENCE 61 
 
 me where." And again she likened herself to 
 the wind. " I be like the wind," she said, " who 
 leaveth not track, but ever 'bout, and yet like 
 to the rain who groweth grain for thee to 
 reap." At other times she has indicated that 
 she has never had a physical existence. I have 
 quoted her saying: " I do plod a twist o' a path 
 and it hath run from then till now." At a later 
 time she was asked what she meant by that. 
 She answered: 
 
 " Didst e'er to crack a stone, and lo, a worm 
 aharded? (a fossil). 'Tis so, for list ye, I 
 speak like ye since time began." 
 
 It is thus she reveals herself clearly to the 
 mind, but when one attempts to approach too 
 closely, to lay a hand upon her, as it were, she 
 invariably recedes into the unfathomable deeps 
 of mysticism. 
 
THE POETRY 
 
 Am I a broken lyre, 
 Who, at the Master's touch, 
 Respondeth with a tinkle and a whir? 
 Or am I strung in full 
 
 And at His touch give forth the full chord? 
 
 PATIENCE WORTH. 
 
 As the reader will have observed, the poetry 
 of Patience Worth is not confined to a single 
 theme, nor to a group of related themes. It 
 covers a range that extends from inanimate 
 things through all the gradations of material 
 life and on into the life of spiritual realms as 
 yet uncharted. It includes poems of senti- 
 ment, poems of nature, poem? of humanity; 
 but the larger number deal with man in rela- 
 tion to the mysteries of the beyond. All of 
 them evince intellectual power, knowledge of 
 nature and human nature, and skill in con- 
 struction. With the exception of one or two 
 little jingles, the poems are rhymeless. Pa- 
 
64 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 tience may not wholly agree with Milton that 
 rhyme " is the invention of a barbarous age to 
 set off wretched matter and lame metre," 
 but she seldom uses it, finding in blank verse a 
 medium that suits all her moods, making it at 
 will as light and ethereal as a summer cloud or 
 as solemn and stately as a Wagnerian march. 
 She molds it to every purpose, and puts it to 
 new and strange uses. Who, for example, ever 
 saw a lullaby in blank verse? It is, I believe, 
 quite without precedent in literature, and yet 
 it would not be easy to find a lullaby more 
 daintily beautiful than the one which will be 
 presented later on. 
 
 In all of her verse, the iambic measure is 
 dominant, but it is not maintained with mo- 
 notonous regularity. She appreciates the 
 value of an occasional break in the rhythm, and 
 she understands the uses of the pause. But 
 she declines to be bound by any rules of line 
 measurement. Many of her lines are in accord 
 with the decasyllabic standard of heroic verse, 
 but in no instance is that standard rigidly ad- 
 hered to: some of the lines contain as many 
 
THE POETRY 65 
 
 as sixteen syllables, others drop to eight or 
 even six. 
 
 It should be explained, however, that the 
 poetry as it comes from the ouija board is not 
 in verse form. There is nothing in the dicta- 
 tion to indicate where a line should begin or 
 where end, nor, of course, is there any punc- 
 tuation, there being no way by which the marks 
 of punctuation could be denoted. There is 
 usually, however, a perceptible pause at the 
 end of a sentence. The words are taken down 
 as they are spelled on the board, without any 
 attempt, at the time, at versification or punc- 
 tuation. After the sitting, the matter is punc- 
 tuated and lined as nearly in accord with the 
 principles of blank verse construction as the 
 abilities of the editor will permit. It is not 
 claimed that the line arrangement of the verses 
 as they are here presented is perfect; but that 
 is a detail of minor importance, and for what- 
 ever technical imperfections there may be in 
 this particular, Patience Worth is not re- 
 sponsible. The important thing is that every 
 word is given exactly as it came from the 
 
66 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 board, without the alteration of a syllable, and 
 without changing the position or even the spell- 
 ing of a single one. 
 
 As a rule, Patience spells the words in ac- 
 cordance with the standards of today, but there 
 are frequent departures from those standards, 
 and many times she has spelled a word two or 
 three different ways in the same composition. 
 For example, she will spell " spin " with one 
 n or two n's indifferently : she will spell 
 " friend " correctly, and a little later will add 
 an e to it; she will write "boughs" and 
 " bows " in the same composition. On the 
 other hand she invariably spells tongue 
 " tung," and positively refuses to change it, 
 and this is true also of the word bosom, which 
 she spells " busom." 
 
 There are indications that the poems and the 
 stories are in course of composition at the time 
 they are being produced 6n the ouija board. 
 Indeed, one can almost imagine the author dic- 
 tating to an amanuensis in the manner that was 
 necessary before stenography was invented, 
 when every word had to be spelled out in long- 
 
THE POETRY 67 
 
 hand. At times the little table will move with 
 such rapidity that it is very difficult to follow 
 its point with the eye and catch the letter indi- 
 cated. Then there will be a pause, and the 
 pointer will circle around the board, as if the 
 composer were trying to decide upon a word 
 or a phrase. Occasionally four or five words 
 of a sentence will be given, then suddenly the 
 planchette will dart up to the word " No," and 
 begin the sentence again with different and, it 
 is to be presumed, more satisfactory words. 
 
 Sometimes, though rarely, Patience will be- 
 gin a composition and suddenly abandon it 
 with an exclamation of displeasure, or else take 
 up a new and entirely different subject. Once 
 she began a prose composition thus: 
 
 " I waste my substance on the weaving of 
 web and the storing of pebbles. When shall I 
 build mine house, and when fill the purse? Oh, 
 that my fancy weaved not but web, and desire 
 pricketh not but pebble! " 
 
 There was an impatient dash across the 
 board, and then she exclaimed: 
 
 " Ifah, 'tis bally reasoning! I plucked a 
 
68 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 gosling for a goose, and found down enough 
 to pad the parson's saddle skirts! " 
 
 At another time she began: 
 
 " Rain, art thou the tears wept a thousand 
 years agone, and soaked into the granite walls 
 of dumb and feelingless races? Now " 
 
 There was a long pause and then came this 
 lullaby: 
 
 Oh, baby, soft upon my breast press thou, 
 
 And let my fluttering throat spell song to thee, 
 
 A song that floweth so, my sleeping dear: 
 
 Oh, buttercups of eve, 
 
 Oh, willynilly, 
 
 My song shall flutter on, 
 
 Oh, willynilly. 
 
 I climb a web to reach a star, 
 
 And stub my toe against a moonbeam 
 
 Stretched to bar my way, 
 
 Oh, willynilly. 
 
 A love-puff vine shall shelter us, 
 
 Oh, baby mine; 
 
 And then across the sky we'll float 
 
 And puff the stars away. 
 
 Oh, willynilly, on we'll go, 
 
 Willynilly floating. 
 
THE POETRY 69 
 
 " Thee art o'erfed on pudding," she added 
 to Mrs. Curran. " This sauce is but a butter- 
 whip." 
 
 And now, having briefly referred to the 
 technique of the poems, and explained the 
 manner in which they are transmitted we will 
 make a more systematic presentation of them. 
 For a beginning, nothing better could be of- 
 fered than the Spinning Wheel lullaby here- 
 tofore referred to. 
 
 In it we can see the mother of, perhaps, 
 the Puritan days, seated at the spinning wheel 
 while she sings to the child which is supposed 
 to lie in the cradle by her side. One can view 
 through the open door the old-fashioned 
 flower garden bathed in sunlight, can hear the 
 song of the bird and the hum of the bee, and 
 through it all the sound of the wheel. But! 
 it is the song of a childless woman to an 
 imaginary babe: Patience has declared herself 
 a spinster. 
 
 Strumm, struimn! 
 Ah, wee one, 
 
70 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Croon unto the tendrill tipped with sungilt. 
 Nodding thee from o'er the doorsill there. 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 My wheel shall sing to thee. 
 I pull the flax as golden as thy curl, 
 And sing me of the blossoms blue, 
 Their promise, like thine eyes to me. 
 
 Strumm, strumm I 
 
 'Tis such a merry tale I spinn. 
 Ah, wee one, croon unto the honey bee 
 Who diggeth at the rose's heart. 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 My wheel shall sing to thee, 
 Heart-blossom mine. The sunny morn 
 Doth hum with lovelilt, dear. 
 I fain would leave my spinning 
 To the spider climbing there, 
 And bruise thee, blossom, to my breast. 
 
 j^ 
 Strumm, strumm I 
 
 What fancies I do weave! 
 Thy dimpled hand doth flutter, dear, 
 Like a petal cast adrift 
 Upon the breeze. 
 
THE POETRY 71 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 'Tis faulty spinning, dear. 
 A cradle built of thornwood, 
 A nest for thee, my bird. 
 I hear thy crooning, wee one, 
 And ah, this fluttering heart. 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 How ruthlessly I spinn! 
 My wheel doth wirr an empty song, my dear. 
 For tendrill nodding Bonder 
 Doth nod in vain, my sweet ; 
 And honey bee would tarry not 
 For thee ; and thornwood cradle swayeth 
 Only to the loving of the wind! 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 My wheel still sings to thee, 
 Thou birdling of my fancy's realm I 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 An empty dream, my dear! 
 The sun doth shine, my bird; 
 Or should he fail, he shineth here 
 Within my heart for thee ! 
 
 Strumm, strumm! 
 
 My wheel still sings to thee. 
 
12 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Who would say that rhyme or measured 
 lines would add anything to this unique 
 song? It is filled with the images which are the 
 essentials of true poetry, and it has the rhythm 
 which sets the imagery to music and gives it 
 vitality. " The tendrill tipped with sungilt," 
 " the sunny morn doth hum with lovelilt," 
 "thy dimpled hand doth flutter like a petal 
 cast adrift upon the breeze " these are figures 
 that a Shelley would not wish to disown. There 
 is a lightness and delicacy, too, that would 
 seem to be contrary to our notions of the 
 adaptiveness of blank verse. But these are 
 technical features. It is the pathos of the 
 song, the expression of the mother-yearning 
 instinctive in every woman, which gives it 
 value to the heart. 
 
 And yet there is a pleasure expressed in 
 this song, the pleasure of imagination, which 
 makes the mind's pictures living realities. In 
 the poem which follows Patience expresses the 
 feelings of the dreamer who is rudely 
 awakened from this delightful pastime by the 
 realist who sees but what his eyes behold: 
 
THE POETRY 78 
 
 Athin the even's hour, 
 
 When shadow purpleth the garden wall, 
 
 Then sit thee there adream, 
 
 And cunger thee from out the pack o' me. 
 
 Yea, speak thou, and tell to me 
 
 What 'tis thou hearest here. 
 
 A rustling? Yea, aright! 
 
 A murmuring? Yea, aright ! 
 
 Ah, then, thou sayest, 'tis the leaves 
 
 That love one 'pon the other. 
 
 Yea, and the murmuring, thou sayest, 
 
 Is but the streamlet's hum. 
 
 Nay, nay ! For wait thee. 
 Ayonder o'er the wall doth rise 
 The white faced Sister o' the Sky. 
 And lo, she beareth thee a fairies' wand, 
 And showeth thee the ghosts o' dreams. 
 
 i 
 
 Look thou! Ah, look! A one 
 Doth step adown the path ! The rustle? 
 'Tis the silken whisper o' her robe. 
 The hum ? The love-note o' her maiden dream. 
 See thee, ah, see! She bendeth there, 
 And branch o' bloom doth nod and dance. 
 Hark, the note! A robin's cheer? 
 
74 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Ah, Brother, nay. 
 
 'Tis the whistle o' her lover's jfipe. 
 
 See, see, the path e'en now 
 
 Doth show him, tall and dark, aside the gate. 
 
 What! What! Thou sayest 
 
 'Tis but the rustle o' the leaves, 
 
 And brooklet's humming o'er its stony path ! 
 
 Then hush ! Yea, hush thee ! 
 
 Hush and leave me here! 
 
 The fairy wand hath broke, and leaves 
 
 Stand still, and note hath ceased, 
 
 And maiden vanished with thy word. 
 
 Thou, thou hast broke the spell, 
 
 And dream hath heard thy word and fled. 
 
 Yea, sunk, sunk upon the path, 
 
 They o' my dreams slain, slain, 
 
 And dead with but thy word. 
 
 Ah, leave me here and go, 
 
 For Earth doth hold not 
 
 E'en my dreaming's wraith. 
 
 In previous chapters I have spoken of the 
 wit and humor of Patience Worth. In only 
 one instance has she put humor into verse, and 
 that I have already quoted; but at times her 
 
THE POETRY 75 
 
 poetry has an airy playfulness of form that 
 gives the effect of humor, even though the 
 theme and the intent may be serious. Here is 
 an example: 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind, 
 
 And whiffing on its way, doth blow a merry tale. 
 Where, in the fields all furrowed and rough with corn, 
 Late harvested, close-nestled to a fibrous root, 
 And warmed by the sun that hid from night there- 
 
 neath, 
 A wee, small, furry nest of root mice lay. 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind. 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind. 
 I found this morrow, on a slender stem, 
 A glory of the morn, who sheltered in her wine-red 
 
 throat 
 
 A tiny spinning worm that wove the livelong day, 
 Long after the glory had put her flag to mast 
 And spun the thread I followed to the dell, 
 Where, in a gnarled old oak, I found a grub, 
 Who waited for the spinner's strand 
 To draw him to the light. 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind. 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind! 
 I blew a beggar's rags, and loving 
 
76 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Was the flapping of the cloth. And singing on 
 I went to blow a king's mantle 'bout his limbs, 
 And cut me on the crusted gilt. 
 And tainted did I stain the rose until she turned 
 A snuffy brown and rested her poor head 
 Upon the rail along the path. 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind. 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind. 
 I blow me 'long the coast, 
 And steal from out the waves their roar; 
 And yet from out the riffles do I steal 
 The rustle of the leaves, who borrow of the riffle's 
 
 song 
 
 From me at summer-tide. And then 
 I pipe unto the sands, who dance and creep 
 Before me in the path. I blow the dead 
 And lifeless earth to dancing, tingling life, 
 And slap thee to awake at morn. 
 
 Whiff, sayeth the wind. 
 
 There is a vivacity in this odd conceit that in 
 itself brings a smile, which is likely to broaden 
 at the irony in the suggestion of the wind cut- 
 ting itself on the crusted gilt of a king's mantle. 
 Equally spirited in movement, but vastly dif- 
 ferent in character, is the one which follows : 
 
THE POETRY 77 
 
 Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going? 
 Art dawdling time away adown the primrose path 
 And wishing golden dust to fancied value? 
 Ah, catch the milch-dewed air, breathe deep 
 The clover-scented breath across the field, 
 And feed upon sweet-rooted grasses 
 Thou hast idly plucked. 
 Come, Brother, then let's on together. 
 
 Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going? 
 Is here thy path adown the hard-flagged pave, 
 Where, bowed, the workers blindly shuffle on ; 
 And dumbly stand in gullies bound, 
 The worn, bedogged, silent-suffering beast, 
 Far driven past his due? 
 
 And thou, beloved, hast thy burden worn thee weary? 
 Come, Brother, then let's on together. 
 
 Hi-ho, alack-a-day, whither going? 
 Hast thou begun the tottering of age, 
 And doth the day seem over-long to thee? 
 Art fretting for release, and dost thou lack 
 The power to weave anew life's tangled skein? 
 Come, Brother, then let's on together. 
 
 The second line of this will at once recall 
 Shakespeare's "primrose path of dalliance," 
 and it is one of the rare instances in which 
 
78 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Patience may be said to have borrowed a meta- 
 phor; but in the line which follows, " and wish- 
 ing golden dust to fancied value," she puts the 
 figure to better use than he in whom it origi- 
 nated. Beyond this line there is nothing spe- 
 cially remarkable in this poem, and it is given 
 mainly to show the versatility of the com- 
 poser, and as another example of her ability to 
 present vivid and striking pictures. 
 
 Reference has been made to the love of 
 nature and the knowledge of nature betrayed 
 in these poems. Even in those of the most 
 spiritual character nature is drawn upon for 
 illustrations and symbols, and the lines are 
 lavishly strewn with material metaphor and 
 similes that open up the gates of understand- 
 ing. This picture of winter, for example, 
 brings out the landscape it describes with the 
 vividness and reality of a stereoscope, and yet 
 it is something more than a picture: 
 
 Snow tweaketh 'neath thy feet, 
 And like a wandering painter stalketh Frost, 
 Daubing leaf and lichen. Where flowed a cataract 
 
THE POETRY 79 
 
 And mist-fogged stream, lies silvered sheen, 
 Stark, dead and motionless. I hearken 
 But to hear the she-e-e-e of warning wind, 
 Fearful lest I waken Nature's sleeping. 
 Await ye ! Like a falcon loosed 
 Cometh the awakening. Then returneth Spring 
 To nestle in the curving breast of yonder hill, 
 And sets to rest like the falcon seeketh 
 His lady's outstretched arm. 
 
 And here is another picture of winter, 
 painted with a larger brush and heavier pig- 
 ment, but expressing the same thought, that 
 life doth ever follow death: 
 
 Dead, all dead ! 
 
 The earth, the fields, lie stretched in sleep 
 Like weary toilers overdone. 
 The valleys gape like toothless age, 
 Besnaggled by dead trees. 
 
 The hills, like boney jaws whose flesh hath dropped, 
 Stand grinning at the deathy day. 
 The lily, too, hath cast her shroud 
 And clothed her as a brown-robed nun. 
 The moon doth, at the even's creep, 
 Reach forth her whitened hands and sooth 
 The wrinkled brow of earth to sleep. 
 
80 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Ah, whither flown the fleecy summer clouds, 
 
 To bank, and fall to earth in billowed light, 
 
 And paint the winter's brown to spangled white? 
 
 Where, too, have flown the happy songs, 
 
 Long^died away with sighing 
 
 On the shore-wave's crest? 
 
 Will they take Echo as their Guide, 
 
 And bound from hill to hill at this, 
 
 The sleepy time of earth, 
 
 And waken forest song 'mid naked waste? 
 
 Ah, slumber, slumber, slumber on. 
 
 'Tis with a loving hand He scattereth the snow, 
 
 To nestle young spring's offering, 
 
 That dying Earth shall live anew. 
 
 How different this from Thomson's pessi- 
 mistic, 
 
 Dread winter spreads his latest glooms 
 
 And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year. 
 
 This poem seemed to present unusual diffi- 
 culties to Patience. The words came slowly 
 and haltingly, and the indications of composi- 
 tion were more marked than in any other of 
 her poems. The third line was first dictated 
 " Like weary workmen overdone," and then 
 
THE POETRY 81 
 
 changed to " weary toilers," and the eighteenth 
 line was given: " On the shore-wavelet's 
 breast," and afterwards altered to read " the 
 shorewave's crest." 
 
 Possibly it was because the poet has not the 
 same zest in painting pictures of winter that 
 she has in depicting scenes of kindlier seasons, 
 in which she is in accord with nearly all poets, 
 and, for that matter, with nearly all people. 
 Her pen, if one may use the word, is speediest 
 and surest when she presents the beautiful, 
 whether it be the material or the spiritual. She 
 expresses this feeling herself with beauty of 
 phrase and rhythm in this verse, which may be 
 entitled " The Voice of Spring." 
 
 The streamlet under fernbanked brink 
 
 Doth laugh to feel the tickle of the waving mass ; 
 
 And silver-rippled echo soundeth 
 
 Under over-hanging cliff. 
 
 The robin heareth it at morn 
 
 And steals its chatter for his song. 
 
 And oft at quiet-sleeping 
 
 Of the Spring's bright day, 
 
 I wander me to dream along the brooklet's bank, 
 
88 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And hark me to a song of her dead voice, 
 
 That lieth where the snowflakes vanish 
 
 On the molten silver of the brooklet's breast ; 
 
 And watch the stream, 
 
 Who, over-fearful lest she lose the right 
 
 To ripple to the chord of Spring's full harmony, 
 
 Doth harden at her heart 
 
 And catch the song a prisoner to herself; 
 
 To loosen only at the wooing kiss 
 
 Of youthful Winter's sun, 
 
 And fill the barren waste with phantom spring. 
 
 Or, passing on to autumn, consider this 
 apostrophe to a fallen leaf: 
 
 Ah, paled and faded leaf of spring agone, 
 
 Whither goest thou? Art speeding 
 
 To another land upon the brooklet's breast? 
 
 Or art thou sailing to the sea, to lodge 
 
 Amid a reef, and, kissed by wind and wave, 
 
 Die of too much love? 
 
 Thou'lt find a resting place amid the moss, 
 
 And, ah, who knows f The royal gem 
 
 May be thine own love's offering. 
 
 Or wilt thou flutter as a time-yellowed page, 
 
 And mould among thy sisters, ere the sun 
 
 May peep within the pack? 
 
THE POETRY 83 
 
 Or will the robin nest with thee 
 
 At Spring's awakening? The romping brook 
 
 Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on. 
 
 And should-st thou be impaled 
 
 Upon a thorny branch, what then? 
 
 Try not a flight. Thy sisters call thee. 
 
 Could crocus spring from frost, 
 
 And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die? 
 
 Nay, speed not, for God hath not 
 
 A mast for thee provided. 
 
 Autumn, too, is the theme of this: 
 
 She-e-e ! She-e-e ! She-e-e-e 1 
 The soughing wind doth breathe. 
 The white-crest cloud hath drabbed 
 At season's late. The trees drip leaf-waste 
 Unto the o'erloved blades aneath, 
 Who burned o' love, to die. 
 
 'Tis the parting o' the season. 
 Yea, and earth doth weep. The mellow moon 
 Stands high o'er golded grain. The cot-smoke 
 Curleth like to a loving arm 
 That reacheth up unto the sky. 
 The grain ears ope, to grin unto the day. 
 The stream hath laden with a pack o' leaves 
 
84. PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 To bear unto the dell, where bloom 
 
 Doth hide in waiting for her pack. 
 
 The stars do glitter cold, and dance to warm them 
 
 There upon the sky's blue carpet o'er the earth. 
 
 'Tis season's parting. 
 
 Yea, and earth doth weep. The Winter cometh, 
 And he bears her jewels for the decking 
 Of his bride. A glittered' crown 
 Shall fall 'pon earth, and sparkled drop 
 Shall stand like gem that flasheth 
 'Pon a nobled brow. Yea, the tears 
 Of earth shall freeze and drop 
 As pearls, the necklace o' the earth. 
 'Tis season's parting. Yea, 
 And earth doth weep. 
 'Tis Fall. 
 
 She does not confine herself to the Seasons 
 in her tributes to the divisions of time. There 
 are many poems which have the day for their 
 subject, all expressive of delight in every 
 aspect of the changing hours. There is a paean 
 to the day in this : 
 
 The Morn awoke from off her couch of fleece, 
 
 And cast her youth-dampt breath to sweet the Earth. 
 
THE POETRY 85 
 
 The birds sent carol up to climb the vasts. 
 The sleep-stopped Earth awaked in murmuring. 
 The dark-winged Night flew past the Day 
 Who trod his gleaming upward way. 
 The fields folk musicked at the sun's warm ray. 
 Web-strewn, the sod, hung o'er o' rainbow gleam. 
 The brook, untiring, ever singeth on. 
 
 The Day hath broke, and busy Earth 
 
 Hath set upon the path o' hours. 
 
 Mute Night hath spread her darksome wing 
 
 And loosed the brood of dreams, 
 
 And Day hath set the downy mites to flight. 
 
 Fling forth thy dreaming hours ! Awake from dark ! 
 
 And hark ! And hark ! The Earth doth ring in song ! 
 
 'TisDay! 'Tis Day ! 'TisDay! 
 
 The close observer will notice in all of these 
 poems that there is nothing hackneyed. The 
 themes, the thoughts, the images, the phrasing, 
 are almost if not altogether unique. The verse 
 which follows is, I am inclined to believe, abso- 
 lutely so: 
 
 Go to the builder of all dreams 
 
 And beg thy timbers to cast thee one. 
 
86 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Ah, Builder, let me wander in this land 
 
 Of softened shapes to choose. My hand doth reach 
 
 To catch the mantle cast by lilies whom the sun 
 
 Hath loved too well. And at this morrow 
 
 Saw I not a purple wing of night 
 
 To fold itself and bask in morning light? 
 
 I watched her steal straight to the sun's 
 
 Bedazzled heart. I claim her purpled gold. 
 
 And watched I not, at twi-hours creep, 
 
 A heron's blue wing skim across the pond, 
 
 Where gulf clouds fleeted in a fleecy herd, 
 
 Reflected fair? I claim the blue and let 
 
 My heart to gambol with the sky-herd there. 
 
 At midday did I not then find 
 
 A rod of gold, and sun's flowers, 
 
 Bounded in by wheat's betasseled stalks? 
 
 I claim the gold as mine, to cast my dream. 
 
 And then at stormtide did I catch the sun, 
 
 Becrimsoned in his anger ; and from his height 
 
 Did he not bathe the treetops in his gore? 
 
 The red is mine. I weave my dream and find 
 
 The rainbow, and the rainbow's end a nothingness. 
 
 Almost equally weird is this " Birth of a 
 Song": 
 
 I builded me a harp, 
 
 And set asearch for strings. 
 
THE POETRY 87 
 
 Ah, and Folly set me 'pon a track 
 That set the music at a wail; 
 For I did string the harp 
 With silvered moon-threads; 
 Aye, and dead the notes did sound. 
 And I did string it then 
 With golden sun's-threads, 
 And Passion killed the song. 
 
 Then did I to string it o'er 
 And 'twer a jeweled string 
 A chain o' stars, and lo, 
 They laughed, and sorry wert the song. 
 And I did strip the harp and cast 
 The stars to merry o'er the Night ; 
 And string anew, and set athrob a string 
 Abuilded of a lover's note, and lo, 
 The song did sick and die, 
 And crumbled to a sweeted dust, 
 And blew unto the day. 
 
 Anew did I to string, 
 Astring with wail o' babe, 
 And Earth loved not the song. 
 I felled as or rowed at the task, 
 And still the Harp wert mute. 
 So did I to pluck out my heart, 
 And lo, it throbbed and sung, 
 
88 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And at the hurt o' loosing o' the heart 
 A song wert born. 
 
 That, however, is but a pretty play of fancy 
 upon things within our ken, however shadowy 
 and evanescent she may make them by her 
 touch. But in the poem which follows she 
 touches on the border of a land we know not: 
 
 I'd greet thee, loves of jester's day. 
 I'd call thee out from There. 
 I'd sup the joys of yonder realm. 
 I'd list unto the songs of them 
 * Who days of me know not. 
 I'd call unto this hour 
 The lost of joys and woes. 
 I'd seek me out the sorries 
 That traced the seaming of thy cheek, 
 O thou of yester's day ! 
 
 I'd read the hearts astopped, 
 
 That Earth might know the price 
 
 They paid as toll. 
 
 I'd love their loves, I'd hate their hates, 
 
 I'd sup the cups of them; 
 
 Yea, I'd bathe me in the sweetness 
 
 Shed by youth of yester's day. 
 
THE POETRY 89 
 
 Yea, of these I'd weave the Earth a cloak 
 
 But ah, He wove afirst ! 
 
 They cling like petal mold, and sweet the Earth. 
 
 Yea, the Earth lies wrapped 
 
 Within the holy of its ghost. 
 
 'Tis but a drip o' loving," she said when 
 she had finished this. 
 
 Nearly every English poet has a tribute to 
 the Skylark, but I doubt if there are many 
 more exquisite than this: 
 
 I tuned my song to love and hate and pain 
 
 And scorn, and wrung from passion's heat the flame, 
 
 And found the song a wailing waste of voice. 
 
 My song but reached the earth and echoed o'er its 
 
 plains. 
 
 I sought for one who sang a wordless lay, 
 And up from 'mong the rushes soared a lark. 
 Hark to his song I 
 
 From sunlight came his gladdening note. 
 And ah, his trill the raindrops' patter t 
 
 And think ye that the thief would steal 
 
 The rustle of the leaves, or yet 
 
 The chilling chatter of the brooklet's song? 
 
 Not claiming as his own the carol of my h^art, 
 
90 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Or listening to my plaint, he sings amid the clouds; 
 And through the downward cadence I but hear 
 The murmurings of the day. 
 
 One naturally thinks of Shelley's "Sky- 
 lark " when reading this, and there are some 
 passages in that celebrated poem that show a 
 similarity of metaphor, such as this: 
 
 Sounds of vernal showers 
 On the twinkling grass ; 
 Rain-awakened flowers ; 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous and clear and fresh 
 Thy music doth surpass. 
 
 And there is something of the same thought 
 in the lines of Edmund Burke : 
 
 Teach me, O lark ! with thee to greatly rise, 
 T' exalt my soul and lift it to the skies ; 
 To make each worldly joy as mean appear, 
 Unworthy care when heavenly joys are near. 
 
 But Patience nowhere belittles earthly joys 
 that are not evil in themselves; nor does she 
 
THE POETRY 91 
 
 teach that all earthly passions are inherently, 
 wrong: for earthly love is the theme of many 
 of her verses. 
 
 Her expressions of scorn are sometimes 
 powerful in their vehemence. This, on " War," 
 for example: 
 
 Ah, thinkest thou to trick? 
 I fain would peep beneath the visor. 
 A god of war, indeed ! Thou liest I 
 A masquerading fiend, 
 The harlot of the universe 
 War, whose lips, becrimsoned in her lover's blood, 
 Smile only to his death-damped eyes! 
 I challenge thee to throw thy coat of mail ! 
 Ah, God! Look thou beneath! 
 Behold, those arms outstretched! 
 That raiment over-spangled with a leaden rain! 
 O, Lover, trust her not! 
 She biddeth thee in siren song, 
 And clotheth in a silken rag her treachery, 
 To mock thee and to wreak 
 Her vengeance at thy hearth. 
 Cast up the visor's skirt! 
 Thou'lt see the snakey strands. 
 A god of war, indeed! I brand ye as a lie! 
 
92 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Such outbreaks as this are rare in her 
 poetry, but in her conversation she occasionally 
 gives expression to anger or scorn or con- 
 tempt, though, as stated, she seldom dignifies 
 such emotions in verse. Love, as I have said, 
 is her favorite theme in numbers, the love of 
 God first and far foremost, and after that 
 brother love and mother love. To the love of 
 man for woman, or woman for man, there is 
 seldom a reference in her poems, although it 
 is the theme of some of her dramatic works. 
 There is an exquisite expression of mother 
 love in the spinning wheel lullaby already 
 given, but for rapturous glorification of in- 
 fancy, it would be difficult to surpass this, 
 which does not reveal its purport until the last 
 line: 
 
 Ah, greet the day, which, like a golden butterfly, 
 
 Hovereth 'twixt the night and morn ; 
 
 And welcome her fullness the hours 
 
 'Mid shadow and those the rose shall grace. 
 
 Hast thou among her hours thy heart's 
 
 Desire and dearest? Name thou then of all 
 
 His beauteous gifts thy greatest treasure. 
 
THE POETRY 93 
 
 The morning, cool and damp, dark-shadowed 
 
 By the frowning sun is this thy chosen? 
 
 The midday, flaming as a sword, 
 
 Deep-stained by noon's becrimsoned light 
 
 Is this thy chosen? Or misty startide, 
 
 Woven like a spinner's web and jeweled 
 
 By the climbing moon is this thy chosen? 
 
 Doth forest shade, or shimmering stream, 
 
 Or wild bird song, or cooing of the nesting dove, 
 
 Bespeak thy chosen? He who sendeth light 
 
 Sendeth all to thee, pledges of a bonded love. 
 
 And ye who know Him not, look ye ! 
 
 From all His gifts He pilfered that which made it 
 
 His 
 
 To add His fullest offering of love. 
 From out the morning, at the earliest tide, 
 He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried 
 Lest the dark should sorrow. And when the day was 
 
 born, 
 
 The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud 
 And tinted soft by lingering night ; 
 And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze; 
 The lily's satin cheek, and dove cooes, 
 And wild bird song, and Death himself 
 Is called to offer of himself ; 
 And soft as willow buds may be, 
 
94 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 He claimeth but the down to fashion this, thy gift, 
 The essence of His love, thine own first-born. 
 
 In brief, the babe concentrates within itself 
 all the beauties and all the wonders of nature. 
 Its eyes, " two lingering stars who tarried lest 
 the dark should sorrow," and in its face " the 
 glow of sun flush veiled by gossamer cloud," 
 "rose petals" and the "lily's satin cheek"; 
 its voice the dove's coo. " From all His gifts 
 He pilfered that which made it His " the 
 divine essence " to add His fullest offering 
 of love." This is the idealism of true poetry, 
 and what mother looking at her own firstborn 
 will say that it is overdrawn? 
 
 So much for mother-love. Of her lines on 
 brotherhood I have already given example. 
 In only a few verses, as I have said, does Pa- 
 tience speak of love between man and woman. 
 The poem which follows is perhaps the most 
 eloquent of these: 
 
 'Tis mine, this gift, ah, mine alone, 
 To paint the leaden sky to lilac-rose, 
 Or coax the sullen sun to flash, 
 Or carve from granite gray a flaming knight, 
 
THE POETRY 95 
 
 Or weave the twilight hours with garlands gay, 
 
 Or wake the morning with my soul's glad song, 
 
 Or at my bitterest drink a sweetness cast, 
 
 Or gather from my loneliness the flower 
 
 A dream amid a mist of tears. 
 
 Ah, treasure mine, this do I pledge to thee, 
 
 That none may peer within thy land ; and only 
 
 When the moon shines white shall I disclose thee ; 
 
 Lest, straying, thou should'st fade; and in the 
 
 blackness 
 
 Of the midnight shall I fondle thee, 
 Afraid to show thee to the day. 
 When I shall give to Him, the giver, 
 All my treasure's stores, and darkness creeps upon me, 
 Then will I for this return a thank, 
 And show thee to the world. 
 Blind are they to thee, but ah, the darkness 
 Is illumined; and lo! thy name is burned 
 Like flaming torch to light me on my way. 
 Then from thy wrapping of love I pluck 
 My dearest gift, the memory of my dearest love. 
 Ah, memory, thou painter, 
 Who from cloud canst fashion her dear form, 
 Or from a stone canst turn her smile, 
 Or fill my loneliness with her dear voice, 
 Or weave a loving garland for her hair 
 Thou art my gift of God, to be my comrade here. 
 
96 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Next to such love as this comes friendship, 
 and she has put an estimate of the value of a 
 friend in these words: 
 
 Of Earth there be this store of joys and woes. 
 
 Yea, and they do make the days o' me. 
 
 I sit me here adream that did I hold 
 
 From out the whole, but one, my dearest gift, 
 
 What then would it to be? Doth days and nights 
 
 Of bright and dark make this my store? 
 
 Nay. Do happy hours and woes-tide, then, 
 
 Beset this day of me and make the thing I'd keep? 
 
 Nay. Doth metal store and jewelled string 
 
 Then be aworth to me? Nay. I set me here, 
 
 And dreaming, fall to reasoning for this, 
 
 That I would keep, if but one gift wert mine 
 
 Must hold the store o' all. Yea, must hold 
 
 The dark for light, yea, and hold the light for dark, 
 
 Aye, and hold the sweet for sours, aye, and hold 
 
 The love for Hate. Yea, then, where may I to turn? 
 
 And lo, as I adreaming sat 
 
 A voice spaked out to me : What ho ! What ho I 
 
 And lo, the voice of one, a friend ! 
 
 This, then, shall be my treasure, 
 And the Earth part I shall hold 
 From out all gifts of Him. 
 
THE POETRY 97 
 
 Love of God, and God's love for us, and the 
 certainty of life after death as a consequence 
 of that love, are the themes of Patience's finest 
 poetry, consideration of which is reserved for 
 succeeding chapters. Yet a taste of this de- 
 votional poetry will not be amiss at this point 
 in the presentation of her works, as an indica- 
 tion of the character of that which is to come. 
 
 | 
 Lo, 'pon a day there bloomed a bud, 
 
 And swayed it at adance 'pon sweeted airs. 
 
 And gardens oped their greened breast 
 
 To shew to Earth o' such an one. 
 
 And soft the morn did woo its bloom ; 
 
 And nights wept 'pon its cheek, 
 
 And mosses crept them 'bout the stem, 
 
 That sun not scoarch where it had sprung. 
 
 And lo, the garden sprite, a maid, 
 Who came aseek at every day, 
 And kissed the bud, and cast o' drops 
 To cool the warm sun's rays. 
 And bud did hang it swaying there, 
 And love lept from the maiden's breast. 
 
 And days wore on ; and nights did wrap 
 The bud to wait the morn; 
 And maid aseeked the spot. 
 
98 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 When, lo, there came a Stranger 
 To the garden's wall, 
 Who knocked Him there 
 And bid the maiden come. 
 
 And up unto her heart she pressed her hand, 
 
 And reached it forth to stay the bud's soft sway, 
 
 And lo, the sun hung dark, 
 
 And Stranger knocked Him there. 
 
 And 'twere the maid did step most regal to the place. 
 
 And harked, and lo, His voice aspoke. 
 
 And she looked upon His face, 
 
 And lo, 'twere sorry sore, and sad! 
 
 And soft there came His word 
 
 Of pleading unto her : 
 
 " O' thy garden's store do offer unto me." 
 
 And lo, the maid did turn and seek her out the bud, 
 
 And pluck it that she bear it unto Him. 
 
 And at the garden's ope He stood and waited her. 
 
 And forth her hand she held, therein the bud, 
 
 And lo, He took therefrom the bloom 
 
 And left the garden bare, 
 
 And maid did stand astripped 
 
 Of heart's sun 'mid her garden's bloom. 
 
 When lo, athin the wound there sunk 
 
 A warmpth that filled it up with love. 
 
 Yea, 'twere the smile o' Him, the price. 
 
THE POETRY 99 
 
 But she has given another form of poem 
 which should be presented before this brief re- 
 view of her more material verse is concluded, 
 and it is a form one would hardly expect from 
 such a source. I refer to the " poem of occa- 
 sion." A few days before Christmas, Mrs. 
 Curran remarked as she sat at the board: " I 
 wonder if Patience wouldn't give us a Christ- 
 mas poem." And without a moment's hesita- 
 tion she did. Here it is: 
 
 I hied me to the glen and dell, 
 
 And o'er the heights, afar and near, 
 
 To find the Yule sprite's haunt. 
 
 I dreamt me it did bide 
 
 Where mistletoe doth bead; 
 
 And found an oak whose boughs 
 
 Hung clustered with its borrowed loveliness. 
 
 Ah, could such a one as she 
 
 Abide her in this chill? 
 
 For bleakness wraps the oak about 
 
 And crackles o'er her dancing branch. 
 
 Nay, her very warmth 
 
 Would surely thaw away the icy shroud, 
 
 And mistletoe would die 
 
 Adreaming it was spring. 
 
100 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 I hied me to the holly tree 
 
 And made me sure to find her there. 
 
 But nay, 
 
 The thorny spines would prick her tenderness. 
 
 Ah, where then doth she bide? 
 
 I asked the frost who stood 
 
 Upon the fringed grasses 'neath the oak. 
 
 " I know her not, but I 
 
 Am ever bidden to her feast. 
 
 Ask thou the sparrow of the field. 
 
 He searcheth everywhere; perchance 
 
 He knoweth where she bides." 
 
 " Nay, I know her not, 
 But at her birthday's tide 
 I find full many a crumb 
 Cast wide upon the snow." 
 
 I found a chubby babe, 
 Who toddled o'er the ice, and whispered, 
 Did she know the Yule sprite's haunt? 
 And she but turneth solemn eyes to me 
 And wags her golden head. 
 
 I flitted me from house to shack, 
 And ever missed the rogue ; 
 
THE POETRY 
 
 But surely she had left her sign 
 
 To bid me on to search. 
 
 And I did weary of my task 
 
 And put my hopes to rest, 
 
 And slept me on the eve afore her birth, 
 
 Full sure to search anew at morn. 
 
 And then the morning broke; 
 
 And e'er mine eyes did op, 
 
 I fancied me a scarlet sprite, 
 
 With wings of green and scepter of a mistletoe, 
 
 Did bid me wake, and whispered me 
 
 To look me to my heart. 
 
 Soft-nestled, warm, I found her resting there. 
 
 Guard me lest I tell ; 
 
 But, heart o'erfull of loving, 
 
 Thee'lt surely spill good cheer! 
 
 The following week, without request, she 
 gave this New Year's poem, remarkable for 
 the novelty of its treatment of a much worn 
 theme : 
 
 The year hath sickened ; 
 And dawning day doth show his withering ; 
 And Death hath crept him closer on each hour. 
 The crying hemlock shaketh in its grief. 
 
102 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 The smiling spring hath hollowed it to age, 
 
 And golden grain-stalks fallen 
 
 O'er the naked breast of earth. 
 
 The year's own golden locks 
 
 Have fallen, too, or whitened, 
 
 Where they still do hold. 
 
 And do I sorrow me ? 
 Nay, I do speed him on, 
 For precious pack he beareth 
 To the land of passing dreams. 
 
 I've bundled pain and wishing 
 'Round with deeds undone, 
 And packed the loving o' my heart 
 With softness of thine own ; 
 And plied his pack anew 
 With loss and gain, to add 
 The cup of bitter tears I shed 
 O'er nothings as I passed. 
 
 Old year and older years 
 
 My friends, my comrades on the road below- 
 
 I fain would greet ye now, 
 
 And bid ye Godspeed on your ways. 
 
 I watch ye pass, and read 
 The aged visages of each. 
 
THE POETRY 103 
 
 I love ye well, and count ye o'er 
 In fearing lest I lose e'en one of you. 
 And here the brother of you, every one, 
 Lies smitten! 
 
 But as dear I'll love him 
 When the winter's moon doth sink ; 
 And like the watery eye of age 
 Doth close at ending of his day. 
 And I shall flit me through his dreams 
 And cheer him with my loving ; 
 And last within the pack shall put 
 A Hope and speed him thence. 
 
 And bow me to the New. 
 
 A friend mayhap, but still untried. 
 
 And true, ye say? 
 
 But ne'er hath proven sol 
 
 Old year, I love thee well, 
 
 And bid thee farewell with a sigh. 
 
 One who reads these poems with thoughtful- 
 ness must be impressed by a number of attri- 
 butes which make them notable, and, in some 
 respects, wholly unique. First of all is the 
 absence of conventionality, coupled with skill 
 
104. PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 in construction, in phrasing, in the compound- 
 ing of words, in the application to old words of 
 new or unusual but always logical meanings, in 
 the maintenance of rhythm without monotony. 
 Next is the absolute purity, with the sometimes 
 archaic quality, of the English*. It is the 
 language of Shakespeare, of Marlowe, of 
 Fletcher, of Jonson and Drayton, except that 
 it presents Saxon words or Saxon prefixes 
 which had already passed out of literary use in 
 their time, while on the other hand it avoids 
 nearly all the words derived directly from 
 other languages that were habitually used by 
 those great writers. There is rarely a word 
 that is not of Anglo-Saxon or Norman birth. 
 Nor are there any long words. All of these 
 compositions are in words of one, two and 
 three syllables, very seldom one of four no 
 " multitudinous seas incarnadine." Among 
 the hundreds of words of Patience Worth's in 
 this chapter there are only two of four syllables 
 and less than fifty of three syllables. Fully 
 95 per cent of her works are in words of one 
 and two syllables. In what other writing, an- 
 
THE POETRY 105 
 
 cient or modern, the Bible excepted, can this 
 simplicity be found? 
 
 But the most impressive attribute of these 
 poems is the weirdness of them, an intangible 
 quality that defies definition or location, but 
 which envelops and permeates all of them. 
 One may look in vain through the works of the 
 poets for anything with which to compare 
 them. They are alike in the essential features 
 of all poetry, and yet they are unalike. There 
 is something in them that is not in other 
 poetry. In the profusion of their metaphor 
 there is an etherealness that more closely re- 
 sembles Shelley, perhaps, than any other poet; 
 but the beauty of Shelley's poems is almost 
 wholly in their diction : there is in him no pro- 
 fundity of thought. In these poems there is 
 both beauty and depth and something else. 
 
THE PROSE 
 
 "Word meeteth word, and at touch o* me, doth 
 spell to thee." PATIENCE WORTH. 
 
 STRICTLY speaking, there is no prose in the 
 compositions of Patience Worth. That which 
 I have here classified as prose, lacks none of 
 the essential elements of poetry, except a con- 
 tinuity of rhythm. The rhythm is there, the 
 iambic measure which she favors being fairly 
 constant, but it is broken by sentences and 
 groups of sentences that are not metrical, and 
 while it would not be difficult to arrange most 
 of this matter in verse form, I am inclined to 
 think that to the majority it will read smoother 
 and with greater ease as prose. Nevertheless, 
 as will be seen, it is poetry. The diction is 
 wholly of that order, and it is filled with strik- 
 ingly vivid and agreeable imagery. There is, 
 however, this distinction: most of the matter 
 
 107 
 
108 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 here classed as prose is dramatic in form and 
 treatment, and each composition tells a story 
 a story with a definite and well-constructed 
 plot, dealing with real and strongly individ- 
 ualized people, and mingling humor and 
 pathos with much effectiveness. They bring at 
 once a smile to the face and a tear to the eye. 
 They differ, too, from the poetry, in that they 
 have little or no apparent spiritual signifi- 
 cance. They are stories, beautiful stories, un- 
 like anything to be found in the literature of 
 any country or any time, but, except in the 
 shadowy figure of " The Stranger," they do 
 not rise above the things of earth. That is not 
 to say, however, that they are not spiritual in 
 the intellectual or emotional sense of the word, 
 as distinguished from the soul relation. 
 
 At the end of an evening a year and a half 
 after Patience began her work, she said: " Thy 
 hearth is bright. I fain would knit beside its 
 glow and spinn a wordy tale betimes." 
 
 At the next sitting she began the " wordy 
 tale." Up to that time she had offered noth- 
 ing in prose form but short didactic pieces,. 
 
THE PROSE 109 
 
 such as will appear in subsequent chapters of 
 this book, and the circle was lost in astonish- 
 ment at the unfolding of this story, so different 
 in form and spirit from anything she had pre- 
 viously given. 
 
 Her stories are, as already stated, dramatic 
 in form. Indeed they are condensed dramas. 
 After a brief descriptive introduction or pro- 
 logue, all the rest is dialogue, and the scenes 
 are shifted without explanatory connection, as 
 in a play. In the story of " The Fool and the 
 Lady " which follows, the fool bids adieu to the 
 porter of the inn, and in the next line begins a 
 conversation with Lisa, whom he meets, as the 
 context shows, at some point on the road to the 
 tourney. It is the change from the first to 
 the second act or scene, but no stage directions 
 came from the board, no marks of division or 
 change of scene, nor names of persons speak- 
 ing, except as indicated in the context. In re- 
 producing these stories, no attempt has been 
 made to put them completely in the dramatic 
 form for which they were evidently designed, 
 the desire being to present them as nearly as 
 
110 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 possible as they were received; but to mate 
 them clearer to the reader the characters are 
 identified, and shift of scene or time has been 
 indicated. 
 
THE FOOL AND THE LADY 
 
 AND there it lay, asleep. A mantle, gray as 
 monk's cloth, its covering. Dim-glowing 
 tapers shine like glowflies down the narrow 
 winding streets. The sounds of early morn- 
 ing creep through the thickened veil of heavy 
 mist, like echoes of the day afore. The wind is 
 toying with the threading smoke, and still it 
 clingeth to the chimney pot. 
 
 There stands, beyond the darkest shadow, 
 the Inn of Falcon Feather, her sides becracked 
 with sounding of the laughter of the king and 
 gentlefolk, who barter song and story for the 
 price of ale. Her windows sleep like heavy- 
 lidded eyes, and her breath doth reek with 
 wine, last drunk by a merry party there. 
 
 The lamp, now -blacked and dead, could 
 boast to ye of part to many an undoing of the 
 unwary. The roof, o'er-hanging and be- 
 
 peaked, doth 'mind ye of a sleeper in his cap. 
 
 in 
 
112 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 The mist now rises like a curtain, and over 
 yonder steeple peeps the sun, his face washed 
 fresh in the basin of the night. His beams now 
 light the dark beneath the palsied, stair, and rag 
 and straw doth heave to belch forth its bag- 
 gage for the night. 
 
 (Fool) "Eh, gad! 'Tis morn, Beppo. 
 Come, up, ye vermin; laugh and prove thou art 
 the fool's. An ape and jackass are wearers of 
 the cap and bells. Thou wert fashioned with 
 a tail to wear behind, and I to spin a tale to 
 leave but not to wear. For the sayings of the 
 fool are purchased by the wise. My crooked 
 back and pegs are purses the price to buy my 
 gown; but better far, B*eppo, to hunch and yet 
 to peer into the clouds, than be as strong as 
 knights are wont to be, and belly, like a snake, 
 amongst the day's bright hours. 
 
 " Here, eat thy crust. 'Tis funny-bread, the 
 earnings of a fool. 
 
 " I looked at Lisa as she rode her mount at 
 yesternoon, and saw her skirt the road with 
 anxious eyes. Dost know for whom she 
 
THE PROSE 
 
 sought, Beppo? Not me, who, breathless, 
 watched behind a flowering bush to hide my 
 ugliness. Now laugh, Beppo, and prove thou 
 art the fool's! 
 
 " But 'neath these stripes of color I did feel 
 new strength, and saw me strided on a black 
 beside her there. And, Beppo, knave, thou 
 didst but rattle at thy chain, and lo, the shrink- 
 ing of my dream! 
 
 " But we do limp quite merrily, and could 
 we sing our song in truer measure thou the 
 mimic, and I the fool? Thine eyes hold more 
 for me than all the world, since hers do see me 
 not. 
 
 " We two together shall flatten 'neath the 
 tree in yonder field and ride the clouds, Beppo, 
 I promise ye, at after hour of noon. 
 
 " See! Tonio has slid the shutter's bolt! 
 I'll spin a song and bart him for a sup." 
 
 (Tonio) " So, baggage, thou hast slept 
 aneath the smell thou lovest best! " 
 
 (Fool) " Oh, morrow, Tonio. The smell 
 is weak as yester's unsealed wine. My tank 
 
114. PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 doth tickle with the dust of rust, and yet me- 
 thinks thou would'st see my slattern stays to 
 rattle like dry bones, to please thee. See, 
 Beppo cryeth! Fetch me then a cup that I 
 may catch the drops or, here, I'll milk the 
 dragon o'er thy door! " 
 
 (Tonio) "Thou scrapple! Come within. 
 'Tis he who loveth not the fool who doth hate 
 his God." 
 
 (Fool) " I'm loth to leave my chosen com- 
 pany. Come, Beppo, his words are hard, but 
 we do know his heart. 
 
 "A health to thee, Antonio. Put in thy 
 wine one taste of thy heart's brew and I need 
 not wish ye well. 
 
 " To her, Beppo. Come, dip and take a lick. 
 
 " Tonio, hast heard that at a time not set 
 as yet the tournament will be? Who think 
 ye rides the King's lance and weareth Lisa's 
 colors? Blue, Tonio, and gold, the heavens' 
 garb stop, Beppo, thou meddling pest! 
 Antonio, I swear those bits of cloth are but 
 patches I have pilfered from the ragheap 
 adown the alleyway. I knew not they were 
 
THE PROSE 115 
 
 blue. And this is but a tassel dropt from off 
 a lance at yester's ride. I knew not of its 
 tinselled glint, I swear! 
 
 " So, thou dost laugh? Ah, Beppo, see, he 
 laughs! And we too, eh? But do we laugh 
 the same? Come, jump! Thy pulpit is my 
 hump. Aday, Antonio! " 
 
 (Antonio) " Aday, thou fool, and would I 
 had the wisdom of thy ape." 
 
 (On the Road to the Tournament.) 
 
 (Lisa) "Aday, fool!" 
 
 (Fool) " Ah, lady fair, hath lost the silver 
 of thy laugh, and dost thee wish me then to 
 fetch it thee?" 
 
 (Lisa) " Yea, jester. Thou speaketh wise- 
 ly; for may I ripple laughter from a sorry 
 heart? Now tease me, then." 
 
 (Fool) "A crooked laugh would be thy 
 gift should I tease it with a crooked tale; and, 
 lady, didst thee e'er behold a crooked laugh 
 
 one which holds within its crook a tear? " 
 
 i 
 
 (Lisa) " Oh, thou art in truth a fool. I'd 
 bend the crook and strike the tear away." 
 
116 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 (Fool) " Aye, lady, so thou wouldst. But 
 thou hast ne'er yet found thy lot to bear a 
 crook held staunch within His hand! Spring 
 rain would be thy tears a balm to buy fresh 
 beauties. And the fool? Ah, his do dry in 
 dust, e'en before they fall! " 
 
 (Lisa) " Pish, jester, thy tears would paint 
 thy face to crooked lines, and thee wouldst 
 laugh to see the muck. My heart doth truly 
 sorry. Hast heard the King hath promised me 
 as wages for the joust? And thee dost know 
 who rideth 'gainst my chosen? " 
 
 (Fool) " Aye, lady, the crones do wag, and 
 I do promise ye they wear their necks be- 
 cricked to see his palfrey pass. They do tell 
 me that his sumpter-cloth doth trail like a 
 ladies' robe." 
 
 (Lisa) " Yea, fool, and pledge me thy 
 heart to tell it not, I did broider at its hem a 
 thrush with mine own tress a song to cheer 
 his way, a wing to speed him on." 
 
 (Fool) " Hear, Beppo, how she prates! 
 Would I were a posey wreath and Beppo here 
 
THE PROSE 117 
 
 a fashioner of song. We then would lend us to 
 thy hand to offer as a token. But thou dost 
 know a fool and ape are ever but a fool and 
 ape. I'm off to chase thy truant laugh. Who 
 cometh there? The dust doth rise like storm- 
 cloud along the road ahead, and 'tis shot with 
 glinting. Oh, I see the mantling flush of 
 morning put to shame by the flushing of thy 
 cheek! See, he doth ride with helmet ope. Its 
 golden bars do clatter at the jolt, and but 
 stop, Beppo, she heareth not! We, poor beg- 
 gars, thee and me an ape with a tail and a 
 fool with a heart! 
 
 " See, Beppo, I did tear a rose to tatters but 
 to fling its petals 'neath her feet. They tell me 
 that his lance doth bear a ribband blue and a 
 curling lock of gold and yet he treads the 
 earth! Let's then away! 
 
 The world may sorrow 
 
 But the fool must laugh. 
 
 'Tis blessed grain 
 
 That hath no chaff. 
 
 To love an ape 
 
 Is but to ape at love. 
 
118 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 I sought a hand, 
 
 And found a glove! 
 
 " Beppo, laugh, and prove thyself the fool's! 
 I fain would feel the yoke, lest I step too high. 
 
 " Come, we'll seek the shelt'ring tree. I've 
 in my kit a bit of curd. Thy conscience need 
 not prick. I swear that Tonio, the rogue, did 
 see me stow it there! 
 
 " Ah, me, 'tis such a home for fools, the 
 earth. And they that are not fools are apes. 
 
 " I see the crowd bestringing 'long the road, 
 and yonder clarion doth bid the riders come. 
 Well, Beppo, do we ride? Come, chere, we 
 may tramp our crooked path and ride astraddle 
 of a cloud. 
 
 " She doth love him, then; and even now the 
 horn doth sound anew and she the prize! 
 
 " I call the God above to see the joke that 
 fate hath played ; for I do swear, Beppo, that 
 when he rides he carries on his lance-point this 
 heart. 
 
 " I fret me here, but dare I see the play? 
 Yea, 'tis a poor fool that loveth not his jest. 
 
THE PROSE 119 
 
 " I go, Beppo; I know not why, save I do 
 love her so. 
 
 " I'll bear my hunch like a badge of His 
 colors and I shall laugh, Beppo, shall laugh at 
 losing. He loves me well, else why didst send 
 me thee? 
 
 " The way seems over long. 
 
 " They parry at the ring! I see her veil to 
 float like cloud upon the breeze. 
 
 " She sees me not. I wonder that she hear- 
 eth not the thumping of my heart. My eyes do 
 mist. Beppo, look thou! Ah, God, to see 
 within her eyes the look of thine! 
 
 " They rank ! And hell would cool my brow, 
 I swear. Beppo, as thou lovest me, press 
 sorely on my hump! Her face, Beppo, it 
 swayeth everywhere, as a garden thick with 
 bloom a lily, white and glistening with a rain 
 of tears. My heart hath torn asunder, that I 
 know. 
 
 " The red knight now doth cast! O Heaven 
 turn his lance ! 
 
 "'Tis put! 
 
 "And now the blue and gold! Wait, 
 
120 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 brother ape! Hold, in the name of God! 
 Straight! 'Tistie! Can I but stand? 
 
 " I ah, lady, he doth ride full well. May I 
 but steady thee? My legs are wobbled but 
 my hand, dear lady, lest ye sink. 
 
 (" Beppo, 'tis true she seeth me!) 
 
 ' Thy hand is cold. I wager you he wins. 
 He puts a right too high. Thy thrush is sing- 
 ing; hear ye not his song? His wing doth flut- 
 ter even now. Ah, he is fitting thee 
 
 " I do but laugh to feel the tickle of a feath- 
 ering jest. An age before he puts! A miss! 
 A tie ! Ah, lady, should'st thee win I'll laugh 
 anew and even then will laugh at what thee 
 knowest not. 
 
 ' The red knight! God weight his charger's 
 hoof! (My God, Beppo, she did kiss my 
 hand!) 
 
 "He's off! Beppo, cling!" 
 
 (Lisa) '' The fool! Look ye, the fool and 
 ape! Oh heaven stop their flight! He's well 
 upon them! Blind me, lest I die! He's 
 charged anew, but missed! What, did his 
 mantle fall? That shape that lieth! Come! " 
 
THE PROSE 
 
 (Lisa, to her knight) " So, thou, beloved, 
 didst win me right! Where go they with the 
 litter?" 
 
 (Knight) " The fool, my lady, and a chat- 
 tering ape, did tempt to jest a charger in the 
 field. We found them so. He lives but 
 barely." 
 
 (Enter Fool upon litter.) 
 
 (Fool) " Aday, my lady fair! And hast 
 thee lost the silver of thy laugh and bid me 
 fetch it thee? The world doth hold but fools 
 and lovers, folly sick." 
 
 (Lisa) " His eye grows misty. Fool, I 
 know thee as a knave and love thee as a man." 
 
 (Fool) " 'Tis but a patch, Beppo, a patch 
 and tassel from a lance . . . but we did ride, 
 eh? Laugh, Beppo, and prove thou art the 
 fool's! I laugh anew, lest my friends should 
 know me not. Beppo, I dream of new roads, 
 but thou art there! And I do faint, but 
 she . . . did kiss my hand . . . Aday . . . 
 L a d y." 
 
Very soon after the completion of this story 
 Patience began another one, a Christmas story, 
 a weird, mystical tale of medieval England, 
 having for its central theme a " Stranger " who 
 is visible only to Lady Marye of the Castle. 
 The stranger is not described, nor does he 
 speak a word, but he is presumedly the Christ. 
 There are descriptions of the preparations for 
 the Christmas feast at this lordly stronghold 
 of baronial days, and the coarse wit of the 
 castle servants and the drunken profanity of 
 their master, " John the Peaceful," form a 
 vivid contrast to the ethereal Lady Marye and 
 the simple love of the herder's family at the 
 foot of the hill. There are striking characters 
 and many beautiful lines in this story, but it is 
 not as closely woven nor as coherent in plot as 
 the story of the fool and the lady. 
 
 122 
 
THE STRANGER 
 
 'TWAS at white season o' the year, the 
 shrouding o' spring and summerstide. 
 
 Steep, rugged, was the path, and running 
 higher on ahead to turret-topped and gated 
 castle o' the lordly state o' John the Peaceful, 
 where Lady Marye whiled away the dragging 
 day at fingering the regal.* 
 
 From sheltered niche she looked adown the 
 hillside stretching 'neath. The valley was be- 
 stir. A shepherd chided with gentle word his 
 flock, and gentle folk did speak o' coming 
 Christ-time. Timon, the herder's hut, already 
 hung with bitter sweets, and holly and fir 
 boughs set to spice the air. 
 
 " Timon, man, look ye to the wee lambs well, 
 for winter promiseth a searching night." 
 
 * Regal. A small portable pipe organ used in the sixteenth and 
 seventeenth centuries. It was played with one hand while the 
 bellows was worked with the other. 
 
 123 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Thus spake Leta, who stands, her babe 
 astride her hip. 
 
 " And come ye then within. I have a brew 
 that of a truth shall tickle at thy funny bone. 
 Bring then a bundle o' brush weed that we 
 may ply the fire. I vow me thy boots are snow 
 carts, verily! 
 
 " Hast seen the castle folk? And fetched ye 
 them the kids? They breathe it here that the 
 boar they roast would shame a heiffer. All of 
 the sparing hours today our Leta did sniff her 
 up the hill; nay, since the dawning she hath 
 spread her smock and smirked. 
 
 "Leta, thou art such a joy! Thou canst 
 wish the winter-painted bough to bloom, and 
 like the plum flowers falls the snow. Fetch 
 thee a bowl and put the bench to table-side. 
 Thy sire wouldst sup. Go now and watch 
 aside the crib. Perchance thee'lt catch a 
 glimpse o' heaven spilled from Tina's dream. 
 
 " Timon, man, tell me now the doings o' the 
 day. I do ettle * for a spicey tale." 
 
 (Timon) " Well, be it so then, minx. I did 
 
 * Ettle. In this case, to have a strong desire. 
 
THE PROSE 125 
 
 fell the kids at sun-wake, and thee'lt find the 
 skins aneath the cape I cast in yonder corner 
 there. And I did catch a peep aslaunch * at 
 mad Lady Marye, who did play the pipes most 
 mournfully. They tell me she doth look a 
 straining to this cot of ours. And what think 
 ye, Leta? She doth only smile when she doth 
 see our wee one's curls to glint. And ever she 
 doth speak of him who none hath seen. 'Tis 
 strange, think ye not? " 
 
 (Leta) " Nay, Timon, I full oft do pause 
 and peer on high to see her at the summertide. 
 Like a swan she bendeth, all white, amid her 
 garden 'long the lake, and even 'tempts to 
 come adown the path to us below. And ever 
 at her heels the pea-fowl struts. 
 
 " She ne'er doth see my beckoning, but do 
 I come with Tina at my breast she doth smile 
 and wave and sway her arms a-cradle-wise. 
 
 " They tell, but breathlessly, that she doth 
 sadly say the Stranger bideth here." 
 
 (Timon) " I'll pit my patch 'gainst purse 
 
 * Aslaunch. Aslant or obliquely. As we would now say, ' * Out 
 of the corner of the eye." 
 
126 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 o' gold, that ' Mad Marye ' fitteth her as surely 
 as ' Peaceful John ' doth fit her sire. Thee 
 knowest ' peace ' to him is of his cutting, and 
 ( piece ' doth patch his ripping. 
 
 " They've bid a feast at Christ-night, and ye 
 shouldst see the stir! I fain would see Sir 
 John at good dark on that eve, besmeared with 
 boar grease and soaked with ale, his mouth 
 adrip with filth, and every peasant there who 
 serves his bolts shall hit. And Lady Marye 
 setteth like a lily under frost! 
 
 " Leta, little one, thine eyes do blink like 
 stars beshadowed in a cloudy veil. Come, 
 bend thy knee and slip away to dream ! " 
 
 (Little Leta prays) ' Vast blue above, 
 wherein the angels hide ; and moon, his lamp o' 
 love ; and cloud fleece white art thou the wool 
 to swaddle Him? And doth His mother bide 
 upon a star-beam that leadeth her to thee? I 
 bless Thy name and pray Thee keep my sire to 
 watch full well his flock. And put a song in 
 every coming day ; my Tina's coo, and mother's 
 song at eve. Goodnight, sweet night ! I know 
 He watcheth thee and me." 
 
THE PROSE 
 
 (Timon) "He heareth thee, my Leta. 
 Watch ye the star on high. See ye, it winketh 
 knowingly. God rest ye, blest." 
 
 (At the Castle.) 
 
 (Lady Marye) " And I the Lady Marye, 
 o' the lord's estate! Jana, fetch me a goblet 
 that I drink." 
 
 (Jana) " Aye, lady. A wine, perchance? " 
 
 (Lady Marye) " Nay, for yester thou didst 
 fetch me wine, and I did cast it here upon the 
 flags. Its stain thee still canst see. Shouldst 
 thou fetch a goblet filled to brim with crystal 
 drops, and I should cast it here, the greedy 
 stone would sup it up, and where be then the 
 stain? Think ye the stone then the wiser o' 
 the two? 
 
 " I but loosed my fancy from its tether to 
 gambol at its will, and they do credit me amiss. 
 I weave not with strand upon a wheel. 'Tis 
 not my station. Nay, I dally through the day 
 with shuttle-cock and regal a fitting play for 
 yonder babe. 
 
128 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " Jana, peer ye to the valley there. Doth 
 see the Stranger? He knoeketh at the sill o' 
 yonder cot. 
 
 " I saw him when the cotter locked the sheep 
 to tap a straying ewe who lagged, and he did 
 enter as the cotter stepped within unbidden, 
 Jana, that I swear and now he knoeketh 
 there!" 
 
 (Jana) " Nay, lady, 'tis but a barish limb 
 that reacheth o'er the door. The cotter heed- 
 eth not, ye see." 
 
 (Lady Mar ye) " I do see him now to enter, 
 and never did he turn! Jana, look ye now! 
 Doth still befriend a doubt? " 
 
 (Jana) "Come, lady, look! Sirrah John 
 hath sent ye this, a posey, wrought o' gold and 
 scented with sweet oils." 
 
 (Lady Marye) " Ah, Jana, 'tis a hateful 
 sight to me a posey I may keep! Why, 
 the losing o' the blossom doth but make it 
 dear! 
 
 " Stay! I know thee'lt say 'twas proffered 
 with his love. But, Jana, thou hast much to 
 learn. What, then, is love? Can I then sort 
 
THE PROSE 129 
 
 my tinder for its building and ply the glass to 
 start its flame? The day is o'er full now of 
 ones who tried the trade. Nay, Jana, only 
 when He toucheth thee and bids thee come and 
 putteth to thy hand His own doth love abide 
 with thee. 
 
 " Come to the turret, then. I do find me 
 whetted for a look within. 
 
 " How cool the eve ! 'Tis creepy to the mar- 
 row. Look ye down the hillside there below. 
 See ye the cotter's taper burning there? How 
 white the night! 'Tis put upon the earth a 
 mantling shroud, and sailing in the silver sky a 
 fairy boat. Perchance it bringeth us the 
 Babe. 
 
 " Jana, see'st thou the Stranger? He now 
 doth count the sheep. Dare I trust him there? 
 I see him fondling a lamb and he doth hold it 
 close unto his breast." 
 
 (Jana) " Nay, lady, 'tis the shepherd's dog 
 who skulketh now ahind the shelter wall." 
 
 (Lady Marye) " Ah, give me, spite o' this, 
 the power to sing like Thine own bird who 
 swayeth happily upon the forest bough and 
 
130 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 pours abroad his song where no man heareth 
 him. 
 
 "Hear ye them below within the hall? 
 They do lap at swine-broth. Their cups do 
 clank. At morrow's eve they feast and now 
 do need to stretch their paunches. Full often 
 have I seen my ladye mother's white robe 
 stained crimson for a jest, and oftener have I 
 been gagged to swallow it. But, Jana, I do 
 laugh, for the greatest jest is he who walloweth 
 in slime and thinketh him a fish." 
 
 (Jana) "See, Lady Marye! This, thy 
 mother's oaken chest, it still doth bear a scent 
 o' her. And this, thy gown o' her own fash- 
 ioning." 
 
 (Lady Marye) " Yea, Jana, and this o" 
 her, a strand wound to a ball for mine own cast- 
 ing. And this ! I tell thee, 'tis oft and oft she 
 did press me to her own breast and chide me 
 with her singing voice: * My Marye, 'tis a game 
 o' buff, this living o' these days o' ours o' seek- 
 ing happiness. When ye would catch the 
 rogue he flitteth on/ ' 
 
THE PROSE 131 
 
 " See, these spots o' yellowed tears the 
 rusting of her heart away! Stay, Jana, I'll 
 teach thee a trick o' tripping, for she full oft 
 did say a heart could hide aneath a tripping. 
 
 ' Thee shouldst curtsey so ; and spread thy 
 fan. 'Tis such a shield to hide ahind. Then 
 shouldst thy heart to flutter, trip out its meas- 
 ure, so. See, I do laugh me now nay, 'tis 
 ne'er a tear, Jana, 'tis the mist o' loving ! Doth 
 see the moon hath joined the dance? Or, am I 
 swooning? 'Tis fancy. See, the cotter's taper 
 still doth flicker from the shutter. What's 
 then amiss? The stranger, Jana! See! He 
 entereth the shelter place! Come, I fear me 
 lest I see too much? Lend me thy hand. I've 
 played the jane-o-apes till the earth doth seem 
 awry. 
 
 " Hear ye the wine-soaked song, and aye, 
 the f eed-drunkened ? My sire, Jana, my sire! 
 I do grow hateful of myself, but mark ye, at 
 the setting o' the feast I do wage him war at 
 words ! A porridge pot doth brew for babes ; I 
 promise ye a full loaf. Do drop the curtain 
 now, I weary me with reasoning." 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 (Morning at the Castle Gate.) 
 
 (Tito) "Aho, within! Thine eyes be- 
 gummed and this the Christ-eve and mornin' 
 come? Scatter! Petro, stand ahand! I do 
 fetch ye sucklings agagged with apples red. 
 Ye gad, my mouth doth slime! To whiff a 
 hungerfull would make the sages wag." 
 
 (Petro) "Amorrow, Tito. Thee'lt wear 
 thee white as our own Lady long afore ye 
 e'en canst dip thy finger in the drip." 
 
 (Tito) " Pst! Petro, I did steal the brain 
 and tung. Canst leave me have a peep now to 
 the hall ? Jesu ! What a breeder o' sore bellies. 
 I'd pay my price to heaven to rub Sir John a 
 briskish rub with mullien o'er the back. 
 
 " They do tell me down below that trouble 
 bideth Timon. His Tina layeth dull and Leta 
 doth little but mumble prayer." 
 
 (Petro) " Tito, thee art a chanter of sad 
 lays at this Christ-time. Go thou to the 
 turret and play ye at the pipes. Put thee the 
 sucklings to the kitchen, aside the fire dogs 
 there. And Tito, thee'lt find a pudding pan 
 
THE PROSE 
 
 ahind the brushbox. Go thee and lick it 
 there!" 
 
 (To Sir John) " Aye, I do come, my lord. 
 'Tis but the sucklers come. I know not where 
 in the castle she doth bide, but hark ye and yell 
 surely hear the pipes." 
 
 (Sir John) "Bah! Damn the drivelling 
 pipes! I do hear them late and early. 'Tis a 
 fine bird for a lordly nest! Go, fetch her here! 
 But no, I'd tweak her at a vaster sitting. Get 
 thee, thou grunting swine! And take this as 
 thy Christ-gift. I'd deal thee thrice the meas- 
 ure wert not to save these lordly legs. Here, 
 fetch me a courser. I'd ride me to the hounds. 
 And strip him of his foot cloth, that I do waste 
 me not a blow. Dost like the smart? Or shall 
 I ply it more? Thee'lt dance to tune, or damn 
 ye, run from cuts! 
 
 " Ho, Timon, how goes it with the brat? 
 The world's o'erfull o' cattle now! " 
 
 (Timon) "Yea, sire, so did my Leta say 
 when she did see thee come. 'Tis with our 
 Tina as a bird behovered in the day. Aday, 
 and God forgive thee." 
 
134 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 (In Lady Marye's Chamber.) 
 
 (Lady Marye) " Jana, morn hath come. 
 'Tis Christ-tide and He not here! My limbs 
 do fail, and how do I then to stand me thro' 
 the day? The feast, the feast, yea, the feast! 
 The day doth break thro' fog in truth! 
 
 " My mother's bridal robe! Go, Jana, fetch 
 it me, and one small holly bough. Lend me a 
 hand. I fain would see the cot. 
 
 " See thou! The sun doth love it, too, and 
 chooseth him to rise him o'er its roof! Hath 
 thee seen the herder yet to buckle loose the 
 shelter place ? And, Jana, did all seem well to 
 thee? Nay, the Stranger, Jana! See, he still 
 doth hold the lamb! * My Marye, 'tis a game 
 o' buff, this living o' these days o' ours.' In 
 truth, 'tis put. 
 
 " Jana, I did dream me like a babe the night 
 hours through; a dream so sweet, o' vast blue 
 above wherein the angels hid, and I did see the 
 Christ-child swaddled in a cloud; and Mary, 
 maid of sorrows, led to him adown a silver 
 beam. 
 
THE PROSE 135 
 
 % 
 
 " Then thee dost deem my fitful fancy did 
 but play me false? Stay thou, my tears, and, 
 heart o' me, who knoweth He doth watch o'er 
 thee and me? 
 
 " Her robe! Ah, Fancy, 'tis thy right that 
 thou art ever doubted. For thou art a con- 
 jurer, a trickster, verily. What dramming* 
 joy didst thee then offer her? 
 
 ' Thou cloud of billowed lace, a shield be- 
 fitting her pure heart! And I the flowering 
 of the bud! Hear me, all this o' her! I l6ve 
 thee well, and should the day but offer a bitter 
 draft to quaff, 'tis but to whet me for a sweeter 
 drink. And mother, heart o' me, hearken and 
 do believe. I love my sire, Sir John. 
 
 " Come, Jana. Hear ye the carolers ? Their 
 song doth filter thro' my heart and lighten it. 
 The snow doth tweak aneath their feet like 
 pipes to 'company them. Cast ye a bit o' holly 
 and a mistletoe. 
 
 ' The feasters come to whet them with a 
 pudding whiff. See, my sire doth ride him up 
 the hill and o'er his saddle front a fallow deer. 
 
 * Obsolete form of " champing." Used here figuratively. 
 
136 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Hear thee the cheering that he comes! Her 
 loved, my Jana, and her heart doth beat 
 through me! 
 
 " Christ-love to thee, my sire! Dost hear 
 me here? And I do pledge it thee upon His 
 precious drops caught by the holly tree. He 
 seeth not, but she doth know ! " 
 
 (Christmas Eve.) 
 
 (Jana) " My lady, who doth come a knock- 
 ing at the door? 'Tis Petro, come to bid ye to 
 the feast." 
 
 (Petro) " The candles are long since lit 
 and Sirrah John hath wearyed him with jest. 
 The feasting hath not yet begun, for he doth 
 wait thee to drink a health to feasters in the 
 hall." 
 
 (Lady Mar ye) " Yea, Petro, say unto my 
 sire, the Lady Marye comes. And say ye 
 more, she bids the feasters God-love. And say 
 thee more, she doth bear the blessings of her 
 Lady Mother who wisheth God's love to them 
 all. And fetch ye candle trees to scores, and 
 fetch the dulcimer and one who knocketh on its 
 
THE PROSE 137 
 
 strings, and let him patter forth a lively tune, 
 for Lady Marye comes. 
 
 " Jana, look ye once again to the valley 
 there. The tapers burn not for Christ-night. 
 Nay, a sickly gleam, and see, the Stranger, how 
 he doth hold the lamb! And o'er his face a 
 smile or do my eyes beblur, and doth he 
 weep?" 
 
 (Jana) " Nay, lady, all is dark. 'Tis but 
 the whitish snow and shadow pitted by the 
 tapers' light." 
 
 (Lady Marye) " Fetch me then my fan. 
 I go to meet my Lord. Doth hear? Already 
 they do play. I point me thus, and trip my 
 heart's full measure." 
 
 (In the Hall] 
 
 "; 
 
 (Sir John) " So, lily-lip, thee'lt scratch! 
 Thy silky paw hath claws, eh? Egad! A 
 phantom! A ghoulish trick! My head doth 
 split and where my tung? Get ye! Why sit 
 like grinning asses! And where thy tungs? 
 My God! What scent o' graves she beareth 
 with that shroud! " 
 
138 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 (Lady Mar ye) " God cheer, my lord, and 
 doth my tripping suit thee well? These flags 
 are but my heart and hers, and do I bruise them 
 well for thee? Ah, aha! See, I do spread my 
 fan. To shield my tears, ye think? Nay, were 
 they to fall like Mayday's rain and thee wert 
 buried 'neath a stone, as well then could'st thou 
 see ! And yet I love thee well. See thee, my 
 sire, I pour this to thee! 
 
 " Look ye, good people at the feast ; the boar 
 is ready to slip its bones. 
 
 (Aside) " God, send Thy mantling love 
 here to Thine own! For should I judge, when 
 Thou I know dost love the saint and sinner as 
 Thine own? 
 
 " To thee, my sire, to thee! " 
 
 And gusted wind did flick the tapers out and 
 they did hear her murmuring " The Stranger! 
 He doth bid me come! " 
 
 And to this day they tell that Lady Marye 
 cast the wine into a suckler's mouth and never 
 did she drink! 
 
THE PROSE 139 
 
 " By all the saints ! Do thee go and search ! " 
 Thus spake her sire, Sir John. And all the 
 long night thro' the torches gleamed, but all in 
 vain. And they do say that Sirrah John did 
 shake him in a chilling and flee him to a friar, 
 while still the search did last. 
 
 (In Timon s Cot.) 
 
 (Leta) " Timon, waken ye! Our Leta still 
 doth 1 court her dreams and I do weary me. 
 The long night thro' the feasters cried them 
 thro' the hills and none but Him could shield 
 our Tina from their din. 
 
 ' Take heart, my lad, I fear me yet to look 
 within the crib. Hold thou my hand, man. 
 Nay, not yet ! Come, waken Leta that she then 
 do feed thy lambs." 
 
 (Timon) "Come, Leta, wake! The sun 
 hath tipped the crown o' yonder hill and spread 
 a blush adown her snow-white side." 
 
 (Leta) " Yea, sire. And Tina, how be 
 she?" 
 
 (Timon) " A fairy, sleeping, Tad." 
 
 (Leta) " Ah, sire, but I did dream the dark 
 
140 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 o' yesterday away. And, mother, she doth 
 strain unto the sun! I see her eyes be-glist- 
 ened. See, the frost-cart dumped beside our 
 door, and look ye! he, the Frost man, put a 
 cap upon the chimney pot. I'll fetch a brush 
 and fan away his cloak. My Christ-gift, it 
 would be my Tina's smile. She did know me 
 not at late o' night; think ye it were the dark? 
 Stay, sire! I'll cast the straw and put the 
 sheep aright!" (Exit.) 
 
 (Timon) " My Leta, come! Thy Christ- 
 gift bideth o'er our Tina's lips and she doth 
 coo!" 
 
 (Leta) ' Timon, call aloud, that she hear- 
 eththee. Leta! Leta! Little one! Dost hear 
 thy sire to call? Why, what's amiss with thee? 
 Thy staring eyes, my child! Speak thou! " 
 
 (Leta) "Sh-e-e-e! Sire, His mother's 
 come! And, ah, my heart! All white she be 
 an' crushed unto her breast a holly bough, and 
 one white arm doth circle o'er a lamb! See, 
 sire, the snow did drift it thro' and weave a 
 fairy robe to cover her." 
 
THE PROSE 141 
 
 (Timon) "Who leaveth by the door; a 
 stranger? " 
 
 (Leta) " Nay, He bideth here." 
 
 (Timon) " The Lady Marye, on my soul! 
 Leta, drop ye here thy tears, for madness bid- 
 eth loosed upon the earth ! And shouldst " 
 
 (Leta) " Nay, sire! Who cometh there? " 
 
 And searchers there did find the Lady 
 Marye, dead, amid the lambs and snow a 
 flowering o' the rose upon a bush o' thorn. 
 
 And hark ye! At the time when winter's 
 blast doth sound, thee'lt hear the wailing o' the 
 Lady Marye's pipes, and know the Stranger 
 bideth o'er the earth. 
 
THE two dramatic stories presented here 
 were but a paving of the way for larger work. 
 " The Stranger " had been hardly completed 
 when Patience announced, " Thee'lt sorry 
 at the task I set thee next." And then she 
 began the construction of a drama that in its 
 delivery consumed the time of the sittings for 
 several weeks, and it contained when finished 
 some 20,000 words. It is divided into six acts, 
 each with a descriptive prologue, and three of 
 the acts have two scenes each, making nine 
 scenes in all. It, like the two shorter sketches, 
 is medieval in scene, and the pictures which it 
 presents of the customs and costumes and man- 
 ners of the thirteenth or fourteenth century 
 (the period is not definitely indicated) are 
 amazingly vivid. It has a somewhat intricate 
 plot, which is carried forward rapidly and its 
 strands skillfully interwoven until the nature 
 of the fabric is revealed in the sixth act. This 
 play is much more skillfully constructed in 
 respect of stage technique than the two play- 
 
 142 
 
THE PROSE 143 
 
 lets that preceded it, and it could, no doubt, 
 be produced upon the stage with perhaps a 
 little alteration to adapt it to modern condi- 
 tions. Some idea of its beauty, its sprightli- 
 ness and its humor may be obtained from the 
 prologue to the first act, which follows: 
 
 Wet earth, fresh trod. 
 
 Highway cut to wrinkles with cart wheels 
 born in with o'erloading. A flank o' daisy 
 flowers and stones rolled o'er in blanketing o' 
 moss. Brown o' young oak-leaves shows soft 
 amid the green. Adown a steep unto the vale, 
 hedged in by flowering fruit and threaded 
 through with streaming silver o' the brook, 
 where rushes shiver like to swishing o' a lady's 
 silk. 
 
 Moss-lipped log doth case the spring who 
 mothereth the brook, and ivy hath climbed it 
 o'er the trunk and leafless branch o' yonder 
 birch, till she doth stand bedecked as for a 
 folly dance. 
 
 Rat-a-tat ! Rat-a-tat ! 
 Rat-a-tat! Sh-h-h-h! 
 
144 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 From out the thick where hides the logged 
 and mud-smeared shack. 
 
 Rat-a-tat! Rat-a-tat! 
 
 Sh-h-h-h! 
 And hark ye, to the tanner's song! 
 
 Up, up, up ! and down, down, down ! 
 A hammer to smite 
 
 And a hand to pound ! 
 A maid to court, 
 
 And a swain to woo, 
 A heiffer felled 
 
 And I build a shoe ! 
 A souse anew in yonder vat, 
 
 And I'll buy my lady 
 A feathered hat! 
 
 The play then begins with the tanner and 
 his apprentice, and the action soon leads to the 
 royal castle, where the exquisite love story is 
 developed, without a love scene. There is no 
 tragedy in the story. It is all sentiment, and 
 humor. And it is filled with poetry. Consider, 
 for example, this description of Easter morn, 
 from the prologue to the sixth act: 
 
THE PROSE 145 
 
 The earth did wake with boughs aburst. A 
 deadened apple twig doth blush at casting 
 Winter's furry coat, to find her naked blooms 
 abath in sun. The feathered hosts, atuned, do 
 carol, " He hath risen! " E'en the crow with 
 envy trieth melody and soundeth as a brass; 
 and listening, loveth much his song. Young 
 grasses send sweet-scented damp through the 
 hours of risen day. The bell, atoll, doth bid 
 the village hence. E'en path atraced through 
 velvet fields hath flowered with fringing bloom 
 and jeweled drops, atempting tarriers. The 
 sweet o' sleep doth grace each venturing face. 
 The kine stand knee depth within the silly- 
 tittered brook, or deep in bog awallow. Soft 
 breath ascent and lazy-eyed, they wait them 
 for the stripping-maid. 
 
 The play is permeated with rich humor, and 
 to illustrate this I give a bit of the dialogue 
 between Dougal, the page, and Anne, the 
 castle cook. To appreciate it one must know 
 a little of the story. The hand of the Princess 
 Ermaline is sought by Prince Charlie, a dod- 
 
146 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 dering old rake, whom she detests, but whom 
 for reasons of state she may be compelled to 
 accept. However, she vows she will not speak 
 while he is at court, nor does she utter a word, 
 in the play, until the end of the last act. She 
 has fallen in love with a troubadour, who has 
 come from no one knows where, but who by his 
 grace and his wit and his intelligence has made 
 himself a favorite with all the castle folk. 
 Anne has a roast on the spit, and is scouring a 
 pot with sand and rushes, when Dougal enters 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Dougal. " Anne, goody girl, leave me but 
 suck a bone. My sides have withered and 
 fallen in, in truth." 
 
 Anne. " Get ye, Dougal! Thy footprints 
 do show them in grease like to the Queen's 
 seal upon my floor ! " 
 
 Dougal. ' The princess hath bidden me to 
 stay within her call, but she doth drouse, 
 adrunk on love-lilt o' the troubadour, and 
 Prince of Fools (Prince Charlie) hath gone 
 long since to beauty sleep. He tied unto his 
 poster a posey wreath, and brushed in scented 
 
THE PROSE 147 
 
 oils his beauteous locks, and sung a lay to 
 Ermaline, and kissed a scullery wench afore 
 he slept." 
 
 Anne. " The dog! I'd love a punch to 
 shatter him! And Ermaline hath vowed to 
 lock her lips and pass as mute until his going." 
 
 Dougal. " Yea, but eye may speak, for hers 
 do flash like lightning, and though small, her 
 foot doth fall most weighty to command. 
 
 " Tester, the Prince did seek her in the 
 throne room. He'd tied his kerchief to a sack 
 and filled it full o' blue-bells, and minced him 
 'long the halls astrewing blossoms and singing 
 like to a frozen pump. 
 
 " Within the chamber, Ermaline did hide her 
 face in dreading to behold him come, but at the 
 door he spied the dear and bounded like a 
 puppy 'cross the flags, apelting her with blooms 
 and sputtering 'mid tee-hees. She, tho', did 
 spy him first, and measured her his sight and 
 sudden slipped her 'neath the table shroud. 
 And he, Anne, I swear, sprawled him in his 
 glee and rose to find her gone. And whacked 
 my shin, the ass, acause I heaved at shoulders." 
 
148 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Anne. " Ah, Dougal, 'tis a weary time, in 
 truth. Thee hadst best to put it back, to court 
 thy mistress' whim. Good sleep, ye! And 
 Dougal, I have a loving for the troubadour. 
 Whence cometh he? " 
 
 Dougal. " Put thy heart to rest, good 
 Anne; he's but a piper who doth knock the 
 taber's end and coaxeth trembling strings by 
 which to sing. He came him out o' nothing, 
 like to the night or day. We waked to hear 
 him singing 'neath the wall." 
 
 Anne. "Aye, but I do wag! For surely 
 thee doth see how Ermaline doth court his 
 song." 
 
 Dougal. " Nay, Anne, 'tis but to fill an 
 empty day." 
 
WHEN Patience had finished this she preened 
 herself a little. " Did I not then spin a lengthy 
 tale?" she asked. But immediately she be- 
 gan work upon another, a story of such length 
 that it alone will make a book. It differs in 
 many respects from her other works, particu- 
 larly in the language, and from a literary 
 standpoint is altogether the most amazing of 
 her compositions. This, too, is dramatic in 
 form, but scene often merges into scene with- 
 out division, and it has more of the character- 
 istics of the modern story. It is, however, 
 medieval, but it is a tale of the fields, primarily, 
 the heroine, Telka, being a farm lass, and the 
 hero a field hand. Perhaps this is why the 
 obscure dialectal forms of rural England of a 
 time long gone by are woven into it. In this 
 Patience makes an astonishingly free use of 
 the prefix " a," in place of a number of pre- 
 fixes, such as " be " and " with," now com- 
 monly used, and she attaches it to nouns and 
 
 149 
 
150 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 verbs and adjectives with such frequency as to 
 make this usage a prominent feature of the 
 diction. Let me introduce Telka in the words 
 of Patience : 
 
 % 
 " Dewdamp soggeth grasses laid low aneath 
 
 the blade at yester's harvest, and thistle-bloom 
 weareth at its crown a jewelled spray. 
 
 " Brown thrush, nested 'neath the thick o' 
 yonder shrub, hath preened her wings full long 
 aneath the tender warmth o' morning sun. 
 
 " Afield the grasses glint, and breeze doth 
 seeming set aflow the current o' a green- waved 
 stream. 
 
 "Soft-footed strideth Telka, bare toes 
 asink in soft earth and bits o' green acling, 
 bedamped, unto her snowy limbs. Smocked 
 brown and aproned blue, she seemeth but a 
 bit o' earth and sky alight amid the field. 
 Asplit at throat, the smock doth show a busom 
 like to a sheen o' fleecy cloud aveiling o'er the 
 sun's first flush. 
 
 " Betanned the cheek, and tresses bleached 
 by sun at every twist of curl. Strong hands 
 
THE PROSE 151 
 
 do clasp a branch long dead and dried, at end 
 bepronged, and casteth fresh-cut blades to 
 heap." 
 
 Such is Telka in appearance. " She seemeth 
 but a bit o' earth and sky alight amid the field." 
 Seemeth, yes, but there is none of the sky in 
 Telka. She is of the earth, earthy, an intensely 
 practical young woman, industrious, econom- 
 ical, but with no sense of beauty whatever, no 
 imagination, no thought above the level of the 
 ground. " I fashioned jugs o' clay," her 
 father complained, " and filled with bloom, and 
 she becracked their necks and kept the swill 
 therein." Add to this a hot temper and a sharp 
 tongue, and the character of Telka is revealed. 
 Franco, the lover, on the other hand, is an 
 artist and poet, although a field worker. He 
 has been reared, as a foundling, by the friars 
 in the neighboring monastery, and they have 
 taught him something of the arts of mosaics 
 and the illumination of missals. Between these 
 two is a constant conflict of the material and 
 the spiritual, and the theme of the story is the 
 
152 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 spiritual regeneration or development of 
 Telka. 
 
 " See," says Franco, " Yonder way-rose 
 hath a bloom ! She be a thrifty wench and hath 
 saved it from the spring." 
 
 Telka."! hate the thorned thing. Its 
 barb hath pricked my flesh and full many a 
 rent doth show it in my smock." 
 
 Franco. " Ah, Telka, thine eyes do look 
 like yonder blue and shimmer like to brook- 
 let's breast." 
 
 Telka. " The brooklet be bestoned, and 
 muddied by the swine. Thy tung doth trip 
 o'er pretty words." 
 
 Franco. " But list, Telka, I would have 
 thee drink from out my cup ! " 
 
 Telka. " Ah, show me then the cup." 
 
 And Telka's father, a wise old man, cautions 
 Franco : 
 
 " Thee hadst best to take a warning, Franco. 
 She be o' the field and rooted there; and thee 
 o' the field, but reaped, and bound to free thee 
 
THE PROSE 153 
 
 of the chaff by flailing of the world. She then 
 would be to thee but straw and waste to cast 
 awhither." 
 
 But an understanding of the nature of this 
 strange tale and its peculiar dialect requires 
 a longer extract. The " Story of the Judge 
 Bush " will serve, better perhaps than anything 
 else, to convey an idea of the characters of 
 Telka and Franco, as well as to illustrate the 
 language; and the episode is interesting in 
 itself. The dialogue opens with Telka, Franco 
 and Marion on their way to Telka's hut. 
 Marion is Telka's dearest friend, although one 
 gets a contrary impression from Telka's 
 caustic remarks in this excerpt; but unlike 
 Telka, she can understand and appreciate the 
 poetic temperament of Franco. To show her 
 contempt for Franco's aspirations, Telka has 
 taken his color pots and buried them in a 
 dung-heap, and this characteristic act is the 
 foundation of the " Story of the Judge Bush." 
 
 (Franco) " Come, we do put us to a-dry. 
 'Tis sky aweep, and 'tis, a gray day from now. 
 
154? PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 I tell thee, Telka, we then put us to hearth, 
 and spin ye shall. And thou, Marion, shalt 
 bake an ash loaf and put o' apples for to burst 
 afore the fire. 'Tis chill, the whine-wind o' the 
 storm. We then shall spin a tale by turn ; and 
 Telka, lass, I plucked a sweet bloom for thee 
 to wear. Thine eye hath softened, eh, my 
 lass ? Here, set thy nose herein and thou canst 
 ne'er to think a tho't besoured." 
 
 (Telka) "Ah, 'tis a wise lad I wed, who 
 spendeth o' his stacking hours to pluck weed, 
 and thee wouldst have me sniff the dung-dust 
 from their leaf. Do cast them whither, and 
 'pon thy smock do wipe thy hand. It be my 
 fancy for to waste the gray hours aside the 
 fire's glow, but, Franco, see ye, the wee pigs 
 asqueal! 'Tis nay liking the wet. Do fetch 
 them hence. Here, Marion, cast my cape 
 about thee, since thou dost wear thy pettiskirt 
 and Sabboth smock. Gad ! Blue maketh thee 
 to match a plucked goose. Thy skin already 
 hath seamed, I vow. And, Marion, 'tis 'deed a 
 flash to me thy tress be red! Should I to bear 
 a red top I'd cast it whither." 
 
THE PROSE 155 
 
 (Franco) " Telka, Telka, drat thy barbed 
 tung! Cast thou the bolt. Gad! What a 
 scent o' browning joint!" 
 
 (Telka) " Do leave me for to turn the spit 
 that I may lick the finger-drip. Thy nose, 
 Franco, doth trick thee. Thou canst sniff o' 
 dung-dust and scoff at drip. Go, roll the 
 apples o'er in yonder pile. They then would 
 suit thee well! " 
 
 (Franco) ' Telka, I bid thee to wash away 
 such tunging. Here, I set them so. Now do 
 I to fetch thy wheel. Nay, Marion, do cast 
 thy blush. Tis but the Telka witch. Do thou 
 to start thee at thy tale aspin." 
 
 (Telka) "Aye, Marion, thou then, since 
 ne'er truth knoweth thee, thou shouldst ne'er 
 to lack for story. Story do I say? Aye, or 
 lie, 'tis brothers they be. And, Franco, do thou 
 to spin, 'twill suit thy taste to feed 'pon maid's 
 fare. I be the spinner o' the tale afirst. But, 
 Franco, I fain would have thee fetch a pair o' 
 barkers. Didst deem to fret me that thee 
 dumped the twain aneath the stack? Go thou 
 and fetch. 'Tis well that thee shouldst bed 
 
156 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 with swine lest thee be preening for a 
 
 swan." 
 
 (Franco) " Ugh, Telka! Thou art like to 
 a vat o' wine awork. Thou'lt fetch the swine 
 do ye seek to company them." 
 
 (Telka) " So well, Polly, I do go, for 'tis 
 swine o' worth amore than color daub. Set 
 thee, since thou be wench." 
 
 (Franco) " Look ye, Telka, 'tis here I cast 
 the cloak and show thee metal abared. Thou 
 hast ridden 'pon a high nag for days, and I 
 do kick his hock and set him at a limp. Do 
 thou to clip thy words ashort or I do cast a 
 stone athro' thy bubble." 
 
 (Telka) "Ah, Franco, 'tis nay meaning! 
 Put here. Do spin thy tale, but do ye first to 
 leave me fetch the wee-squeals. Then I do 
 be a tamed dove. See ye? " 
 
 (Franco) "Away, then, and fetch thee 
 back ahurry." (Exit Telka.) 
 
 (Franco) " Marion, 'tis what that I should 
 put as path to tread? She be awronged but do 
 I feed the fires, or put a stop ? " 
 
 (Marion) " Franco, 'tis a pot and stew she 
 
THE PROSE 157 
 
 loveth. Think ye to coax thy dream-forms 
 from out the pot? Telka arounded and 
 awrathed be like unto a thunder-storm, but 
 Telka less the wrath and round, be Winter's 
 dreary." 
 
 (Franco) " Not so, Marion, I shall then 
 call forth the ghosts o' painted pots and touch 
 the dreary abloom. Didst thou e'er to slit thy 
 eye and view thro' afar? Dost thou then be- 
 hold the motes? So, then, shall I to view the 
 Telka maid. Whist! Here she be! Aback, 
 Telka? Come, I itch for to spin a tale. Sit 
 thee here and dry the wet sparkles from thy 
 curls. List, do! 
 
 'Twere a peddle-packer who did stroll 
 adown the blade-strewn path along the village 
 edge, abent. And brow-shagged eye did hide 
 a twinkle-mirth aneath " 
 
 "E-e-ek! E-e-e-k!" 
 
 ( Telka) " Look, Franco, see they * e-e-e-k ' 
 do I to pull their tails uncurl! " 
 
 (Franco) " Do ye then wish thee, Telka, 
 for to play upon their one-string lyre, or do I 
 put ahead?" 
 
158 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " Bestrung, aborder o' the road, the cots 
 send smoke- wreathes up to join the cloud. 
 'Twere sup-hour, and drip afrazzle soundeth 
 thro' the doors beope, like to a water-cachit 
 aslipping thro' dry leaf to pool aneath. Do I 
 then put it clear? " 
 
 (Telka) "Yea, Franco, what hath he in 
 his pack? I'd put a gander for a frock! " 
 
 (Marion) " On, Franco, thy tale hath a 
 lilt." 
 
 (Franco) " Awag-walk he weaveth to the 
 door afirst-hand. The wee lads and lass do 
 cluster 'bout the door, and twist atween their 
 finger and thumb their smock-hem, or chew 
 thereon. But he doth seem aloth to cast of 
 pack or ope, and standeth at apeer to murmur 
 then to cast." 
 
 "E-e-e-k! E-e-e-k!" 
 
 (Telka) "Nay, Franco, 'twere not my 
 doing, I swear. 'Twere he who sat upon a fire- 
 spark. Do haste! I hot for sight athin the 
 pack." 
 
 (Franco) " What, Telka, thou awag and 
 pig asqueak, and me the tail! Do put quiet! 
 
THE PROSE 159 
 
 " The dame and sire do step them out from 
 gray innards o' the hut, and pack-tipper beg- 
 geth for a mug o' porridge, and showeth o' the 
 strand-bound pack. Wee lads and lass 
 aquiver, tip-topple at a peep, and dame doth 
 fetch the brew, but shaketh nay at offering o' 
 gift, and spake it so : 'A porridge pot doth 
 hold a mug, and one amore for he who bideth 
 'thout a brew. Nay, drink ye, and thank the 
 morrow's sun. 'Tis stony path thee trod, and 
 dust choketh. Do rest, and bide thee at our 
 sill till weariness awarn away.' 
 
 " Think ye, Marion, that peddle-man did 
 leave and cast not pence? What think ye, 
 Telka?" 
 
 ( Telka) " I did hear thee tell o' his fill, but 
 tell thee o' fill o' pack." 
 
 (Franco) "A time, Telka. Nay, he did 
 drink and left as price an ancient jug o' clay, 
 and thick and o' a weight, to thank and wag" 
 weave hence." 
 
 (Telka) " Did he then to pack anew and 
 off 'thout a peep?" 
 
 (Franco) " Yea, and dark did yawn and 
 
160 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 swallow him. But morrow bringeth tale that 
 peddle-packer had paid to each o' huts a beg, 
 and what think ye? Left a jug where'er he 
 supped! " 
 
 (Telka) " 'Twere a clayster, and the 
 morrow findeth him afollow for price, 
 egh?" 
 
 (Franco) " Nay, Telka, not so. And jugs 
 ashaken soundeth like to a wine; but atip did 
 show nay drop. Marion, do tweak the Telka 
 she be aslumber." 
 
 (Marion) " Wake thee, Telka, the jugs be 
 now to crack." 
 
 (Telka) "Nay, 'tis a puddle o' a tale a 
 packster and a strand-bound pack, aweary." 
 
 (Franco) " But list thee! For 'twere eve 
 that found the dames awag. For tho' they set 
 the jugs aright, there be but dust where they 
 did stand. Yea, all, Telka maid, save that the 
 peddle-man did give to dame at first hand. 
 The gabble put it so, that 'twere the porridge 
 begged that dames did fetch but for a hope o' 
 price, where jugs ashrunk." 
 
 (Telka) "But 'twere such a scurvey, 
 
THE PROSE 161 
 
 Franco! I wage the jug aleft doth leak. 
 What think ye I be caring 'bout jug or peddle- 
 packer? " 
 
 (Marion) " Snip short thy word, Telka. 
 Leave Franco for to tell. I be aprick for 
 scratch to ease the itch o' wonder. On, lad, 
 and tie the ends o' weave-strand." 
 
 (Franco) 'Tis told the dame did treasure 
 o' the jug, and sire did shew abroad the won- 
 der, and all did list unto the swish o' ' nothing 
 wine/ and thirsted for asup, and each did 
 tip its crook'd neck and shake, but ne'er a drop 
 did slip it through. And wonder, Marion, the 
 sides did sweat like to a damp within! So 
 'twere. The townsmen shook awag their heads 
 and feared the witch- work or the wise man's 
 cunger, and they did bid the sire to dig a pit 
 and put therein the jug." 
 
 (Telka) " 'Twere waste they wrought, I 
 vow, for should ye crack away its neck 'twould 
 then be fit for holding o' the swill. There be 
 a pair ahind the stack." 
 
 (Franco) "Nay, Telka, not as this, for 
 they did dig a pit and plant jug therein, and 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 morrow showed from out the fresh-turned 
 earth a bush had sprung, and on its every 
 branch a bud o' many colored hue alike to 
 rainbow's robe. And lo, the dames and sires 
 did cluster 'bout, and each did pluck a twig 
 aladen with the bud, but as 'twere snapped, 
 what think ye? There be in the hand a naught 
 save when the dame who asked not price did 
 pluck. And 'tis told that to this day the towns- 
 men fetch unto the bush and force apluck do 
 they make question o' their brotherman. And 
 so 'tis with he who fashions o' the rainbow's 
 robe a world to call his own, and fetcheth to 
 the grown bush his brother for to shew, and 
 he seeth not, 'tis so he judge." 
 
 (Telka) " O, thou art a story-spinner o' a 
 truth, and peddle-packer too, egh? And thou 
 dost deem that thou hast planted o' thy pot to 
 force thy bush by which ye judge. Paugh! 
 Thou art a fool, Franco, and thy pots o' color 
 be not aworth thy pains. So thou dost think 
 then I be plucking o' naught aside thy bush. 
 Well, I do tell thee this. Thy pots ne'er as 
 the jug shall spring. Nay, for morn found me 
 
THE PROSE 163 
 
 adig, and I did cast them here to the fire, af ear- 
 ing they should haunt." 
 
 (Franco) " 'Tis miff, Telka, I leave them 
 to the flame. But thou shouldst know the bush 
 abud doth show in every smouldering blaze." 
 
 (Telka) "See, Franco, I be yet neck 
 ahead, for I do spat upon the flame and lo, 
 thy bush be naught! " 
 
 (Franco) " Aye, 'tis so, but there be ahid 
 a place thou ne'er hast seen. Therein I put 
 what be mine own the love for them. Thou 
 art a butterfly, Telka, abeating o' thy wing 
 upon a thistle-leaf. Do hover 'bout the 
 blooms thou knowest best and leave dream- 
 bush and thistle-leaf." 
 
 It is a remarkable story. Many lines are 
 gems of wit or wisdom or beauty, and it con- 
 tains some exquisite poetry. There are many 
 characters in it, all of them lovable but Telka, 
 and she becomes so ere the end. 
 
 A curious and interesting fact in this con- 
 nection is that after beginning this story Pa- 
 tience used its peculiar form of speech in her 
 
164 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 conversation and in her poems. Previously, as 
 I have pointed out, there was a natural and 
 consistent difference between her speech and 
 her writings, and it would seem that in this 
 change she would show that she is not subject 
 to any rules, nor limited to the dialect of any 
 period or any locality. Scattered through this 
 present volume are poems, prose pieces and 
 bits of her conversation, in which the curious 
 and frequent use of the prefix a-, the abbrevia- 
 tion of the word " of " and the strange twists 
 of phrase of the Telka story are noticeable. 
 All of these were received after this story was 
 begun. 
 
 But there is another form of prose composi- 
 tion that Patience has given to us. While she 
 is writing a story she does not confine herself 
 to that work, but precedes or follows it with a 
 bit of gossip, a personal message, a poem or 
 something else. Sometimes she stops in the 
 midst of her story to deliver something entirely 
 foreign to it that comes into her mind. Dur- 
 ing one week, while " Telka " was being re- 
 
THE PROSE 165 
 
 ceived, she presented three parables, all in the 
 peculiar language of that story. I reproduce 
 them here and leave it to the reader to ponder 
 o'er their meaning. 
 
 " Long, yea, long agone, aside a wall atilt 
 who joined unto a brother- wall and made 
 atween a gap apoint abacked, there did upon 
 the every day, across-leged, sit a bartmaker, 
 amid his sacks aheaped. And ne'er a buy did 
 tribesmen make. Nay, but 'twere the babes 
 who sought the bartman, and lo, he shutteth 
 both his eyes and babes do pilfer from the 
 sacks and feed thereon, till sacks asink. And 
 still at crosslegs doth he sit. 
 
 " Yea, and days do follow days till Winter 
 setteleth 'pon his locks its snow. Aye, and lo, 
 at rise o' sun 'pon such an day as had followed 
 day since first he sat, they did see that he had 
 ashrunked and they did wag that 'twere 
 the wasting o' his days at sitting at cross- 
 leg. 
 
 " And yet the babes did fetch for feast and 
 wert fed. Till last a day did dawn and gap 
 
166 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 ashowed it empty and no man woed ; but babes 
 did sorry 'bout the spot 'till tribesmen mar- 
 veled and fetched alongside and coaxed with 
 sweets their word. But no man found answer 
 in their prate. And they did ope remaining 
 sacks and lo, there be anaught save dry fruit, 
 and babes did reach forth for it and wert fed, 
 and more, it did nurture them, and they went 
 forth alater to the fields o' earth astrengthened 
 and fed 'pon what, Brother? List ye. Ton 
 truth." 
 
 " There be aside the market's place a mer- 
 chant and a brother merchant. Aye, and one 
 did put price ahigh, and gold aclinketh and 
 copper groweth mold atween where he did 
 store. And his brother giveth measure full and 
 more, for the pence o' him who offereth but 
 pence, at measure that runneth o'er to full o' 
 gold's price. 
 
 " And lo, they do each to buy o' herds, and he 
 who hath full price buyeth but the shrunk o' 
 herd, and he who hath little, buyeth the full o' 
 herd. And time maketh full the sacks o' him 
 
THE PROSE 167 
 
 who hoardeth gold, and layeth at aflat the sacks 
 o' him who maketh poor price. And lo, he who 
 hath plenty hoardeth more, and he who had 
 little buyed o' seed and sowed and reaped 
 therefrom. And famine crept it nearer and 
 fringed 'pon the land and smote the land o' 
 him who asacketh o' gold and crept .it 'pon the 
 land o' him o' pence. 
 
 " And herds did low o' hunger and he who 
 hath but gold hath naught to feed thereon. 
 For sacks achoked 'pon gold. And he who had 
 but pence did sack but grain and grass and fed 
 the herd. And lo, they fattened and did fill 
 the emptied sacks with gold, while he who hath 
 naught but gold did sick, and famine wasted o' 
 his herd and famine's sun did rise to shine 'pon 
 him astricken 'pon gold asacked." 
 
 " There wert a man and his brother and they 
 wrought them unalike. Yea, and one did 
 fashion from wood, and ply till wonderwork 
 astood, a temple o' wood. And his brother 
 fashioneth o' reeds and worketh wonder bas- 
 kets. And he who wrought o' wood scoffeth. 
 
168 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And the tribesmen make buy o' baskets and 
 wag that 'tis a- sorry wrought the temple, and 
 spake them that the Lord would smite, and lay 
 it low. For he who wrought did think him o' 
 naught save the high and wide o' it, and looked 
 not at its strength or yet its stand 'pon earth. 
 And they did turn the baskets 'bout and put 
 to strain, and lo, they did hold. And it were 
 the tribesmen, who shook their heads and mur- 
 mured, ' Yea, yea, they be a goodly.' 
 
 " So 'tis; he who doth fashion from wood o' 
 size doth prosper not, and he who doth fashion 
 o' reed and small, doth thrive verily." 
 
 These are all somewhat cryptic, although 
 their interpretation is not difficult, but that 
 which follows on the magic of a laugh needs no 
 explanation. " I do fashion out a tale for 
 babes," said Patience, when she presented this 
 parable of the fairy's wand, and, in it she gives 
 expression to another one of her characteristics, 
 one that is intensely human, the love of laugh- 
 ter, which she seems to like to hear and often 
 to provoke. 
 
THE PROSE 169 
 
 " Lo, at a time thou knowest not, aye, I, thy 
 handmaid, knowest not, there wert born unto 
 the earth a babe. And lo, the dame o' this 
 babe wert but a field's woman. And lo, days 
 and days did pass until the fullness of the 
 babe's days, and it stood in beauty past word 
 o'me. 
 
 " Yea, and there wert a noble, and he did 
 pass, and lo, his brow was darked, and smile 
 had forsook his lips. And he came unto the 
 cot and there stood the babe, who wert now a 
 maid o' lovely. And he spaked unto her and 
 said: 
 
 * Come thou, and unto the lands of me 
 shall we make way. Thou art not o' the fields, 
 but for the nobles.' 
 
 " And she spake not unto his word. And lo, 
 the mother of the babe came forth and this 
 man told unto her of this thing, that her babe 
 wert not of the field but for the nobled. And, 
 at the bidding of the noble, she spake, yea, the 
 maid should go unto his lands. 
 
 " And time and time after the going, lo, no 
 
170 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 word came unto the mother. And within the 
 lands of the noble the maid lived, and lo, the 
 days wert sorry, and the paths held but 
 shadows, and nay smiles shed gold unto the 
 hours. And she smiled that this noble did 
 offer unto her much of royal stores. Yea, 
 gems, and gold, and all a maid might wish, 
 and she looked in pity unto the noble and 
 spake: 
 
 " ' What hast thou? Lo, thou hast brought 
 forth of thy store and given unto me, and 
 what doth it buy? Thy lips are ever sorry and 
 thy hours dark. Then take thou these gifts 
 and keep within such an day as thine, for, hark 
 ye, my dame, the field's woman, hath given 
 unto me that which setteth at a naught thy 
 gifts ; for hark ye : mid thy dark o' sorry I shall 
 spill a laugh, and it be a fairies' wand, and 
 turneth dust to gold.' 
 
 " And she fled unto the sun's paths of the 
 fields. 
 
 " Verily do I to say unto thee, this, the 
 power of the fairies' wand, is thine, thy gift of 
 thy field-mother, Earth. Then cast out that 
 
THE PROSE 171 
 
 which earth-lands do offer unto thee and flee 
 with thy gift." 
 
 It is somewhat difficult to select an ending 
 for this chapter on the prose of Patience: the 
 material for it is so abundant and so varied, 
 but this " Parable of the Cloak " may perhaps 
 form a fitting finish: 
 
 ' There wert a man, and lo, he did to seek 
 and quest o' sage, that which he did mouth 
 o'ermuch. And lo, he did to weave o' such an 
 robe, and did to clothe himself therein. And 
 lo, 'twer sun ashut away, and cool and heat and 
 bright and shade. 
 
 " And lo, still did he to draw 'bout him the 
 cloak, and 'twer o' the mouthings o' the sage. 
 And lo, at a day 'twer sent abroad that Truth 
 should stalk 'pon Earth, and man, were he to 
 look him close, shouldst see. 
 
 " And lo, the man did draw 'bout him the 
 cloak, and did to wag him ' Nay ' and ' Nay, 
 'twer truth the sages did to mouth and I did 
 weave athin the cloak o' me.' 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 "And then 'twer that Truth did seek o' 
 Earth, and she wert clad o' naught, and seeked 
 the man, and begged that he would cast the 
 cloak and clothe o' her therein. And lo, he 
 did to draw him close the cloak, and hid his 
 face therein, and wag him ' Nay,' he did to 
 know her not. 
 
 " And lo, she did to fetch her unto him 
 athrice, and then did he to wag him still a 
 'Nay! Nay! Nay!' And lo, she toucheth o' 
 the cloth o' sage's mouths and it doth fall 
 atattered and leave him clothed o' naught, and 
 at a wishing. And he did seek o' Truth, aye, 
 ever, and when he did to find, lo, she wagged 
 him nay, and nay, and nay." 
 
CONVERSATIONS 
 
 "This be bread. If man knoweth not the grain 
 from which 'twer fashioned, what then? 'Tis bread. 
 Let man deny me this." PATIENCE WORTH. 
 
 BUT after all, perhaps the truest conception 
 of the character and versatility of Patience can 
 be acquired from her " conversations." The 
 word "conversation" I here loosely apply to all 
 that comes from her in the course of an even- 
 ing, excepting the work on her stories. The 
 poems and parables are usually woven into her 
 remarks with a sequence that suggests ex- 
 temporaneous production for the particular 
 occasion, although as a rule they are of general 
 application. Almost invariably they are 
 brought out by something she or someone 
 else has said, or as a tribute, a lesson or a com- 
 fort to some person who is present. Her 
 songs, as she calls her poems, are freely given, 
 
 173 
 
174. PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 apparently without a thought or a care as to 
 what may become of them. They seem to come 
 spontaneously, without effort, with no pause 
 for thought, no groping for the right word, and 
 to fall into their places as part of the spoken 
 rather than the written speech. So it is that 
 the term " conversation " in this connection is 
 made to include much that ordinarily would 
 not fall within that designation. 
 
 One of the pleasures of an evening with Pa- 
 tience is the uncertainty of the form of the 
 entertainment. Never are two evenings alike 
 in the general nature of the communications. 
 She adapts herself to circumstances and to the 
 company present, serious if they are bent on 
 serious subjects, merry if they are so; but sel- 
 dom will the serious escape without a little of 
 the merry, or the merry without a little of the 
 serious. Sometimes her own feelings seem to 
 have an influence. Always, however, she is 
 permitted to take her own course, except in 
 the case of a formal examination, to which she 
 readily responds if conducted with respect. 
 She may devote the evening largely to poetry, 
 
CONVERSATIONS 175 
 
 possibly varying the themes, as on one evening 
 when she gave a nature poem, one of a religious 
 character, a lullaby, a humorous verse and a 
 prayer, interspersed with discussion. She may 
 talk didactically with little or no interruption. 
 She may submit to a catechism upon religion, 
 philosophy, philology, or any subject that may 
 arise. She may devote an evening to a series of 
 little personal talks to a succession of sitters, or 
 she may elect just to gossip. " I be dame," she 
 says, and therefore not averse to gossip. But 
 rarely will she neglect to write something on 
 whatever story she may have in hand. She 
 speaks of such writing as " weaving." " Put 
 ye to weave," she will say, and that means that 
 conversation is to stop for a time until a little 
 real work is accomplished. 
 
 The conversations which follow are selected 
 to illustrate the variety of form referred to, as 
 well as to introduce a number of interesting 
 statements that throw light on the character of 
 the phenomena. 
 
 Upon a certain evening the Currans had two 
 visitors, Dr. and Mrs. W. With Dr. W. and 
 
176 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Mrs. C. at the board and Mrs. W. leaning over 
 it, Patience began: 
 
 "Ah, hark! Here abe athree; yea, love, 
 faith and more o' love! Thee hast for to hark 
 unto word I do put o' them, not ye." 
 
 And then she told this tale of the Mite and 
 the Seeds: 
 
 " Hark! Aneath the earth fell a seed, and 
 lay aside a Mite, a winged mite, who hid from 
 cold. Yea, and the Mite knew o' the day o'er 
 the Earth's crust, and spake unto the Seed, and 
 said: 
 
 " ' The hours o' day show sun and cloud, 
 aye, and the Earth's crust holdeth grass 
 and tree. Aye, and men walk 'pon the 
 Earth.' 
 
 " Aye, and the Seed did say unto the Mite: 
 
 " * Nay, there be a naught save Earth and 
 dark, for mine eye hath not beheld what thou 
 tellest of.' 
 
 " Yea, and the Mite spake it so: 
 
 " ' 'Tis dark and cold o'er the crust 
 o' Earth, and thou and me awarm and 
 close ahere.' 
 
CONVERSATIONS 177 
 
 " But the Seed spake out : ' Nay, this be the 
 time I seek me o'er the Earth's crust and see 
 the Day thou tellest of.' 
 
 " And lo, he sent out leaf, and reached high. 
 And lo, when the leaf had pushed up from 
 'neath the crust, there were snow's cut and cold, 
 and it died, and knew not the Day o' the Mite: 
 for the time was not riped that he should seek 
 unto new days. 
 
 " And lo, the Stalk that had sent forth the 
 Seed, sent forth amore, and lo, again a one did 
 sink aside the Mite. And he spake to it of the 
 Day o' Earth and said : ' Thy brother sought 
 the Day, and it wert not time, and lo, he is no 
 more.' 
 
 " And he told of the days of Earth unto the 
 seed, and it spaked unto him and said : * This 
 day o' thee meaneth naught to me. Lo, I shall 
 spring not a root, nor shall I to seek me the 
 days o' Earth. Nay, I shall lay me close and 
 warm.' 
 
 " And e'en though the Mite spake unto the 
 Seed at the time when it wert ripe that it should 
 seek, lo, it lay, and Summer's tide found it a 
 
178 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 naught, for it feeded 'pon itself, and lo, wert 
 not. 
 
 " And at a later tide did a seed to fall, and it 
 harked unto the Mite and waited the time, and 
 when it wert riped, lo, it upped and sought the 
 day. And it wert so as the Mite had spaked. 
 And the Seed grew into a bush. 
 
 "And lo, the winged Mite flew out: for it 
 had brought a brother out o' the dark and unto 
 the Day, and the task wert o'er. 
 
 " These abe like unto them who seek o' the 
 words o' me. 
 
 " Now aweave thou." 
 
 Patience then wrote about two hundred 
 words of a story, after which Mrs. W. inquired 
 of Mr. C.: 
 
 " Don't you ever try to write on the board? " 
 To which he replied facetiously, " No, I'm too 
 dignified." 
 
 Patience. " Yea, he smirketh unto swine 
 and kicketh the nobles." 
 
 Then seeming to feel that the visitors were 
 
CONVERSATIONS 179 
 
 wanting something more personal than the 
 "Tale" she said: 
 
 " Alawk, they be ahungered, and did weave 
 a hit. Then hark. Here he. 
 
 "What think ye, man? They do pucker 
 much o'er the word o' me, and spat forth that 
 thou dost eat and smack o' liking. Yea, but 
 hark! Who shed drop for Him but one o' His, 
 yea, the Son o' Him? Think ye this abe the 
 pack o' me? Nay, and thou and thou and thou 
 shalt shed drops in loving for the pack, for it 
 be o' Him. Now shall I to sing: 
 
 How doth the Mise-man greed, 
 And lay unto his store, 
 And seek him out the pence of Earth, 
 Wherein the hearts do rust? 
 
 How doth the Muse-man greed, 
 And seek him o' the Day, 
 And word that setteth up a wag 
 While hearts o 5 Earth are filthed? 
 
 How doth the See-man greed? 
 Yea, and how he opeth up his eye, 
 And seeth naught and telleth much 
 While hearts of earth are hurt. 
 
180 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 How doth the Good-man greed, 
 
 Who dealeth o' the Word? 
 
 He eateth o' its flesh and casts but bone, 
 
 While hearts o' Earth are woed. 
 
 How doth the Man-man greed? 
 
 He eateth o' the store, yet holdeth ope 
 
 His hands and scattereth o' bread 
 
 This then abe, and yet will be 
 
 Since time and time, and beeth ever." 
 
 As soon as this was read, she followed with 
 another song: 
 
 Drink ye unto me. 
 
 Drink ye deep, to me. 
 
 Yea, and seek ye o' the Brew ye quaff, 
 
 For this do I to beg. 
 
 Seek not the wine o' Summer's sun, 
 
 That hid 'mid purpled vine, 
 
 And showeth there amid the Brew 
 
 Thou suppest as the Wine. 
 
 Seek not the drops o' pool, 
 
 Awarmed aneath the sun, 
 
 And idly lapping at the brink 
 
 Of mosses' lips, to sup. 
 
CONVERSATIONS 181 
 
 Seek not o' vintage Earth doth hold. 
 Nay, unto thee this plea shall wake 
 The Wine that thou shouldst quaff. 
 For at the loving o' this heart 
 The Wine o' Love shall flow. 
 Then drink ye deep, ah, drink ye deep, 
 And drink ye deep o' Love. 
 
 " Yea, thine unto me, and mine to thee." 
 
 After which she explained: 
 
 " I did to fashion out a brew for her ayonder 
 and him ahere. And they did eat o' it. Yea, 
 for they know o' Him and know o' the work- 
 ings o' Him and drinked o' the love o' me as 
 the love o' Him. Yea, and hark, there abe 
 much athin this pack for thee." 
 
 This, it will be observed, is rather a discourse 
 than a conversation, and it is often so, Patience 
 filling the evening with her own words ; not as 
 exclusively so, however, as this would indicate: 
 for there is always more or less conversation 
 among the party, which it would profit nothing 
 to reproduce. 
 
183 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 The next sitting is somewhat more varied. 
 There were present Dr. X., a teacher of anat- 
 omy, Mrs. X., Mrs. W. and Miss B. Dr. X. 
 sat at the board with Mrs. Curran: 
 
 Patience. " Eh, gad! Here be a one who 
 taketh Truth unto him and setteth the good 
 dame apace that she knoweth not the name o' 
 her. I tell thee 'tis he who knoweth her as a 
 sister, and telleth much o' her, and naught he 
 speaketh oft holdeth her, and much he speak- 
 eth holdeth little o' her, and yet ever he holdeth 
 her unto him. He taketh me as truth, yea, he 
 knoweth he taketh naught and buildeth much, 
 and much and buildeth little o' it. I track me 
 unto the door o' him and knock and he heareth 
 
 me." 
 
 This, of course, referred to Dr. X. and his 
 work, and it aroused some discussion, after 
 which Patience asked, " Would ye I sing? " 
 The answer being in the affirmative, she gave 
 this little verse, also directed to Dr. X. : 
 
 Out 'pon the sea o' learning, 
 Floateth the barque o' one aseek. 
 
CONVERSATIONS 183 
 
 Out 'pon troubled waters floateth the craft, 
 Abuilded staunch o' beams o' truth. 
 And though the waves do beat them high 
 And wash o'er and o'er the prow, 
 Fear thee not, for Truth saileth on. 
 Set thy beacon, then, to crafts not thine, 
 For thou hast a light for man. 
 
 " There, thou knowest me. I tell thee I 
 speak unto him who hath truth for his very 
 own. Set thee aweave." 
 
 The sitters complied and received about six 
 hundred words of the story, after which Mrs. 
 X. took the board, remarking as she did so that 
 she was afraid, which elicited this observation 
 from Patience: 
 
 " She setteth aside the stream and seeth the 
 craft afloat and be at wishing for to sail, and 
 yet she would to see her who steereth." 
 
 Mrs. X. gave up her place to Miss B., a 
 teacher of botany, to whom Patience presented 
 this tribute: 
 
 :< The eye o' her seeth but beauties and shut- 
 teth up that which showeth darked, that that 
 
184* PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 not o' beautie setteth not within the see o' her. 
 Yea, more ; she knoweth how 'tis the dark and 
 what showeth not o' beauty, at His touching 
 showeth lovely for the see o' her. 
 
 " Such an heart! Ah, thou shouldst feast 
 hereon. I tell thee she giveth unto multitudes 
 the heart o' her; and such as she dealeth unto 
 earth, earth has need for much. She feasteth 
 her 'pon dusts and knoweth dust shall spring 
 forth bloom. Hurt hath set the heart o' her, 
 and she hath packed up the hurt with petals." 
 
 Patience then turned her attentions again to 
 Dr. X. " He yonder," she said, " hath much 
 aneath his skull's-cap that he wordeth not." 
 
 Thus urged, Dr. X. inquired : 
 
 " Does Patience prepare the manuscript she 
 gives in advance? It rather seems that she 
 reads the material to Mrs. Curran." 
 
 " See ye," cried Patience, " he hath spoke 
 a thing that set aneath his skull's-cap ! " And 
 then, in answer to his question: 
 
 " She who afashioneth loaf doth shake well 
 the grain-dust that husks show not. Then doth 
 
CONVERSATIONS 185 
 
 she for to brew and stir and mix, else the loaf 
 be not afit for eat." 
 
 By grain-dust she means flour or meal, and 
 she uses the word brew in its obsolete sense of 
 preparation for cooking. The answer may be 
 interpreted that she arranges the story in her 
 mind before its dictation, and as to her formal 
 work she has said many things to indicate that 
 such is her method. Dr. X. then asked: 
 
 " Are these stories real happenings? " 
 
 To which Patience replied: 
 
 "Within the land o' here [her land] be 
 packed the days o' Earth, and thy day hath 
 its sister day ahere, and thy neighbor's day and 
 thy neighbor's neighbor's day. And I tell thee, 
 didst thou afashion tale thou couldst ne'er 
 afashion lie, for all thou hast athin thy day 
 that thy put might show from the see o' thee 
 hath been; at not thy time, yea, but it hath 
 been." 
 
 " Then," asked Dr. X., " should you have 
 transmitted through one who spoke another 
 language you would have used their tongue? " 
 
 Patience answered : 
 
186 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " I pettiskirt me so that ye know the me of 
 me. Yea, and I do to take me o' the store o' 
 her that I make me word for thee." 
 
 " Pettiskirt " is a common expression of 
 hers to mean dress, in either a literal or a fig- 
 urative sense. The answer does not mean that 
 she is limited by Mrs. Curran's vocabulary, but 
 is an affirmative response to the question. 
 
 The word " put " in the preceding answer 
 is one that requires some explanation, for it is 
 frequently used by her, and makes some of her 
 sayings difficult to understand. She makes it 
 convey a number of meanings now obsolete, 
 but it usually refers to her writings, her words, 
 her sayings. She makes a noun of it, it will be 
 noticed, as well as a verb. In the foregoing 
 instance it means " tale," and it has a relation 
 to the primary meaning of the verb, which is 
 to place. The words that are put down be- 
 come a " put," and the writer becomes a " put- 
 ter." To a lady who told her that she had 
 heard a sound like a bell in her ear, and asked 
 if it was Patience trying to communicate with 
 her, she answered dryly: "Think ye I be a 
 
CONVERSATIONS 187 
 
 tinkler o' brass? Nay. I be a putter o' 
 words." Further to illustrate this use of the 
 word, and also to throw an interesting light 
 upon her method of communication and the 
 reason for it, I present here a part of a conver- 
 sation in which a Dr. Z. was the interrogator. 
 
 Dr. Z. " Why isn't there some other means 
 you could use more easy to manipulate than 
 the ouija board? " 
 
 Patience. " The hand o' her (Mrs. Curran) 
 do I to put (write) be the hand o' her, and 'tis 
 ascribe (the act of writing) that setteth the one 
 awhither by eyes-fulls she taketh in." 
 
 By this she seems to mean that if Mrs. Cur- 
 ran tried to write for Patience with a pen or 
 pencil, the act, being always associated with 
 conscious thought, would set her consciousness 
 to work, and put Patience " awhither." 
 
 Dr. Z. " How did you know this avenue 
 was open? " 
 
 Patience. " I did to seek at crannies for to 
 put; aye, and 'twer the her o' her who tireth 
 past the her o' her, and slippeth to a naught o' 
 
188 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 putting; and 'twer the me o' me at seek, aye, 
 and find. Aye, and 'twer so." 
 
 At the time Patience first presented herself 
 to Mrs. Curran, she (Mrs. Curran) was very 
 tired, and was sitting at the board with Mrs. 
 Hutchings, with her head, as she expresses it, 
 absolutely empty. 
 
 Dr. Z. " Did you go forth to seek, or were 
 you sent? " 
 
 Patience. " There be nay tracker o' path 
 ne'er put thereon by sender." 
 
 Dr. Z. " Did you know of the ouija board 
 and its use before? " 
 
 Patience. " Nay, 'tis not the put o' me, the 
 word hereon. 'Tis the put o' me at see o' 
 her. 
 
 " I put athin the see o' her, aye and 'tis the 
 see o' ye that be afulled o' the put o' me, and 
 yet a put thou knowest not. 
 
 " That which ye know not o' thy day hath 
 slipped it unto her, and thence unto thee. And 
 thee knowest 'tis not the put o' her; aye, and 
 thee knowest 'tis ne'er a putter o' thy day there 
 be at such an put. Aye, and did he to put, 
 
CONVERSATIONS 189 
 
 'twould be o' thy day and not the day o' me. 
 And yet ye prate o' why and whence and 
 where. I tell thee 'tis thee that knowest that 
 which ye own not." 
 
 Dr. Z." Why don't we own it, Patience? " 
 Patience. ' 'Tis at fear o' gab." 
 It is no easy task to untangle that putting 
 of puts, but, briefly, it seems to mean that Pa- 
 tience does not put her words on the board 
 direct, with the hands of Mrs. Curran, but 
 transmits her words through the mind or inner 
 vision of Mrs. Curran, and yet it is the word of 
 Patience and not of Mrs. Curran that is re- 
 corded. This accords with Mrs. Curran's im- 
 pressions. And thou knowest, Patience far- 
 ther says, that it is not the language of her, 
 and no writer of thy day would or could write 
 in such a language as I make use of. 
 
 Returning to Dr. X. and his party. They 
 were present again a few days after the inter- 
 view just given, having with them a Miss J., 
 a newspaper writer from an Ohio city. Dr. X. 
 in the meantime had thought much upon the 
 
190 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 phenomena, and Patience immediately di- 
 rected her guns upon the anatomist, in this 
 manner : 
 
 Patience. " Hark ye, lad, unto thee I do 
 speak. Thou hast a sack o' the wares o' me, 
 and thou hast eat therefrom. Yea, and thou 
 hast spat that which thou did'st eat, and eat it 
 o'er. And yet thou art not afulled. 
 
 " Hark! Here be a trick that shall best thee 
 at thine own trick. Lo, thou lookest upon flesh 
 and it be but flesh. Yea, thou lookest unto thy 
 brother, and see but flesh. And yet thy 
 brother speakest word, and thou sayest : ' Yea, 
 this is a man, aye, the brother o' me.' Then 
 doth death lay low thy brother, and he speak 
 not word unto thee, thou sayest : ' Nay, this is 
 no man; nay, this is but clay.' Then lookest 
 thou unto thy brother, and thou seest not the 
 him o' him. Thou knowest not the him o' him 
 (the soul) but the flesh o' him only. 
 
 " More I tell thee. Thy very babe wert not 
 flesh; yea, it were as dead afore the coming. 
 Yet, at the mother's bearing, it setteth within 
 the flesh. And thou knowest it and speak, yea, 
 
CONVERSATIONS 191 
 
 this is a man. And yet I tell thee thou know- 
 est riot e'en the him o' him! Then doth it die, 
 'tis nay man, thou sayest. Yet, at the dying 
 and afore the bearing, 'twer what? The him 
 o' him wert then, and now, and ever. 
 
 * Yea, I speak unto thee not through flesh, 
 and thou sayest : This is no man, yea, for thine 
 eyes see not flesh, yet thou knowest the me o' 
 me, and I speak unto thee with the me o' me. 
 And thou art where upon thy path o' learn- 
 ing!" 
 f 
 
 There was some discussion following this 
 argument in which Dr. X. admitted that he 
 accepted only material facts and believed but 
 what he saw. 
 
 Patience. " Man maketh temples that reach 
 them unto the skies, and yet He fashioneth a 
 gnat, and where be man's learning ! 
 
 ' The earth is full o' what the blind in-man 
 seeth not. Ope thine eye, lad. Thou art 
 athin dark, and yet drink ye ever o' the 
 
 light." 
 
 Dr. X." That's all right, Patience, and a 
 
192 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 good argument; but tell me where the him o' 
 him of my dog is." 
 
 Patience. " Thou art ahungered for what 
 be thine at the hand o' thee. Thy dog hath far 
 more o' Him than thy brothers who set them 
 as dogs and eat o' dog's eat. The One o' One, 
 the All o' All, yea, all o' life holdeth the Him 
 o' Him, thy Sire and mine! 'Tis the breath o' 
 Him that pulses earth. Thou asketh where 
 abides this thing. Aneath thy skull's arch there 
 be nay room for the there or where o' this! " 
 
 Miss J. then took the board and Patience 
 said: 
 
 " She taketh it she standeth well athin the 
 sight o' me that she weareth the frock o' me." 
 
 This caused a laugh, for it was then ex- 
 plained by the visitors that Miss J. had chosen 
 to wear a frock somewhat on the Puritan 
 order, having a gray cape with white cuffs and 
 collar, and had said she thought Patience 
 would approve of it. 
 
 Patience. " Here be a one aheart ope, and 
 she hath the in-man who she proddeth that he 
 
CONVERSATIONS 193 
 
 opeth his eyes. Yea, she seest that which be 
 and thou seest not." 
 
 It was remarked that Patience was evidently 
 trying to be very nice to Miss J. 
 
 Patience. " Nay, here be a one who tickleth 
 with quill, I did hear ye put. Think ye not a 
 one who putteth as me, be not a love o' me? 
 Yea, she be. And I tell thee a something that 
 she will tell unto ye is true. Oft hath she 
 sought for word that she might put, and lo, 
 from whence she knoweth not it cometh." 
 
 Miss J. said this was true. 
 
 Patience. " Shall 'I then sing unto thee, 
 wench? " 
 
 Miss J. expressed delight, and the song fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Ah, how do I to build me up my song for thee? 
 Yea, and tell unto thee of Him. 
 I'd shew unto thee His loving, 
 I'd shew unto thee His very face. 
 Do then to list to this my song. 
 
 Early hours, strip o' thy pure. 
 For 'tis the heart of Him. 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Earth, breathe deep thy busom, 
 Yea, and rock the sea, 
 For 'tis the breath of Him. 
 Fields, burst ope thy sod, 
 And fling thee loose thy store, 
 For 'tis the robe of Him. 
 Skies, shed thou thy blue, 
 The depth of heaven, 
 For 'tis the eyes of Him. 
 Winter's white, stand thou thick 
 And shed thy soft o'er earth, 
 For 'tis the touch of Him. 
 Spring, shed thou thy loosened 
 Laughter of the streams, 
 For 'tis the voice of Him. 
 Noon's heat, and tire o' earth, 
 Shed thou of rest to His, 
 For 'tis the rest of Him. 
 Evil days of earth, 
 Stride thou on and smite, 
 For 'tis the frown of Him. 
 
 Earth, this, the chant o' me, 
 
 May end, as doth the works o' man, 
 
 But hark ye ; Earth holdeth all 
 
 That hath been ; 
 
 And Spring's ope, and sowing 
 
 O' the Winter's tide, 
 
CONVERSATIONS 195 
 
 Shall bear the Summer's full 
 Of that that be no more. 
 
 For, at the waking o' the Spring, 
 The wraiths o' blooms agone 
 Shall rise them up from out the mould 
 And speak to thee of Him. 
 
 Thus, the songs o' me, 
 The works o' thee, 
 The Earth's own bloom, 
 Are HIM. 
 
 The interest of Dr. X. in this phenomenon 
 brought an eminent psychologist, associated 
 with one of the greatest state universities in 
 the country, some distance from Missouri, for 
 an interview with Patience. He shall be known 
 here as Dr. V. With him and Dr. X. was Dr. 
 K., a physician. Dr. V. sat at the board first, 
 and Patience said to him: 
 
 " Here be a one, verily, that hath a sword. 
 Aye, and he doth to wrap it o'er o' silks. Yea, 
 but I do say unto thee, he doth set the cups o' 
 measure at aright, and doth set not the word 
 o' me as her ahere (Mrs. Curran) . Nay, not 
 till he hath seen and tasted o' the loaf o' me; 
 
196 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 and e'en athen he would to take o' the loaf and 
 crumb o' it to bits and look unto the crumb 
 and wag much afore he putteth. And he wilt 
 be assured o' the truth afore the putting." 
 
 This was discussed as a character delinea- 
 tion. 
 
 Patience. " I'd set at reasoning. Since the 
 townsmen do fetch aforth for the seek o' me, 
 and pry aneath the me o' me, then do thou 
 alike. Yea, put thou unto me." 
 
 Dr. r." Why fear Death? " 
 
 Patience. " Thou shouldst eat o' the loaf 
 (her writings) . Ayea, 'tis right and meet that 
 flesh shrinketh at the lash." 
 
 Dr. V. was told of her poems on the fear of 
 death. 
 
 Dr. F." What do you think of the at- 
 tempts to investigate you? Is it right? " 
 
 Patience. " Ayea. And thou hast o' me 
 the loaf o' the me o' me, and thou hast o' it 
 afar more than thou hast o' thy brother o' 
 earth, and yet they seek o' me and seek ever." 
 
 Dr. V. " Have you ever lived? " 
 
 Patience. ' What! Think ye that I be a 
 
CONVERSATIONS 197 
 
 prater o' thy path and ne'er atrod? Then 
 thou art afollied, for canst thou tell o' here? " 
 
 Dr. V." When did you live on earth? " 
 
 Patience. " A seed aplanted be watched 
 for grow. Ayea, but the seed held athin the 
 palm be but a seed, and Earth hath seeds not 
 aplanted that she casteth forth, e'en as she 
 would to cast forth me, do I not to cloak me 
 much." 
 
 Dr. V. "I understand; but can you not 
 answer a little clearer the question I put? " 
 
 Patience. " The time be not ariped for the 
 put o' this." 
 
 Dr. V." What does Lethe mean? " 
 
 V 
 
 Patience. " This be a tracker! Ayea, 'tis 
 nay a word o' thy day or yet the word o' thy 
 brother, that meaneth unto me. I be a maker 
 o' loaf for the hungered. Eat thou. 'Tis not 
 aright that thou shouldst set unto the feast 
 athout thou art fed." 
 
 By this she seemed to mean that she wanted 
 him to read her writings and see what it is she 
 is endeavoring to do. She continued : 
 
 " Brother, this be not a trapping o' thy 
 
198 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 sword, the seeking o' me. Nay, 'tis ahind a 
 cloak I do for to stand, that this word abe, and 
 not me." 
 
 Mr. Curran here stated that this had ever 
 been so ; that Patience had obscured herself so 
 that her message could not be clouded. 
 
 Patience. " Aright. I do sing. 
 
 Gone ! Gone ! Ayea, thou art gone ! 
 Gone, and earth doth stand it stark. 
 Gone ! Gone ! The even's breath 
 Doth breathe it unto me 
 In echo soft; yea, but sharped, 
 And cutting o' this heart. 
 
 Gone! Gonel Aye, thou art gone! 
 
 The day is darked, and sun 
 
 Hath sorried sore and wrapped him in the dark. 
 
 Gone ! Gone ! This heart doth drip o' drops 
 
 With sorry singing o' this song. 
 
 Gone! Gone! Yea, thou art gone! 
 
 And where, beloved, where? 
 
 Doth yonder golden shaft o' light 
 
 That pierceth o' the cloud 
 
 Then speak unto this heart? 
 
 Art thou athin the day's dark hours? 
 
CONVERSATIONS 199 
 
 Hast thou then hid from sight o* me, 
 And yet do know mine hour? 
 
 Gone ! Gone ! What then hath Earth? 
 What then doth day to bring 
 To this the sorry-laden heart o' me, 
 That weepeth blood drops here? 
 
 Gone! Gone! Yea, but hark! 
 
 For I did trick the sorry, loved ; 
 
 For where e'er thou art am I. 
 
 Yea, this love o' me shall follow thee 
 
 Unto the Where, and thou shalt ever know 
 
 That though this sorry setteth me 
 
 I be where'er thou art." 
 
 After this Dr. K., who resides in St. Louis, 
 took the board. 
 
 Patience. " Here abe a townsman. Aye, 
 a Sirrah who knoweth men and atruth doth 
 ne'er acloak the blade o' him as doth brother 
 ayonder. Ayea, ahind a chuckle beeth fires. 
 
 " There abe weave 'pon the cloth o' me, yea, 
 but 'tis nay ariped the time that I do weave. 
 Yea, thou hast a pack o' tricks. Show unto 
 me, then, thine." 
 
 Here Dr. V. asked: "Do you know Dr. 
 James?" 
 
200 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 This referred to the late Dr. William James, 
 the celebrated psychologist of Harvard. 
 
 Patience. " I telled a one o' the brothers 
 and the neighbors o' thy day, and he doth 
 know." 
 
 She had given such an answer to a frequent 
 visitor who had inquired as to her knowledge 
 of several eminent men long since dead. It 
 was considered an affirmative answer. 
 
 Dr. V. " Have you associated with Dr. 
 James?" 
 
 Patience. "Hark! Unto thee I do say 
 athis; 'tis the day's break and Earth shall 
 know, e'en athin thy day, much o' the Here. 
 
 ' This, the brother o' ye, the seeker o' the 
 Here, hath set a promise so, and 'tis for to be, 
 I say unto thee. Thou knowest 'tis the word 
 o' him spaked in loving. Yea, for such a man 
 as the man o' him wert, standeth as a beacon 
 unto the Here." 
 
 Dr. V. " Could Dr. James, by seeking as 
 you did, communicate with someone here as 
 you are doing? " 
 
 Patience. " This abe so ; he who seeketh abe 
 
CONVERSATIONS 201 
 
 alike unto thee and thee. Ayea, thee and thy 
 brother do set forth with quill, and thou dost 
 set aslant, and with thy hand at the right o' 
 thee. And thy brother doth trace with the 
 hand at the left of him. And 'tis so, thou put- 
 test not as him. This, the quill o' me, be for 
 the put o' me, and doth he seek and know the 
 trick o' tricks o' sending out a music with the 
 quill o' me, it might then be so." 
 
 This was interpreted as meaning that if Dr. 
 James could find one who had the conditions 
 surrounding Mrs. Curran, and was able to 
 master the rhythm which Patience uses to give 
 the matter to her, then he could do it. 
 
 When the record of the foregoing interview 
 was being copied, Mrs. Curran felt an impulse 
 to write. Taking the board, Patience indicated 
 that she had called, and at once set forth, ap- 
 parently for Dr. V., the following explanation 
 of her method of communication and the prin- 
 ciple upon which it is based : 
 
 Patience. " Aye, 'tis a tickle I be. Hark, 
 there be a pulse Nay, she (Mrs. Curran) 
 putteth o' the word! Alist. There abe a 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 throb; yea, the songs o' Earth each do throb 
 them, like unto the throbbing o' the heart that 
 beareth them. Yea, and there be a kinsman o' 
 the heart that beareth them. Yea, and there 
 be a kinsman o' thee who throbbeth as dost 
 thou. Yea, and he knoweth thee as doth nay 
 brother o' thee whose throb be not as thine. 
 So 'tis, the drop that f alleth athin the sea, doth 
 sound out a silvered note that no man heareth. 
 Yet its brother drops and the drop o' it do to 
 make o' the sea's voice. Aye, and the throb o' 
 the sea be the throb o' it. So, doth thy brother 
 seek out that he make word unto thee from the 
 Here, he then falleth aweary. For thee of 
 Earth do hark not unto the throb. And be the 
 one aseeked not attuned unto the throb o' him 
 he findeth, 'tis nay music. So 'tis, what be the 
 throb o' me and the throb o' her ahere, be nay 
 a throb o' music's weave for him aseek. 
 
 " I tell thee more. The throb hath come 
 unto thy day long and long. Yea, they be 
 afulled o' throb, and yet nay man taketh up 
 the throbbing as doth the sea. The drop o' me 
 did seek and find, and throb met throb o' 
 
CONVERSATIONS 203 
 
 loving. Yea, and even as doth the sea to 
 throb out the silvered note o' drop, even so 
 doth she to throb out the love o' me." 
 
 This seems, in effect, a declaration that com- 
 munications of this character are a matter of 
 attunement, possible only between two natures 
 of identical vibrations, one seeking and the 
 other receptive. It indicates too that her 
 rhythmical speech has an influence upon 
 the facility of her utterances. At another 
 time she described her own seeking in this 
 verse : 
 
 How have I sought! 
 
 Yea, how have I asought, 
 
 And seeked me ever through the earth's hours, 
 
 Amid the damp, cool moon, when winged scrape 
 
 Doth sound and cry unto the day 
 
 The waking o' the hosts ! 
 
 Yea, and 'mid the noon's heat, 
 
 When Earth doth wither 'neath the sun, 
 
 And rose doth droop from sun's-kiss, 
 
 That stole the dew ; and 'mid the wastes 
 
 O' water where they whirl and rage, 
 
 And seeked o' word that I 
 
 Might put to answer thee. 
 
204 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Ayea, from days have I then stripped 
 
 The fulness of their joys, and pryed 
 
 The very buds that they might ope for thee. 
 
 Aye, and sought the days apast, 
 
 That I might sing them unto thee. 
 
 And ever, ever, cometh unto me 
 
 Thy song o' why? why? why? 
 
 And then, lo, I found athin this heart 
 
 The answer to thy song. 
 
 Aye, it chanteth sweet unto this ear, 
 
 And filleth up the song. 
 
 Do hark thee, hark unto the song, 
 
 For answer to thy why ? why ? why ? 
 
 I sing me Give ! Give ! Give ! 
 
 Aye, ever Give! 
 
 When the foregoing verse was received, Dr. 
 X. was again present, this time with his wife 
 and two physicians, Dr. R. and Dr. P. It will 
 have been observed that many doctors of many 
 kinds have " sat at the feet " of Patience 
 Worth, but all, as I have said, have come as 
 the friends of friends of Mrs. Curran, upon 
 her invitation, or upon that of Mr. Curran. 
 On this occasion Patience began: 
 
 "They do seek o' me, ever; that they do 
 
CONVERSATIONS 205 
 
 see the pettiskirt o' me, and eat not o' the loaf! 
 (More interested in the phenomenon than the 
 words.) Ayea, but he ahere (Dr. R.) hath a 
 wise pate. Aye, he seeketh, and deep athin the 
 heart o' him sinketh seed o' the word o' me. 
 Aye, even though he doth see the me o' m 
 athrough the sage's eye o' him, still shall he 
 to love the word o' me." 
 
 After due acknowledgments from Dr. R., 
 she continued: 
 
 * " Yea, brother, hark unto the word o' me, 
 for thou dost seek amid the fields o' Him! 
 Aye, and 'tis, thou knowest, earth's men that 
 be afar amore awry athin the in-man than in 
 the flesh. And 'tis the in-man o' men thou 
 knowest." 
 
 Dr. R., a neurologist, gave hearty assent. 
 
 " Put thou unto me. (Question me.) 'Tis 
 awish I be that ye weave." 
 
 Dr. R. "Do you see through Mrs.'Cur- 
 ran's eyes and hear through her ears? " 
 
 Patience. " Even as thou hast spoke, it be. 
 Aye, and yet I say me 'tis the me o' me that 
 knoweth much she heareth and seeth not." 
 
206 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Then to a question had she ever talked be- 
 fore with anyone, she said : " Anaught save the 
 flesh o' me." 
 
 " Fetch ye the wheel," she commanded, 
 " that I do sit and spin." 
 
 This was one of her ways of saying that she 
 desired to write on her story, and she dictated 
 several hundred words of it, after which Dr. P. 
 took the board and she said: 
 
 " What abe ahere? A one who seeth sorry 
 and maketh merry! Yea, a one who leaveth 
 the right hand o' him unto its task, and setteth 
 his left at doing awry o' the task o' its brothers. 
 Aye, he doeth the labors o' his brother, aye, 
 and him. Do then, aweave." 
 
 In compliance some more of the story was 
 written, and then Dr. R. " wondered " why he 
 could not write for Patience, to which she an- 
 swered: 
 
 " Hark unto me, thou aside. Thou shalt 
 put (say) 'tis her ahere (i.e., Mrs. Curran, who 
 does it) ; ayea, and say much o' word, and e'en 
 set down athin thy heart thy word o' what I 
 be, and yet I tell thee, I be me! Aye, ever, 
 
CONVERSATIONS 207 
 
 and the word o' me shall stand, e'en when thou 
 and thou art ne'er ahere ! 
 
 "E'en he who doth know not o' the Here 
 hath felt the tickle o' my word, and seeketh 
 much this hearth. 
 
 " Then eat thee well and fill thee up, and 
 drink not o' the brew o' me and spat forth the 
 sup. Nay, fill up thy paunch. 'Twill merry 
 thee!" 
 
 Dr. P. asked her a question about her looks. 
 
 " 'Tis a piddle he putteth," she said. 
 
 And now we come to a sitting of a lighter 
 character. There were present at this Dr. and 
 Mrs. D., Mr. and Mrs. M. and Mrs. and 
 Miss G. 
 
 " Aflurry I be! " cried Patience. " Aye, for 
 the pack o' me be afulled o' song and weave, 
 and e'en word to them ahere. 
 
 6 Yea, but afirst there be a weave, for the 
 thrift-bite eateth o' me." (The bite of her 
 thrifty nature.) 
 
 Some of the story followed and then she said 
 to Mrs. M., who sat at the board: 
 
208 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 " Here be aone who doth to lift up the lid 
 o' the brew's pot, that she see athin! Aye, 
 Dame, there abe but sweets athin the brew for 
 thee. Amore, for e'en tho' I do brew o' sweets 
 and tell unto thee, I be a dealer o' sours do I 
 to choose! Ayea, and did I to put the spatting 
 o' thee athin the brew, aye verily 'twould be 
 asoured a bit! " Then deprecatingly : " 'Tis a 
 piddle I put! 
 
 " Yea, for him aside who sitteth that he 
 drink o' this brew do I to sing; fetch thee 
 aside, thee the trickster o' thy day! " 
 
 There being so many " tricksters " in the 
 room, they were at a loss to know which one 
 she meant. Mr. C. asked if she meant Dr. D., 
 but Patience said: 
 
 " Thinkest thou he who setteth astraight the 
 wry doth piddle o' a song? Anay, to him who 
 musics do I to sing." 
 
 This referred to Mr. G., who is a musician 
 and a composer, and he took the board. Pa- 
 tience at once gave him this song : 
 
 Nodding, nodding, 'pon thy stem, 
 Thou bloom o' morn, 
 
CONVERSATIONS 209 
 
 Nodding, nodding to the bees, 
 
 Asearch o' honey's sweet. 
 
 Wilt thou to droop and wilt the dance o' thee, 
 
 To vanish with the going o' the day? 
 
 Hath the tearing o' the air o' thy sharped thorn 
 
 Sent musics up unto the bright, 
 
 Or doth thy dance to mean anaught 
 
 Save breeze-kiss 'pon thy bloom? 
 
 Hath yonder songster harked to thee, 
 
 And doth he sing thy love? 
 
 Or hath he tuned his song of world's wailing o' the 
 
 day? 
 
 Doth morn shew thee naught save thy garden's wall 
 That shutteth thee away, a treasure o' thy day? 
 Doth yonder hum then spell anaught, 
 Save whirring o' the wing that hovereth 
 O'er thy bud to sup the sweet? 
 
 Ah, garden's deep, afulled o' fairies' word, 
 And creeped o'er with winged mites, 
 Where but the raindrops' patter telleth thee His love 
 Doth all this vanish then, at closing o' the day? 
 Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here, 
 And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets, 
 And of these weaveth garland for the earth. 
 From off his lute doth drip the day of Him. 
 
210 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Patience then turned her attention to Mr. 
 M., saying: 
 
 " Ayea, he standeth afar from the feasting 
 place and doth to smack him much! " 
 
 Mr. M. took the board, and she began to 
 talk to him in an intimate way about the vary- 
 ing attitudes of people toward her and her 
 work, and what they say of her: 
 
 " I be a dame atruth," she said, " and I tell 
 thee the word o' wag that shall set thy day, 
 meaneth anaught but merry to me. Hark! I 
 put a murmur o' thy day, for at the supping o' 
 this cup the earth shall murmur so: 
 
 " 'Tis but the chatter o' a wag! Aye, the 
 putting o' the mad! 'Tis piddle! Yea, the 
 trapping o' a fool ! Yea, 'tis but the dreaming 
 o' the waked! Aye, the word o' a wicked 
 sprite! Yea, and telleth naught and putteth 
 naught! 
 
 " And yet, do harken unto me. They then 
 shall seek to taste the brew and sniff the whiff- 
 ing o' the scent; ayea, and stop alonger that 
 they feast ! And lo, 'twill set some asoured, and 
 some asweet; aye and some, ato (too), shall 
 
CONVERSATIONS 
 
 fill them upon the words THEY do to put o' 
 me, and find them filled o' their own put, and 
 lack the room for eat o' the loaf o' me. 'Tis 
 piddle, then! Aye, and yet I say me so, 'tis 
 bread, and bread be eat though it be but spar- 
 rows that do seek the crumb. Then what care 
 ye? For bake asurely shall be eat! " 
 
 This is a point she often makes, and strives 
 earnestly to impress that whatever she may 
 be, whatever the world may think she is, there 
 is substance in her words. It is bread, and 
 will be eaten, if only by the sparrows. So, she 
 is content. She has put this thought, some- 
 what pathetically, into the little verse which 
 follows : 
 
 Loth as Night to dark o 5 Day, 
 
 Loth do I to sing. 
 
 Aye, but doth the Day aneed a song, 
 
 'Tis they, o' Him, 
 
 The songsters o' the Earth, 
 
 Do sing them on, to Him. 
 
 What though 'tis asmiled? And what 
 
 Though 'tis nay aseeked o' such a song? 
 
 Aye, what though 'tis sung 'mid dark? 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 'Tis I would sing, 
 
 Do thee to list, or nay. 
 
 " I be a dame who knoweth o' the hearth. 
 Aye, and do to know o' the hearts o' men," she 
 said to Mrs. D., who next took the place with 
 Mrs. Curran. " Ayea, and do to put o' that 
 athin the hearts o' them that doth tickle o' their 
 merry! This be a tale for her ahere." 
 
 * 
 
 THE STORY OF THE HERBS 
 
 " Lo, there wert a dame and her neighbor's 
 dame and her neighbor's dame. And they did 
 to plant them o' their gardens full. And lo, 
 at a day did come unto the garden's ope a 
 stranger, who bore him of a bloom-topped 
 herb. And lo, he spaked unto the dame who 
 stood athin the sun-niche that lay at the gar- 
 den's end, and he did tell unto her of the herb 
 he bore. And lo, he told that he would give 
 unto her one of these, and to her neighbor 
 dame a one, atoo (also), and to her neighbor 
 dame a one atoo, and he then would leave the 
 
CONVERSATIONS 
 
 garden's place and come at the fulling o' the 
 season-tide when winter's bite did sear, and 
 that he then would seek them out, and they 
 should shew unto him the fulling o' the herb. 
 
 " And lo, he went him out unto the neigh- 
 bor's dame and telled unto her the same, and 
 to her neighbor's dame the same, and they did 
 seek one the other and tell o' all the stranger 
 had told unto them. And each had sorry, for 
 feared 'twer the cunger o' the wise men, and 
 each aspoke her that she would to care and 
 care for this the herb he did to leave, and that 
 she would have at the fulling o' the season the 
 herb that stood at the fullest bloom. And each 
 o' the dames did speak it that this herb o' her 
 should be the one waxed stronger at the full- 
 ing. And lo, none told unto the other o' how 
 this would to be. 
 
 " And lo, the first o' dames did plant her 
 herb adeep and speak little, and lo, her neigh- 
 bor dames did word much o' the planting, and 
 carried drops from out the well that the herbs 
 might full. And lo,, they did pluck o' the first 
 bud that them that did follow should be 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 afuller. And lo, the dame afirst o' the garden 
 the stranger did to seek, did look with sunked 
 heart at the thriving o' the herbs o' the neigh- 
 bor dames. And lo, she wept thereon, and 
 'twer that her well did dry, and yet she seeked 
 not the wells of her sisters. Nay, but did weep 
 upon the earth about the herb, and lo, it did 
 to spring it up. And lo, she looked not with 
 greed upon her sister's herb; nay, for at the 
 caring for the bloom, lo, she loved its bud and 
 wept that she had nay drop to give as drink 
 unto it. 
 
 " And lo, at a certain day the stranger came 
 and did seek the dames, and came him unto 
 her garden where the herb did stand, and he 
 bore the herbs of her sisters, and they wert tall 
 and full grown and filled o' bloom. And he 
 did to put the herb o' her sisters anext the herb 
 o' her, and lo, the herb o' her did spring it up, 
 and them o' her Sisters shrunked to but a twig. 
 And he did call unto the dames and spake: 
 
 ' Lo, have ye but fed thy herb that it be 
 full o' bloom, that thou shouldst glad thee o'er 
 thy sister? And lo, the herb o' her hath 
 
CONVERSATIONS 215 
 
 drunked her tears shed o' loving, and standeth 
 sweet-bloomed from out the tears o' her.' 
 
 " And lo, the herb did flower aneath their 
 very eyes. And lo, the flowering wert fulled 
 o' dews-gleam, and 'twer the sweet o' her heart, 
 yea, the dew o' heaven." 
 
 Following this pretty parable someone 
 spoke of a newspaper article that had appeared 
 that day, and Patience remarked: 
 
 " "Tis a gab o' fool. Aye, and the gab o' 
 fool be like unto a spring that be o'erfull o' 
 drops, 'tis ne'er atelling when it breaketh out 
 its bounds." 
 
 With this sage observation she dismissed the 
 " fool " as unworthy of further consideration, 
 and gave this poem: 
 
 Do I to love the morn, 
 
 When Earth awakes, and streams 
 
 Aglint o' sun's first gold, 
 
 As siren's tresses thred them through the fields ; 
 
 When sky-cup gleameth as a pearl; 
 
 When sky-hosts wake, and leaf bowers 
 
 Wave aheavied with the dew? 
 
216 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Do I to love the eve, 
 
 When white the moon doth show, 
 
 And frost's sweet sister, young night's breath, 
 
 Doth stand aglistened 'pon the blades; 
 
 When dark the shadow deepeth, 
 
 Like to the days agone that stand 
 
 As wraiths adraped o' black 
 
 Along the garden's path ; 
 
 When sweet the nestlings twitter 
 
 'Neath the wing of soft and down 
 
 That hovereth it there within 
 
 The shadows deep atop the tree? 
 
 Do I to love the mid-hours deep 
 The royal color o' the night ? 
 For earth doth drape her purpled, 
 And jeweled o'er athin this hour. 
 
 Do I to love these hours, then, 
 As the loved o' me? 
 Nay, for at the morn, 
 Lo, do I to love the eve! 
 And at the eve, 
 Lo, do I to love the morn 1 
 And at the morn and eve, 
 'Tis night that claimeth me. 
 
CONVERSATIONS 217 
 
 A little of the reasoning of Patience upon 
 Earth questions may appropriately come in 
 here. The Currans, with a single visitor, had 
 talked at luncheon of various things, begin- 
 ning with music and ending with capital pun- 
 ishment, the latter suggested by an execution 
 which at the moment was attracting national 
 attention. When they took the board, after 
 luncheon, Patience said: 
 
 " List thee. Earth sendeth up much note t 
 Yea, and some do sound them at wry o' melody, 
 and others sing them true. And lo, they who 
 sing awry shall mingle much and drown in 
 melody. And I tell thee, o'er and above shall 
 sound the note o' me! " 
 
 And then she gave them to understand that 
 she had listened to their discussion ! , 
 
 ' Ye spake ye of eye for eye. Yea, and 
 tooth for tooth. Yea, but be thy brother's 
 eye not the ope o' thine, then 'tis a measure 
 less the full thou hast at taking o' the eye o' 
 him. Yea, and should the tooth o' him put 
 crave for carrion, and thine for sweets, then 
 how doth the tooth o' him serve thee? " 
 
218 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Here the sitters asked: " How about a life 
 for a life, Patience? " 
 
 Patience. " Ye fill thy measure full o' sands 
 that trickle waste at each and every putting. 
 I tell thee thou hast claimed life; aye, and 
 life be not thine or yet thy brother's for the 
 taking or giving. Yea, and such an soul hath 
 purged at the taking or giving, and rises to 
 smile atethy folly. 
 
 "Aye, and more. List! The earth's bag- 
 gage, hate, and might, and scorn, fall at earth's 
 leave, a dust o' naught, like the dust o' thy 
 body crumbleth. 
 
 ' Thou canst strip the body, yea, but the 
 soul defieth thee!" 
 
 The visitor referred to in the preceding talk 
 is a frequent guest of the Currans, and is one 
 of the loved ones of Patience. This visitor, 
 who is a widow, remarked one evening that 
 Patience was deep and lived in a deep 
 place. 
 
 " Aye," said Patience, " a deeper than word. 
 There be ahere what thou knowest abetter far 
 
CONVERSATIONS 219 
 
 than word o' me might tell. (This seems to 
 refer to the visitor's husband.) Ayea thou 
 hungereth, and bread be thine, for from off 
 lips that spaked not o' the land o' here in word 
 o' little weight, thou hast supped of love, and 
 know the path that be atrod by him shall be 
 atrod even so by thee, e'en tho' thou shouldst 
 find the mountain's height and pits o' depth 
 past Earth's tung. 
 
 " Shouldst thou at come o' here to hark unto 
 the sound of this voice, thinkest thou that 
 heights, aye or depths, might keep thee from 
 there? And even so, doth not the one thou 
 seeketh too, haste e'en now to find the path 
 and waiteth? 
 
 ' Then thinkest thou this journey be lone? 
 Nay, I tell thee, thou art areach e'en past the 
 ye o' ye, and he areach ato. Then shall the 
 path's ope be its end and beginning. In love 
 is the end and beginning of things. 
 
 ' Yea, yea, yea, the earth suppeth o' the 
 word o' me, and e'en at the supping stoppeth 
 and speaketh so. What that one not o' me 
 doth brew. Thou knowesf this,- dame. Aye, 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 but what then? And why doth not the blood 
 o' me speak unto me? 
 
 'Tis a merry I be. Lo, have I not fetched 
 forth unto a day that holdeth little o' the blood 
 o' me, that I might deal alike unto my brother 
 and bring forth word that be ahungered for 
 aye, and they speak them o' her ahere and wag 
 and hark not? Yea, and did the blood o' them 
 spake out unto their very ears I vow me 
 'twould set the earth ariot o' fearing. Yea, 
 man loveth blood that hath not flowed, but 
 sicketh o'er spilled blood. Yea, then weave." 
 
 There was some discussion following this, to 
 the effect that whatever explanations might be 
 given of this phenomenon, many would believe 
 in Patience Worth as an independent person- 
 ality, which brought from her the following 
 discourse which may well conclude these con- 
 versations : 
 
 
 
 ' Yea, the tooth o' him who eateth up the 
 flesh I did to cloak me athin, shall rot and he 
 shalt wither. Aye, and the word o' me shalt 
 stand. Fires but bake awell. 
 
CONVERSATIONS 
 
 " Sweet hath the sound of the word o' Him 
 asounded unto the ears o' Earth that hark 
 not. 
 
 " Yea, and He hath beat upon the busom of 
 Earth and sounded out a loud noise, and Earth 
 barkened not. 
 
 " And He hath sung thro' the mother's songs 
 o' Earth, and Earth barkened not. 
 
 " Yea, and He hath sent His own with word, 
 and Earth barkened not. 
 
 " Then 'tis Earth's own folly that batheth 
 her. 
 
 " Yea, and Folly cometh astreaming rib- 
 bands, and showering color, and grinning 'pon 
 his way. 
 
 " Yea, but Folly masketh and leadeth Earth 
 and man assuredly unto Follies pit self. 
 And self is blind. 
 
 " Then whence doth Earth to turn for aid? 
 For Folly followeth not the blind, and the 
 voice of him who f alleth unto the pit of Folly 
 soundeth out a loud note. Yea, and it echoeth 
 1 self.' 
 
 " And lo, the Earth filled up o' self, heark- 
 
222 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 eth not unto the words of Him, the King of 
 Wisdom. 
 
 * Yea, and I say unto thee, though them o' 
 Him fall pierced and rent athin the flow o' 
 their own blood thro' the self-song o' his 
 brother, he doeth this for Him. 
 
 " And the measuring rod shall weight out 
 for him who packeth the least o' self athin 
 him, afull o' measure, and light for him who 
 packeth heavy o' self. 
 
 "Ayea, and more. I speak me o' lands 
 wherein the high estate be self. Yea, yea, yea, 
 o' thy lands do I to speak. Woe unto him 
 who feareth that might shall slay! Self may 
 wield a mighty blow, but it slayeth never. 
 
 " 'Tis as the dame who watcheth o'er her 
 brood, and lo, this one hath sorry, and that one 
 hath sorry. And she flitteth here and yon, 
 and lo, afore she hath fetched out the herbs, 
 they sleep them peaceful. So shall it be at 
 this time. The herbs shall be fetched forth 
 but lo, the lands shall sleep them peaceful. 
 
 " Yea, for Folly leadeth, and Wisdom war- 
 rettt Folly." 
 
RELIGION 
 
 " Teach me that I be Ye." 
 
 AND now we well may ask: What is the pur- 
 pose of all this? Here we appear to have an 
 invisible intelligence, speaking an obsolete 
 language, producing volumes of poetry con- 
 taining many evidences of profound wisdom. 
 So far as I have been able to find out, no such 
 phenomenon has occurred before since the 
 world began. Do not misunderstand that asser- 
 tion. There is nothing extraordinary in the 
 manner of its coming, as I have said before. 
 The publications of the Society for Psychical 
 Research are filled with examples of communi- 
 cations received in the same or a similar way. 
 The fact that makes this phenomenon stand 
 out, that altogether isolates it from everything 
 else of an occult nature, is the character and 
 quality of its literature. Literature is some- 
 
 223 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 thing tangible, something that one can lay 
 hands on, so to speak. It is in a sense physical ; 
 it can be seen with the eyes. And this litera- 
 ture is the physical evidence which Patience 
 Worth presents of herself as a separate and 
 distinct personality. 
 
 But why is it contributed? Is there in it 
 any intimation or assertion of a definite pur- 
 pose? 
 
 If we may assume that Patience is what she 
 seems to be a voice from another world, then 
 indeed we may discern a purpose. She has a 
 message to deliver, and she gives the impres- 
 sion that she is^a messenger. 
 
 " Do eat that which I offer thee," she says. 
 " 'Tis o' Him. I but bear the pack apacked 
 for the carry o' me by Him." 
 
 Constantly she speaks of herself as bearing 
 food or drink in her words. " I bid thee eat," 
 she said to one, < and rest ye, and eat amore, 
 for 'tis the wish o' me that ye be filled." The 
 seed, the loaf, the cup, are frequently used 
 symbolically when referring to her communi- 
 cations. 
 
RELIGION 
 
 " There be a man who buyeth grain and he 
 telleth his neighbor and his neighbor's neigh- 
 bor, and lo, they come asacked and clamor for 
 the grain. And what think ye? Some do 
 make price, and yet others bring naught. But 
 I be atelling ye, 'tis not a price I beg. Nay, 
 'tis that ye drink my cup." 
 
 "Tis truth o' earth that 'tis the seed 
 aplanted deep that doth cause the harvester for 
 to watch. For lo, doth he to hold the seed 
 athin (within) his hand, 'tis but a seed. And 
 aplanted he doth watch him in wondering. 
 Verily do I say, 'tis so with me. I be aplanted 
 deep ; do thee then to watch." 
 
 And with greater significance she has ex- 
 claimed: " Morn hath broke, and ye be the first 
 to see her light. Look ye wide-eyed at His 
 workings. He hath offered ye a cup." 
 
 It is thus she announces herself to be a 
 herald of a new day, a bearer of tidings 
 divinely commissioned. 
 
 What, then, is her message? For answer 
 it may be said that it is at once a revelation, a 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 religion and a promise. Whatever we may 
 think of the nature of this phenomenon, Pa- 
 tience herself is a revelation, and there are 
 many revelations in her words. The religion 
 she presents is not a new one. It is as old 
 as that given to the world nineteen centuries 
 ago; for fundamentally it is the same. It is 
 that religion, stripped of all the doctrines and 
 creeds and ceremonials and observances that 
 have grown up about it in all the ages since 
 His coming, and paring it down to the point 
 where it can be expressed by the one word 
 Love. Love, going out to fellow man, to all 
 nature and overflowing toward God. 
 
 In the consideration of this religion let us 
 begin at the beginning, at the ground, so to 
 speak, with this expression of love for the love- 
 less: 
 
 Ah, could I love thee, 
 
 Thou, the loveless o' the earth, 
 
 And pry aneath the crannies 
 
 Yet untouched by mortal hand 
 
 To send therein this love o' mine 
 
 Thou creeping mite, and winged speck, 
 
RELIGION 
 
 And whirled waters o' the mid o* sea 
 
 Where no man seeth thee? 
 
 And could I love thee, the days 
 
 Unsunned and laden with hate o' sorrying? 
 
 Ah, could I love thee, 
 
 Thou who beareth blight; 
 
 And thou the fruit bescorched 
 
 And shrivelling, to fall unheeded 
 
 'Neath thy mother-stalk? 
 
 Ah, could I love thee, love thee? 
 
 Aye, for Him who loveth thee, 
 
 And blightest but through loving; 
 
 Like to him who bendeth low the forest's king 
 
 To fashion out a mast. 
 
 Love for everything is the essence of her 
 thought and of her song. And as she thus 
 sings for the loveless, so she sings for the 
 wearied ones and the failures of the earth: 
 
 I'd sing. 
 
 Wearied word adropped by weary ones, 
 
 And broked mold afashioned out by wearied hands; 
 
 A f alter-song sung through tears o' wearied one ; 
 
 A fancied put o' earth's fair scene 
 
 Af alien at awry o' weariness. Love's task 
 
228 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Unfinished, aye, o'ertaken by sore weariness 
 O' thee I'd sing. 
 
 Aye, and put me such an songed-note 
 That earth, aye, and heaven, should hear; 
 And thou, aye all o' ye, the soul-songs 
 O' my brothers, be afinished, 
 At the closing o' my song. 
 
 Aye, and wearied, aye and wearied, I'd sing. 
 I'd sing for them, the loved o' Him, 
 And brothers o' thee and me. Amen. 
 
 This is the prelude and now comes the song: 
 
 I choose o' the spill 
 
 O' love and word and work, 
 
 The waste o' earth, to build. 
 
 Ye hark unto the sages, 
 And oft a way-singer's song 
 Hath laden o'erfull o' truth, 
 And wasteth 'pon the air, 
 And f alleth not unto thine ear. 
 
 Think ye He scattereth whither 
 E'en such an grain? Nay. 
 And do ye seek o' spill 
 
RELIGION 229 
 
 And put unto thy song, 
 'Twill fill its emptiness. 
 
 Ye seek to sing but o' thy song, 
 And 'tis an empty strain. 'Tis need 
 O' love's spill for to fill. 
 
 The spill of earth, the love that goes un- 
 noticed and unappreciated, the words that are 
 unheard or unheeded, the work that seems ,to 
 be for naught none of these is waste. A song 
 it is for the wearied ones, the heart-sick and 
 discouraged, " the loved of Him and brothers 
 of thee and me." 
 
 And yet she calls them waste but to show 
 that they are not. ' The waste of earth," she 
 says, " doth build the Heaven," and this is the 
 theme of much of her song. 
 
 Earth hath filled it up o' waste and waste. 
 
 The sea's fair breast, that heaveth as a mother's, 
 
 Beareth waste o' wrecks and wind-blown waste. 
 
 The day doth hold o' waste. 
 The smiles that die, that long to break, 
 The woes that burden them already broke, 
 
 'Tis waste, ah yea, 'tis waste. 
 
230 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And yet, and yet, at some fair day, 
 E'en as the singing thou dost note 
 Doth bound from yonder hill's side green 
 As echo, yea, the ghost o' thy voice ; 
 So shall all o' this to sound aback 
 Unto the day. 
 Of waste, of waste, is heaven builded up. 
 
 It is to the waste of earth that she speaks in 
 this message of love and sympathy: 
 
 Ah, emptied heart 1 The weary o' the path ! 
 
 How would I to fill ye up o' love! 
 
 I'd tear this lute, that it might whirr 
 
 A song that soothed thy lone, awearied path. 
 
 I'd steal the sun's pale gold, 
 
 And e'en the silvered even's ray, 
 
 To treasure them within this song 
 
 That it be rich for thee. 
 
 From out the wastes o' earth I'd seek 
 
 And catch the woe-tears shed, 
 
 That I might drink them from the cup 
 
 And fill it up with loving. 
 
 From out the hearts afulled o' love 
 
 Would I to steal the o'er-drip 
 
 And pack the emptied hearts of earth. 
 
 The bread o' love would I to cast 
 
RELIGION 
 
 Unto thy bywayed path, and pluck me 
 From the thorned bush that traileth o'er 
 The stepping-place, the thorn, that brothers 
 O' the flesh o' me might step 'pon path acleared. 
 Yea, I'd coax the songsters o' the earth 
 To carol thee upon thy ways, 
 And fill ye up o' love and love and love. 
 
 And a message of cheer and encouragement 
 she gives to those who sorrow, in this: 
 
 ' The web o' sorrow weaveth 'bout the days 
 o' earth, and 'tis but Folly who plyeth o' the 
 bobbin. I tell thee more, the bobbins stick and 
 threads o' day- weave go awry. But list ye; 
 'tis he who windeth o' his web 'pon smiles and 
 shuttleth 'twixt smiles and woe who weaveth 
 o' a day afull and pleantious. And sorrow 
 then wilt rift and show a light athrough." 
 
 Smiles amid sorrows. He who windeth of 
 his web upon smiles not only rifts his own woes 
 but those of others, as she expresses it in this 
 verse : 
 
 The smile thou cast today that passed 
 Unheeded by the world; the handclasp 
 Of a friend, the touch of baby palms 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Upon its mother's breast 
 
 Whither have they flown along the dreary way? 
 
 Mayhap thy smile 
 
 Hath fallen upon a daisy's golden head, 
 To shine upon some weary traveler 
 Along the dusty road, and cause 
 A softening of the hard, hard way. 
 Perchance the handclasp strengthened wavering love 
 And lodged thee in thy friend's regard. 
 And where the dimpled hands caress, 
 Will not a well of love spring forth? 
 Who knows, but who will tell 
 The hiding of these fleeting gifts I 
 
 And she gives measure to the same thought 
 in this: 
 
 Waft ye Ihrough the world sunlight ; 
 Throw ye to the sparrows grain 
 That runneth o'er the heaping measure. 
 Scatter flower petals, like the wings 
 Of fluttering butterflies, to streak 
 The dove-gray day with daisy gold, 
 And turn the silver mist to fleece of gold. 
 Hath the king a noble who is such 
 An wonder-worker? Or hath his jester 
 Such a pack of tricks as thine? 
 
RELIGION 233 
 
 Both of these last have to do with the hands 
 and with the use of the hands in the expression 
 of love for others, but in the following poem 
 Patience pays a tender and yet somewhat mys- 
 tical tribute to the hands themselves, empty 
 hands filled with the gifts of Him, the power 
 to build and weave and soothe : 
 
 Hands. Hands. The hands o' Earth; 
 Abusied at fashioning, Aye, 
 And put o' this, aye, and that. 
 Hands. Hands upturned at empty. 
 Hands. Hands untooled, aye, but builders 
 0' the soothe o' Earth. 
 
 Hands. Hands aspread, aye, and sending forth 
 
 That which they do hold the emptiness. 
 
 Aye, at empty they be, afulled o' the give o' 
 
 Him. 
 
 At put at up, aye, and down, 'tis at weave 
 0' cloth o' Him they be. 
 
 Hands. Hands afulled o' work o' Him ; 
 Aye, and ever at a spread o' doing in His name. 
 Aye, and at put o' weave 
 For naught but loving. 
 
284 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 There are no doubt such hands on earth, 
 many of them " ever at a spread of doing in 
 His name," but not often have their work and 
 their mission been so beautifully and so fit- 
 tingly expressed as in this strange verse which, 
 to me at least, grows in wonder at every read- 
 ing. And this not so much because of the 
 quaintness of the words and the singularity 
 of the construction, as for the thought. This, 
 however, is characteristic of all of her work. 
 There is always more in it than appears upon 
 the surface. And yet when one analyzes it, 
 one finds that whatever may be the nature or 
 the subject of the composition, in nearly every 
 instance love is the inspiration. 
 
 The love that she expresses is universal. It 
 goes out to nature in all its forms, animate and 
 inanimate, lovely and unlovely. It is mani- 
 fested in all her references to humanity, from 
 the infant to doddering age; and her composi- 
 tions are filled with appeals for the applica- 
 tion of love to the relations between man and 
 man. But it is when she sings of God that she 
 expresses love with the most tender and pas- 
 
RELIGION 235 
 
 sionate fervency His love for man, her love 
 for Him. " For He knoweth no beginning, no 
 ending to loving," she says, " and loveth thee 
 and me and me and thee ever and afore ever." 
 " Sighing but bringeth up heart's weary; tears 
 but wash the days acleansed; hands abusied 
 for them not thine do work for Him; prayers 
 that fall 'pon but the air and naught, ye deem, 
 sing straight unto Him. Close, close doth He 
 to cradle His own to Him." She gives poetic 
 expression to this divine love in the song which 
 follows : 
 
 Brother, weary o' the plod, 
 
 Art sorried sore o' waiting? 
 
 Brother, bowed aneath the pack o' Earth, 
 
 Art seeking o' the path 
 
 That leadest thee unto new fields 
 
 O 5 green, and breeze-kissed airs? 
 
 Art bowed and bent o' weight o' sorry? 
 
 Art weary, weary, sore? 
 
 Then come and hark unto this song o' Him. 
 
 Hast thou atrodden *pon the Earth, 
 And worn the paths o' folly 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Till thou art foot-sore? 
 
 And hast the day grinned back to thee, 
 
 A folly-mask adown thy path 
 
 That layeth far behind thee? 
 
 Thy heart, my brother, hast thou then 
 
 Alost it 'pon the path? 
 
 And filled thee up o' word and tung 
 
 O' follysingers long the way? 
 
 Ah, weary me, ah, weary me 1 
 Come thou unto this breast. 
 For though thou hast suffered o' the Earth, 
 And though thy robe be stained 
 O' travel o'er the stoney way, 
 And though thy lips deny thy heart, 
 Come thou unto this breast, 
 The breast o' Him. 
 For He knoweth not the stain. 
 Aye, and the land o' Him doth know 
 No stranger 'mid its hosts. 
 Ayea, and though thou comest mute, 
 This silence speaketh then to Him, 
 And He doth hold Him ope His arms. 
 
 So come thou brother, weary one, 
 To Him, for 'tis but Earth and men 
 Who ask thee WHY. 
 
RELIGION 237 
 
 She pours out her love for God in many; 
 verses of praise and prayer. 
 
 Bird skimming to the south, 
 
 Bear thou my song, 
 Sand slipping to the wave's embrace, 
 
 Do thou but bear it too ! 
 And, shifting tide, take thou 
 
 Unto thy varied paths 
 The voicing of my soul! 
 
 I'd build me such an endless 
 
 Chant to sing of Him 
 That days to follow days 
 
 Would be but builded chord 
 Of this my lay. 
 
 Still more ardently does she express her love 
 in these lines : 
 
 Spring, thou art but His smile 
 
 Of happiness in me, and sullen days 
 
 Of weariness shall fall when Spring is born 
 
 In winds of March and rains of April's tears. 
 
 Methinks 'tis weariness of His that I, 
 
 His loved, should tarry o'er the task 
 
238 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And leave life's golden sheaves unbound. 
 
 And, Night, thou too art mine, of Him. 
 
 Thy dim and veiled stars are but the eyes 
 
 Of Him that through the "curtained mystery 
 
 Watch on and sever dark from me. 
 
 And, Love, thou too art His, 
 
 His words of wooing to my soul. 
 
 Should I, then, crush thee in embrace, 
 
 And bruise thee with my kiss, 
 
 And drink thy soul through mine? 
 
 What, then ! 'Tis He, 'tis He, my love, 
 
 That gave me thee, and while my love is thine, 
 
 What woijder is it causeth here 
 
 This heart of mine to stifle so 
 
 And seek expression in a prayer of thanks? 
 
 With equal fervency of devotion and grati- 
 tude she sings this tribute to the day: 
 
 Ah, what a day He hath made, He hath made ! 
 
 It flasheth abright and asweet, and asweet. 
 
 It showeth His love and His smile, yea, His smile. 
 
 The hills stand abrown, aye astand brown, 
 And peaked as a monk in his cowl, aye, his cowl I 
 The grass it hath seared, aye, hath seared 
 And scenteth asweet, yea, asweet. 
 
RELIGION 239 
 
 Ayonder a swallow doth whirl, aye, doth whirl, 
 And skim mid the grey o' the blue, 
 
 Aye, the grey o* the blue. 
 The young wave doth lap 'pon the sands, 
 
 Yea, lap soft and soft 'pon the sands. 
 The field's maid doth seek, yea, doth seek, 
 And send out her song to the day, 
 
 Yea, send out her song to the day. 
 
 My heart it is full, yea, 'tis full, 
 
 For the love of Him batheth the day, 
 
 Yea, the love of Him batheth the day. 
 
 Ah, what a day He hath made, 
 
 Yea, He hath made it for me! 
 
 Her prayers are not appeals for aid; they 
 are not begging petitions. They are outpour- 
 ings of love and trust and gratitude. 
 
 To an old couple, friends of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Curran, who passed a round-eyed evening with 
 Patience, she said: 
 
 Keep ye within thy heart a song 
 And murmur thou this prayer: 
 
 " My God, am I then afraid 
 Of heights or depths? 
 
240 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 And doth this dark benumb my quaking limbs? 
 
 And do I stop my song in fear 
 
 Lest Thee do then forsake me? 
 
 Nay, for I do love Thee so, 
 
 I fain would choose a song 
 
 Built from my chosen tung, 
 
 And though it be but chattering 
 
 Of a soul bereft of reasoning, 
 
 I know Thou would'st love it as Thine own, 
 
 For I do love Thee so ! " 
 
 This was not given for another, but is her 
 own cry: 
 
 I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught ! 
 But cry aloud unto the sunlight 
 Who bathes the earth in gold 
 And boldly breaketh into crannies 
 Yet unseen by man : 
 Flash thou in flaming sheen ! 
 Mine own song of love doth falter 
 And my throat, it is afail! 
 
 And thou, the greening shrub along the way, 
 
 And earth at bud-season, 
 
 Do thou then spurt thy shoots 
 
 And pierce the air with loving! 
 
RELIGION 
 
 And age-wabbled brother 
 
 I do love thee for thy spending, 
 
 And I do gaze in loving at thy face, 
 
 Whereon I find His peace, 
 
 And trace the withered cheek 
 
 For record of His love. 
 
 Around thy lips doth hang 
 
 The child-smile of a trusting heart; 
 
 And world hath' vanished 
 
 From thine eyes, bedimmed 
 
 To gard thee at awakening. 
 
 Thou, too, art of my song of love. 
 
 I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught. 
 These hands are Thine for loving, 
 And this heart, already Thine, 
 Why offer it? 
 I beseech Thee, Lord, for naught. 
 
 This one does ask for something, but only to 
 know Him: 
 
 Teach me, O God, 
 
 To say, " 'Tis not enough." 
 
 Aye, teach me, Brother, 
 
 To sing, and though the weight 
 
 Be past this strength, 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Teach me, O God, to say, 
 " 'Tis not enough to pay I " 
 
 Teach me, O God, for I be weak. 
 
 Teach me to learn 
 
 Of strength from Thee. 
 
 Teach me, O God, to trust, and do. 
 Teach me, O God, no word to pray. 
 Teach me, O God, the heart Thou gavest me. 
 Teach me, O God, to read thereon. 
 Teach me, O God, to waste not word. 
 Teach me that I be Ye ! 
 
 That last line presents the most impressive 
 
 principle of the religion she expresses, and 
 
 which, we might almost say, she embodies. 
 
 ' Who are you? " she was once asked abruptly. 
 
 "I be Him," she replied; "alike to thee. 
 Ye be o' Him." 
 
 At another time she said: 
 
 '* I be all that hath been, and all that is, all 
 that shalt be, for that be He." 
 
 Taken alone this would seem to be a declara- 
 tion that she herself was God, but when it is 
 
RELIGION 43 
 
 read in connection with the previous affirma- 
 tion it is readily understood. 
 
 * Thou art of Him," she said again, " aye, 
 and I be of Him, and ye be of Him, and He 
 be all and of all." 
 
 In this prayer, where she says " Teach me, 
 O God, no word to pray," it is evident from 
 her other prayers that she uses the word pray 
 in the sense of " to beg." Her prayers are 
 merely expressions of love and gratitude. 
 
 She herself interprets the line, " Teach me, 
 O God, to waste not word," in this verse: 
 
 Speak ye a true tongue, 
 
 Or waste ye with words the Soul's song? 
 
 A damning evidence is with wasted words ; 
 
 For need I prate to yonder star 
 
 When hunger fills the world wherein I dwell? 
 
 Cast I a glance so precious as His 
 
 Which wakes at every dawn? 
 
 Speak I a tongue one half so true 
 
 As sighing winds who sing amid 
 
 Aeolian harps strung with siren tress? 
 
 For lo, the sea murmureth a thousand tones, 
 
 Wrung from its world within, 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 But telleth only of Him, 
 And so His silence keeps. 
 
 In the order in which we have chosen to pre- 
 sent these poems, they are more and more 
 mystical as we go on. We trust, then, that the 
 reader meeting them for the first time will feel 
 no impertinence in increasing attempts at 
 elucidation from one who has read them often 
 and pondered them much. 
 
 There is another and a very interesting 
 phase of these communications in the place 
 Christ holds in them. Patience's attitude to- 
 ward the Savior is one of deep and loving 
 reverence. 
 
 " Didst thou then," she says, " with those 
 drops so worth, buy the throbbing at thy mem- 
 ory set aflutter? And is this love of mine so 
 freely thine by that same purchase, or do I 
 love thee for thy love of me? And do I, then, 
 my father's tilling for love of Him, like thee 
 to shed my blood and tears for reapers in an 
 age to come, because He wills it so? God 
 grant 'tis so!" 
 
RELIGION 245 
 
 Nor does she hesitate to assert His divinity 
 with definiteness. " Think ye," she cries, 
 " that He who doth send the earth aspin 
 athrough the blue depth o' Heaven, be not a 
 wonder-god who springeth up where'er He 
 doth set a wish! Yea, then doth He to spring 
 from out the dust a lily; so also doth He to 
 breathe athin (within) the flesh, and come unto 
 the earth, born from out flesh athout the touch 
 o' man. 'Tis so, and from off the lute o' me 
 hath song aflowed that be asweeted o' the 
 blood o' Him that shed for thee and me." 
 
 And she puts the same assertion of His 
 divine birth into this tribute to the Virgin: 
 
 Mary, mother, thou art the Spring 
 
 That flowereth, though nay man aplanteth thee. 
 
 Mary, mother, the song of thee 
 
 That lulled His dreams to come, 
 
 Sing them athrough the earth and bring 
 
 The hope of rest unto the day. 
 
 Mary, mother, from out the side of Him 
 
 That thou didst bear, aflowed the crimson tide 
 
 That doth to stain e'en unto this day 
 
246 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 i 
 
 The tide of blood that ebbed the man 
 From out the flesh and left the God to be. 
 
 Mary, mother, wilt thou then leave me catch 
 
 These drops, that I do offer them as drink 
 
 Unto the brothers of the flesh of me of earth? 
 
 Mary, mother of the earth's loved! 
 
 Mary, bearer of the God ! 
 
 Mary, that I might call thee of a name befitting 
 
 thee, 
 
 I seek, I seek, I seek, and none 
 Doth offer it to me save this: 
 Mother ! Mother ! Mother of the Him ; 
 The flesh that died for me. 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 
 
 "Earth! Earth, the mother of us all! Aye, the 
 mother of us all ! How loth, how loth, like to a child 
 we be, to leave and seek 'mid dark ! " PATIENCE 
 WOETH. 
 
 IF the personality of Patience Worth and 
 the nature and quality of her literary produc- 
 tions are worthy of consideration as evidences 
 of the truth of her claim to a spiritual exist- 
 ence, then in the sufficiency of the proof may 
 be found an answer to the world-old question: 
 Is there a life after death? To what extent the 
 facts that have been presented in this narrative 
 may be accepted as proof, is for the reader to 
 determine. But Patience has not been content 
 to reveal a strange personality and a unique 
 literature; she has had much to say upon this 
 question of immortality. There is more or less 
 spiritual significance in nearly all of her poetry 
 
 247 
 
248 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 and in some of her prose, and while her refer- 
 ences to the after life are usually veiled under 
 figures of speech, they nevertheless give assur- 
 ances of its existence. She makes it clear, how- 
 ever, that she is not permitted to reveal the 
 nature of that life beyond the veil, but she goes 
 as far apparently as she dares, in the repeated 
 assertion, through metaphor and illustration, 
 of its reality. 
 
 " My days," she cries, " I have scattered like 
 autumn leaves, whirled by raging winds, and 
 they have fallen in various crannies 'long the 
 way. Blown to rest are the sunny spring- 
 kissed mornings of my youth, and with many 
 a sigh did I blow the sobbing eves that 
 melted into tear-washed night. Blow on, thou 
 zephyr of this life, and let me throw the value 
 of each day to thee. Blow, and spend thyself, 
 till, tired, thou wilt croon thyself to sleep. 
 Perchance this casting of my day may cease, 
 and thou wilt turn anew unto thy blowing and 
 reap the casting of the world. 
 
 "What then is a sigh? Ah, man may 
 breathe a sorrow. Doth then the dumbness of 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 249 
 
 his brother bar his sighing? Nay and hark! 
 The sea doth sigh, and yonder starry jasmine 
 stirreth with a tremorous sigh; and morning's 
 birth is greeted with the sighing of the world. 
 For what? Ah, for that coming that shall ful- 
 fill the promise, and change the sighing to a 
 singing, and loose the tongue of him whom 
 God doth know and, fearful lest he tell His 
 hidden mysteries, hath locked his lips." 
 
 And again she asks: " Needest thou see what 
 God himself sealeth thine eyes to make thee 
 know? " Meaning, undoubtedly, that only 
 through the process of death can the soul be 
 brought to an understanding of that other life ; 
 and she declares that even if we were shown, 
 we could not comprehend. " If thou should'st 
 see His face on morrow's break," she says, 
 c 'twould but start a wagging," a discussion. 
 And she continues: "Ah, ope the tabernacle, 
 but look thou not on high, for when the filmy 
 veil shall fade away ah, could'st thou but 
 know that He who waits hath looked, aye 
 looked, on thee, and thou hast looked on Him 
 since time began I" This enigmatical utter- 
 
250 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 ance is in itself sufficient to start a " wagging," 
 but Patience evidently feels that the solution 
 is beyond our powers: for she repeatedly as- 
 serts that the key to the mystery is within our 
 reach if we could but grasp it. " Fleet as down 
 blown from its moorings, seeking the linnet 
 who dropped her seed, so drift ye," she says, 
 " ever seeking, when at the root still rests the 
 seed pod." And again: " Knowest thou that 
 fair land to which the traveler is loath to go, 
 but loath, so loath, to leave? Ah, the mystery 
 of the snail's shell is far deeper than this." 
 
 Yet she tells us again and again that Nature 
 itself is the proof of another life. " Why live," 
 she asks, " the paltry span of years allotted 
 thee, in desolation, while all about thee are His 
 promises? Thou art, indeed, like a withered 
 hand that holds a new-blown rose." The truth, 
 she says, is not to be found in " books of wordy 
 filling," but in the infant's smile and in the 
 myriad creations and resurrections that are 
 ever within our cognizance. " I pipe of learn- 
 ing," she cries, ">and fall silent before the fool 
 who singeth his folly lay." 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 
 
 The natural evidences she points out are 
 visible to all and within the comprehension of 
 the feeblest intelligence, but he whose vision is 
 obscured by book knowledge " is like unto the 
 monk who prays within his cell, unheedful of 
 the timid sunbeam who would light the page 
 his wisdom so befogs." " Ah! " she exclaims, 
 " the labor set thee to unlearn thine inborn 
 fancies!" meaning, apparently, the suppres- 
 sion of the intuitions of immortality; and in the 
 same line of thought she cries : " Am I then 
 drunkened on the chaff of knowledge supped 
 by mine elderborn? Nay, my forefolk drank 
 not truth, but sent through my veins acoursing, 
 chaff, chaff, naught by chaff." Plainly, then, 
 Patience has no great respect for learning, and 
 it is the book of Nature rather than the book 
 of words that she would have us read. 
 
 I made a song from the dead notes of His birds, 
 And wove a wreath of withered lily buds, 
 And gathered daisies that the sun had scorched, 
 And plucked a rose the riotous wind had torn, 
 And stolen clover flowers, down-trodden by the kine, 
 And fashioned into ropes and tied with yellow reed, 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 An offering unto Him: and lo, the dust 
 Of crumbling blossoms fell to bloom again, 
 And smiled like sickened children, 
 Wistfully, but strong of faith that mother-stalk 
 Would send fresh blossoms in the spring. 
 
 So it is she sings, presenting the symbolisms 
 of nature to illustrate the renewal or the con- 
 tinuance of life ; or again, she likens life to the 
 seasons (as did Shakespeare and Keats, and 
 many another poet) in this manner: 
 
 My youth is promising as spring, 
 
 And verdant as young weeds, 
 
 Whose very impudence taketh them 
 
 Where bloom the garden's treasures. 
 
 My midlife, like the summer, who blazeth 
 
 As a fire of blasting heat, fed by withered 
 
 Crumbling weeds of my spring. 
 
 My sunset, like the fall who ripeneth 
 
 The season's offerings. And hoar frost 
 
 Is my winter night, fraught with borrowed warmth, 
 
 And flowers, and filled with weeds, 
 
 Which spring e'en 'neath the frozen waste? 
 
 Ah, is the winter then my season's close? 
 
 Or will I pin a faith to hope and look 
 
 Again for spring,- who lives eternal in my soul? 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 253 
 
 Faith is the keynote of many of her songs, 
 the faith that grows out of that profound love 
 which is the essential principle of the religion 
 she presents. The triumph of faith she ex- 
 presses in the poem which follows : 
 
 sea ! The panting bosom of the Earth ; 
 The sighing, singing carol of her heart! 
 
 1 watch thee and I dream a dream 
 Whose fruit doth sicken me. 
 
 White sails do fleck thy sheen, and yonder moon 
 
 Doth seem to dip thy depths 
 
 And sail the silver mirror, high above. 
 
 Unharbored do I rove. Along the shore behind, 
 
 The shadow of Tomorrow creepeth on. 
 
 A seething silvered path doth stretch thy length, 
 
 To meet the curving cheek of Lady Moon. 
 
 I dream the flutt'ring waves to fanning wings 
 
 And fain would follow in their course. But stay! 
 
 My barque doth plow anew, and set the wings to 
 
 flight; 
 
 For though I watch their tremorous mass, my craft 
 But saileth harbor-loosed, and ever stretcheth far 
 Beyond the moon's own phantom path 
 And I but dream a dream whose fruit doth sicken me. 
 Ah, Sea! who planted thee, and cast 
 A silver purse, unloosed, upon thy breast? 
 
254 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 My barque, who then did harbor it, 
 
 And who unfurled its sail? 
 
 And yonder moon, from whence her silver coaxed? 
 
 Methinks my dream doth wax her wroth, 
 
 Else why the pallor o'er her cast? 
 
 Dare I to sail, to steer me at the wheel? 
 
 Shall I then hide my face and cease my murmuring, 
 
 O'erf earful lest I find the port? 
 
 Nay, I do know thee, Lord, and fearless sail me on, 
 
 To harbor then at dawning of new day. 
 
 I stand un fearful at the prow. 
 
 At anchor rests my barque. Away, thou phantom 
 
 Moon, 
 
 And restless, seething path f 
 My chart I cast unto the sea, 
 For I do know Thee, Lord! 
 
 This triumph of faith is also the theme of the 
 weird allegory which follows. It is, perhaps, 
 the most mystical of Patience's productions. 
 
THE PHANTOM AND THE DREAMER 
 
 Phantom: 
 
 Thick stands the hill in garb of fir, 
 
 And winter-stripped the branching shrub. 
 
 Cold gray the sky, and glistered o'er 
 
 With star-dust pulsing tremorously. 
 
 Snow, the lady of the Winter Knight, 
 
 Hath danced her weary and fallen to her rest. 
 
 She lieth stretched in purity 
 
 And dimpled 'neath the trees. 
 
 A trackless waste doth lie from hill 
 
 To valley 'neath, and Winter's Knight 
 
 Doth sing a wooing lay unto his love. 
 
 Cot on cot doth stand deserted, 
 
 And thro' the purpled dark they show 
 
 Like phantoms of a life long passed 
 
 To nothingness. Hear thou the hollowness 
 
 Of the sea's coughing beat against 
 
 The cliff beneath, and harken ye 
 
 To the silence of the valley there. 
 
 Doth chafe ye of thy loneliness? 
 
 sleep and let me put a dream, to 
 
256 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 See ye the cot 
 
 A speck o' dark adown the hillside, 
 And sheltered o'er with fir-bows, 
 Heavy-laden with the kiss of Lady Snow? 
 Come hither then. Let's bruise this snowy breast, 
 And fetch us there unto its door. 
 
 See! Here a twig 
 Hath battled with the wind, and lost. 
 We then may cast it 'mid its brothers 
 Of the bush and plow us on. 
 Look ye to the thick thatch 
 O'er the gable of the roof, 
 Piled higher with a blanketing of snow; 
 And shutters hang agape, to rattle 
 Like the cackle of a crone. 
 The blackness of a pit within, 
 And filled with sounds that tho' they be 
 But seasoning of the log, doth freeze 
 Thy marrowmeat. I feel the quake 
 And shake thee for thy fear. 
 
 Stride thou within and set a flint to brush 
 Within the chimney-place. We then shall rouse 
 The memory of the tenant here 
 A night, my friend, thee'lt often call to mind. 
 The flame hath sprung and lappeth at the twigs. 
 Thee'lt watch the burning of thy hastiness, 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 257 
 
 And wait thee long 
 
 Until the embers slip away to smoke. 
 
 Then strain ye to its weaving 
 
 And spell to me the reading of its folds. 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 I see thin, threading lines that writhe them 
 
 To a shape a visage ever changeful, 
 
 Or mine eyes do play me false, 
 
 For it doth smile to twist it to a leer, 
 
 And sadden but to laugh in mockery. 
 
 I see a lad whose face 
 
 Doth shine illumed, and he doth bear 
 
 The kiss of wisdom on his brow. 
 
 I see him travail 'neath a weary load, 
 
 And close beside him Wisdom follows on. 
 
 Burdened not is he. Do I see aright? 
 
 For still the light of wisdom shineth o'er. 
 
 But stay! What! Do mine eyes then cheat? 
 
 This twisting smoke-wreath 
 
 Filleth all too much my sight ! 
 
 Phantom : 
 
 Nay, friend, strain thee now anew. 
 
 The lad ! Now canst thou see ? 
 
 Nay, for like to him 
 
 Thou hast looked thee at the face of Doubt/ 
 
258 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 Who art thou, shape or phantom, then, 
 That thou canst set my dream to flight? 
 I doubt me that the lad could stand 
 Beneath the load ! 
 
 Phantom : 
 
 Nay, thee canst ravel well, my friend. 
 
 The lad was thee, and Doubt 
 
 O'ertook with Wisdom on thy way. 
 
 Come, bury *Doubt aneath the ash. 
 
 We travel us anew. 
 
 Seest thou, a rimming moon doth show 
 
 From 'neath the world's beshadowed side. 
 
 A night bird chatteth to its mate, 
 
 And lazily the fir-boughs wave. 
 
 We track us to the cot whose roof 
 
 Doth sag and why thy shambling tread? 
 
 I bid ye on ! 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 Who art thou again I that demand 
 That I shall follow at thy bidding? 
 Who set me then this task? 
 
 Phantom : 
 
 Step thou within! 
 
 Stand thee on the thresh of this roofless void !, 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 259 
 
 Look thou! Dost see the maid 
 Who coyly stretcheth forth her hand 
 To welcome thee? She biddeth thee 
 To sit and sup. I bid thee speak. 
 Awaken thee unto her welcoming. 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 Enough! This fancy-breeding sickeneth 
 
 My very soul! A skeleton of murdered trees, 
 
 Ribbed with pine and shanked of birch ! 
 
 And thee wouldst bid me then 
 
 Embrace the emptiness. 
 
 I see naught, and believe but what I see. 
 
 Phantom: 
 
 Look thou again, and strain. 
 
 What seest thou? 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 I see a newly kindled fire, 
 
 And watch its burning glow until 
 
 The embers die and send their ghosts aloft. 
 
 But ash remaineth and I chill ! 
 
 For rising there, a shape 
 
 Whose visage twisteth drunkenly, 
 
 And from her garments falls a dust of ash. 
 
260 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Phantom: 
 
 Doubt! Unburied, friende! We journey on, 
 
 And mark ye well each plodding footfall 
 
 Singing like to golden metal with the frost. 
 
 The night a scroll of white, and lined 
 
 With blackish script 
 
 The lines of His own putting! 
 
 Read thee there ! Thou seest naught, 
 
 And believe but what ye see I 
 
 Stark nakedness and waste but hearken ye ! 
 
 The frost skirt traileth o'er the crusted snow 
 
 And singeth young leaves' songs of Spring. 
 
 Still art thou blind! 
 
 But at His touching shall the darkness bud 
 
 And bloom to rosy morn. And even now, 
 
 Were I to snap a twig 'twould bleed and die. 
 
 See ye; 'tis done! Look ye! 
 
 Ye believe but what ye see : 
 
 Here within thy very hand 
 
 Thou boldest Doubt's undoing. 
 
 I bid ye look upon the bud 
 
 Already gathered 'neath the tender bark. 
 
 The sun's set and rise hath coaxed it forth. 
 
 Thee canst see the rogue hath stolen red 
 
 And put it to its heart. And here 
 
 Aneath the snow the grass doth love the earth 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 261 
 
 And nestles to her breast. 
 
 I stand me here, and lo, the Spring hath broke! 
 
 The dark doth slip away to hide, 
 
 And flowering, singing, sighing, loving Spring 
 
 Is here! 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 Aye, thou art indeed 
 
 A wonder-worker in the night ! 
 
 A black pall, a freezing blast, 
 
 An unbroken path and thou 
 
 Wouldst have me then to prate o' Spring, 
 
 And pluck a bud where dark doth hide the bush! 
 
 Who cometh from the thicket higher there? 
 
 Phantom: 
 
 'Tis Doubt to meet thee, friend ! 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 Who art thou? I fain would flee, 
 And yet I fear to leave lest I be lost. 
 I hate thee and thy weary task! 
 
 Phantom: 
 
 Nay, brother, thy lips do spell, 
 
 But couldst thee read their words aright 
 
 Thee wouldst meet again with Doubt. 
 
 Come ! We j ourney on unto the cot 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Beloved the most by me. I bid thee 
 
 Let thy heart to warm within thy breast. 
 
 A thawing melteth frozen Hope. 
 
 See how, below, the sea hath veiled 
 
 Her secret held so close, 
 
 And murmured only to the winds 
 
 Who woo her ever and anon. 
 
 The waves do lap them, hungry for the sands. 
 
 Careful! Lest the sun's pale rise 
 
 Should blind thee with its light. 
 
 A shaft to put it through 
 
 The darkness of thy soul must needs 
 
 But be a glimmering to blind. 
 
 Step ye to the hearthstone then, 
 
 And set thee there a flame anew. 
 
 I bid ye read again 
 
 The folding of the smoke. 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 'Tis done, thou fiend ! 
 
 A pretty play for fools, indeed. 
 
 I swear me that 'tis not 
 
 For loving of the task I builded it, 
 
 But for the warming of its glow. 
 
 Phantom : 
 
 In truth ye speak. But read! 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 263 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 I see a hag whose brow 
 
 Doth wrinkle like a summer sea. 
 
 For do I look unto the sea 
 
 At Beauty's own fair form, 
 
 It writheth to a twisted shape, 
 
 And I do doubt me of her loveliness. 
 
 The haggard visage of the crone 
 
 I now behold, doth set me doubting 
 
 Of mine eye, for dimples seem 
 
 To flutter 'neath the wrinkled cheek. 
 
 Phantom: 
 
 So, then, thee believes t 
 
 But what thine eyes behold! 
 
 Thee findest then 
 
 Thy seeing in a sorry plight. 
 
 I marvel at thy wisdom, lad. 
 
 Look ye anew. Mayhap thee then 
 
 Canst coax the crone away. 
 
 Dreamer: 
 
 Enough ! The morn hath kissed the night adieu, 
 
 And even while I prate 
 
 A redwing crimsoneth the snow in flight. 
 
 Kindled tinder smoldereth away, 
 
 And I do strain me to its fold. 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 I glut me of the loveliness I there behold, 
 
 For from the writhing stream a sprite is born 
 
 Whose beauteous form bedazzles me, 
 
 And she doth point me 
 
 To the golding gray of morn. The sea 
 
 Is singing, singing her unto my soul. 
 
 I dreamed she sighed, but waked to hear her sing. 
 
 I hear thee, Phantom, bidding me on, on ! 
 
 But morn hath stolen dreams away. 
 
 I strain me to the hills to trace our path, 
 
 And lo, unbroken is the snow, 
 
 And cots have melted with the light, 
 
 And yet, methinks a murmuring doth come 
 
 From out the echoes of the night, 
 
 That hid them 'neath the crannies of the hills. 
 
 Life! Life! I lead thee on! 
 
 And faith doth spring from seedlings of thy doubt ! 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 Thick stands the hill in garb of fir and snow. 
 The Lady of the Winter's Knight hath danced 
 Her weary, and stretched her in her purity, 
 To cover aching wounds of Winter's overloving woo. 
 
" And faith doth spring from seedlings of 
 thy doubt! " plainly meaning an active doubt 
 that searches for the truth and finds it. But 
 she personifies Doubt in another and more for- 
 bidding form in this : 
 
 Like to a thief who wrappeth him 
 
 Within the night-tide's robe, 
 
 So standeth the specter o' the Earth; 
 
 Yea, he doth robe him o' the Earth's fair store. 
 
 Yea, he decketh in the star-hung purple o' the eve, 
 
 And reacheth from out the night unto the morn, 
 
 And wringeth from her waking all her gold, 
 
 And at his touching, lo, the stars are dust, 
 
 And morn's gold but heat's glow, and ne'er 
 
 The golden blush of His own metal store. 
 
 Yea, he strideth then 
 Upon the flower-hung couches of the field, 
 And traileth him thereon his robe, 
 And lo, the flowers do die of thirst 
 And parch of scoarching of his breath. 
 
266 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Yea, and 'mid the musics of the earth he strideth him, 
 
 And full-songed throats are mute. 
 
 Yea, music dieth of his luring glance. 
 
 And e'en the love of earth he seeketh out 
 
 And turneth it unto a folly-play. 
 
 Yea, beneath his glance, the fairy frost 
 
 Upon the love sprite's wing 
 
 Doth flutter, as a dust, and drop, and leave 
 
 But bruised and broken bearers for His store. 
 
 Yea, and 'mid man's day he ever strideth him 
 And layeth low man's reasoning. His robes 
 Are hung of all the earth's most loved. 
 From off the flowers their fresh ; from off the day 
 The fairness of her hours. For dark, and hid 
 Beneath his cloak, he steppeth ever, 
 And doth hiss his name to thee 
 Doubt. 
 
 I have said that the message of Patience 
 Worth contained a revelation, a religion and a 
 promise. The revelation is too"obvious to need 
 a pointer. In the preceding chapter were pre- 
 sented the elements of the religion that she re- 
 veals, with which should be included the un- 
 faltering faith expressed in these poems. Love 
 and Faith these are the two Graces upon 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 267 
 
 whom, to personify them, all her work is rested, 
 and from them spring the promise she conveys. 
 That promise has to do with the hereafter, and 
 Patience knows the human attitude in relation 
 to that universal problem, and she gives cour- 
 age to the shrinking heart in this poem on the 
 fear of death: 
 
 I stride abroad before my brothers like a roaring lion, 
 Yet at even's close from whence cometh the icy hand 
 That clutcheth at my heart and maketh me afraid 
 The slipping of myself away, I know not whither? 
 
 And lo, I fall atremble. 
 
 When I would grasp a straw, 'tis then I find it not. 
 Can I then trust me on this journey lone 
 To country I deem peopled, but know not? 
 My very heart declareth faith, yet hath not thine 
 Been touched and chilled by this same phantom? 
 Ah, through the granite sips the lichen 
 And hast thou not a long dark journey made? 
 Why fear? As cloud wreaths fade 
 From spring's warm smile, so shall fear 
 Be put to flight by faith. 
 
 I pluck me buds of varied hue and choose the violet 
 To weave a garland for my loved and best. 
 
268 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 I search for bloom among the rocks 
 
 And find but feathery plume. 
 I weave, and lo, the blossoms fade 
 
 Before I reach the end, 
 And faded lie amid my tears 
 
 And yet I weave and weave. 
 I search for jewels 'neath the earth, 
 
 And find them at the dawn, 
 Besprinkled o'er the rose and leaf, 
 And showered by the sparrow's wing, 
 Who seeketh 'mid the dew-wet vine 
 
 A harbor for her home. 
 I search for truth along the way 
 
 And find but dust and web, 
 And in the smile of infant lips 
 
 I know myself betrayed. 
 I watch the swallow skim across the blue 
 
 To homelands of the South, 
 And ah, the gnawing at my heart doth cease; 
 
 For how he wings and wings 
 To lands he deemeth peopled by his brothers, 
 Whose song he hears in flight! 
 Not skimming on the lake's fair breast is he, 
 But winging on and on, 
 And dim against the feathery cloud 
 
 He fades into the blue. 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 269 
 
 I stand with withered blossoms crushed, 
 And weave and weave and weave. 
 
 This is Patience's answer to the eternal 
 question : 
 
 Can I then trust me on this journey lone 
 To country I deem peopled, but know not? 
 
 It is the cry of him who behaves and yet 
 doubts, and Patience points to the swallow 
 winging across the blue " to lands he deemeth 
 peopled with his brothers " who have gone on 
 before. In imagination he can hear their song 
 in the home lands of the South, and though he 
 cannot see them, and cannot have had word 
 from them, he knows they are there, and he 
 does not skim uncertainly about the lake, but 
 with unfaltering faith " wings him on and on " 
 until 
 
 Dim against the feathery cloud 
 He fades into the blue. 
 
 But Patience does not content herself with 
 appeals to faith, eloquent as they may be. 
 
270 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 While her communications are always clothed 
 in figures of speech, they are sometimes more 
 definite in statement than in the lines which 
 have been thus far presented. In the prose 
 poem which follows, she asks and answers the 
 question in a way that can leave no doubt of 
 her meaning: 
 
 " Shall I arise and know thee, brother, when 
 like a bubble I am blown into Eternity from 
 this pipe of clay? Or shall I burst and float 
 my atoms in a joyous spray at the first behold- 
 ing of this home prepared for thee and me, 
 and shall we together mingle our joys in one 
 supreme joy in Him? It matters not, beloved, 
 so comfort thee. For should the blowing be 
 the end, what then? Hath not thy pack been 
 full, and mine? We are o'erweary with the 
 work of living, and sinking to oblivion would 
 be rest. Yet sure as sun shall rise, my dust 
 shall be unloosed, and blow into new fields of 
 new days. I see full fields yet to be harvested, 
 and I am weary. I see fresh business of living, 
 work yet to be done, and I am weary. Oh, let 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 271 
 
 me fold these tired hands and sleep. Beloved, 
 I trust, and expect my trust, for ne'er yet did 
 He fail." 
 
 She puts this into the mouth of one who 
 lives, but it is not merely an expression of 
 faith; it is a positive assertion. " Yet sure as 
 sun shall rise, my dust shall be unloosed, and 
 blow into new fields of new days." 
 
 And again she sings: 
 
 What carest, dear, should sorrow trace 
 
 Where dimples sat, and should 
 
 Her dove-gray cloud to settle 'neath thine eye? 
 
 The withering of thy curving cheek 
 
 Bespeaks the spending of thy heart. 
 
 Lips once full are bruised 
 
 By biting of restraint. Wax wiser, dear. 
 
 To wane is but to rest and rise once more. 
 
 Or she puts the thought in another form in 
 this assurance: 
 
 Weary not, O brother! 
 
 'Tis apaled, the sun's gold sink. 
 
 Then weary not, but set thy path to end, 
 
 E'en as the light doth fade and leave 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Nay trace to mar the night's dark tide. 
 Sink them, then, as doth the sun, 
 Assured that thou shalt rise! 
 
 All these, however, are but preparatory to 
 the communication in which she asserts not 
 only the actuality of the future life but some- 
 thing of the nature of it. One might say that 
 the preceding poems and prose-poems, taken 
 alone and without regard to the mystery of 
 their source, were merely expressions of belief, 
 but in this communication she seems to speak 
 with knowledge, seems even to have over- 
 stepped the bounds within which, she has often 
 asserted, she is held. " My lips be astopped," 
 she has said in answer to a request for informa- 
 tion of this forbidden character, but here she 
 appears to have been permitted to give a 
 glimpse of the unknown, and to present a 
 promise of universal application. This poem, 
 from the spiritual standpoint, is the most re- 
 markable of all her productions. 
 
 How have I caught at fleeting joys 
 And swifter fleeting sorrows! 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 273 
 
 And days and nights, and morns and eves, 
 
 And seasons, too, aslipping thro' the years, afleet. 
 
 And whither hath their trend then led? 
 
 Ah, whither! 
 
 How do I to stop amid the very pulse o' life. 
 Afeared ! Yea, fear clutcheth at my very heart ! 
 For what? The night? Nay, night doth shimmer 
 And flash the jewels I did count 
 E'er fear had stricken me. 
 
 The morn? Nay, I waked with morn atremor, 
 
 And know the day-tide's every hour. 
 
 How do I then to clutch me 
 
 At my heart, af eared? 
 
 The morrow? Nay, 
 
 The morrow but bringeth old loves 
 
 And hopes anew. 
 
 Ah, woe is me, 'tis emptiness, aye, naught 
 The bottomlessness o' the pit that doth afrighfc! 
 Afeared? Aye, but driven fearless on! 
 
 What! Promise ye 'tis to mart I plod? 
 What! Promise ye new joys? 
 Ah, but should I sleep, to waken me 
 To joys I ne'er had supped! 
 
PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 I see me stand abashed and timid, 
 As a child who cast a toy beloved, 
 For bauble that but caught the eye 
 And left the heart ahungered. 
 
 What ! Should I search in vain 
 To find a sorrow that had fleeted hence 
 Afore my coming and found it not? 
 Ah, me, the emptiness ! 
 
 And what! should joys that but a prick 
 
 Of gladness dealt, and teased my hours 
 
 To happiness, be lost amid this promised bliss? 
 
 Nay, I clutch me to my heart 
 
 In fear, in truth I 
 
 Do harken Ye ! And cast afearing 
 
 To the wiles of beating gales and wooing breeze. 
 
 I find me throat aswell and voice attuned. 
 
 Ah, let me then to sing, for joy consumeth me I 
 
 I've builded me a land, my mart, 
 
 And fear hath slipped away to leave me sing. 
 
 I sleep, and feel afloating. 
 Whither! Whither! To wake, 
 And wonder warmeth at my heart, 
 I've waked in yester-year! 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 275 
 
 What! Ye? And what I I'st them? 
 
 Ah, have I then slept, to dream? Come, 
 
 Ne'er a dream-wraith looked me such a welcoming ! 
 
 'Twas yesterday this hand wert then afold, 
 
 And now, ah, do I dream? 
 
 'Tis warm-pressed within mine own! 
 
 Dreams ! Dreams ! And yet, we've met afore ! 
 
 I see me flitting thro' this vale, 
 
 And tho' I strive to spell 
 
 The mountain's height and valley's depth, 
 
 I do but fall afail. 
 
 Wouldst thou then drink a potion 
 
 Were I to offer thee an empty cup? 
 
 Couldst thou to pluck the rainbow from the sky? 
 
 As well, then, might I spell to thee. 
 
 But I do promise at the waking, 
 Old joys, and sorrows ripened to a mellow heart. 
 And e'en the crime-stained wretch, abasked in light, 
 Shall cast his seed and spring afruit! 
 
 Then do I cease to clutch the emptiness 
 And sleep, and sleep me unafeared! 
 
 What is it that affrights, she asks, when we 
 think of death? It is the emptiness, she an- 
 
276 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 swers, the utter lack of knowledge of what 
 lies beyond. And if we waken to " joys we 
 ne'er have supped " using the word sup in 
 the sense of to taste or to know what is there 
 to attract us in the prospect? It is an illustra- 
 tion she presents of our attitude toward prom- 
 ises of joys with which we are unfamiliar; and 
 which therefore do not greatly interest us 
 the child who casts aside a well beloved toy 
 " for bauble that but caught the eye and left 
 the heart ahungered." Shall the joys, she 
 makes us exclaim, which we have known here 
 but barely tasted in this fleeting life, " be 
 lost amid this promised bliss!" and shall we 
 " search in vain to find a sorrow that had 
 fleeted hence before our coming? " meaning, 
 apparently, shall we look there in vain for a 
 loved one who has gone before? She answers 
 these questions of the heart. Personality per- 
 sists beyond the grave, she gives us plainly to 
 understand. We take with us all of ourselves 
 but the material elements. " Thou art ye," 
 she has said, " and I be me and ye be ye, aye, 
 ever so." The transition is but a change from 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 
 
 the material to the spiritual. We " wake in 
 yesteryear," she says, amid the friends and 
 associations of the past; and the joys of that 
 life, one must infer, are the spiritual joys of 
 this one, the joy that comes from love, from 
 good deeds, from work accomplished. For it 
 is quite evident that she would have us believe 
 that there is a continuous advancement in that 
 other life. 
 
 And e'en the crime-stained wretch, abasked in light, 
 Shall cast his seed and spring afruit. 
 
 This can mean nothing else than that the 
 hardened sinner, amid supernal influences, 
 shall develop into something higher, and as no 
 one can be supposed to be perfect when leaving 
 earth, it follows that progress is common to all. 
 Progress implies effort, and this indicates that 
 there will be something for everyone to do a 
 view quite different from the monotony of 
 eternal idleness. 
 
 But this I promise at the waking, 
 
 Old joys, and sorrows ripened to a mellow heart. 
 
278 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 To those who would peer into the other land 
 these are perhaps the most important lines she 
 has given. But what does she mean by " sor- 
 rows ripened to a mellow heart? " She was 
 asked to make that plainer and she said: 
 
 " That that hath flitted hence be sorrows of 
 earth, and ahere be ripened and thine. Love 
 alost be sorrow of earth and dwell ahere." 
 
 She thus makes these lines an answer to the 
 question put before: 
 
 What! Should I search in vain 
 To find a sorrow that had fleeted hence 
 Afore my coming and found it not? 
 
 These are the sorrows that are " ripened 
 to a mellow heart," and she was asked if there 
 were new sorrows to be borne in that other 
 life. She replied: 
 
 " Nay. Earth be a home of sorrow's dream. 
 For sorrow be but dream of the soul asleep. 
 'Tis wake (death) that setteth free." 
 
 And after such assurance comes the cry of 
 faith and content and peace: 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 279 
 
 Then do I cease to clutch the emptiness, 
 And sleep, and sleep me unaf eared! 
 
 With this comforting assurance in mind one 
 may cheerfully approach her solemn address 
 to Death: 
 
 Who art thou, 
 
 Who tracketh 'pon the path o' me 
 
 O' each turn, aye, and track? 
 
 Thou! And thou astand! 
 
 And o'er thy face a cloud, 
 
 Aye, a darked and somber cloud ! 
 
 Who art thou, 
 
 Thou tracker 'mid the day's bright, 
 
 And 'mid the night's deep; 
 
 E'en when I be astopped o' track? 
 
 Who art thou, 
 
 That toucheth o' the flesh o' me, 
 
 And sendeth chill unto the heart o' me? 
 
 Aye, and who art thou, 
 
 Who putteth forth thy hand 
 
 And setteth at alow the hopes o' me? 
 
 Aye, who art thou, 
 
 Who bideth ever 'mid a dream? 
 
280 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Aye, and that the soul o' me 
 Doth shrink at know? 
 
 Whoartthou? Who art thou, 
 Who steppeth ever to my day, 
 And blotteth o' the sun away? 
 
 Who art thou, 
 
 Who stepped to Earth at birth o' me, 
 And e'en 'mid wail o' weak, 
 Aye, at the birth o' wail, 
 Did set a chill 'pon infant flesh ; 
 And at the track o' man 'pon Earth 
 Doth follow ever, and at height afollow, 
 And doth touch, ,.. 
 
 And all doth crumble to a naught. 
 Thou! Thou! Who art thou? 
 Ever do I to ask, and ever wish 
 To see the face o' thee, 
 And ne'er, ne'er do I to know thee 
 Thou, the Traveler 'pon the path o' me. 
 And, Brother, thou dost give 
 That which world doth hold 
 From see o' me! 
 
 Stand thou ! Stand thou ! 
 
 And draw thy cloak from o'er thy face ! 
 
;THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 
 
 Ever hath the dread o' thee 
 Clutched at the heart o' me. 
 Aye, and at the end o' journey, 
 I beseech thee, 
 
 Cast thy cloak and show thee me! 
 Aye, show thee me! 
 
 Ah, thou art the gift o' Him ! 
 
 The Key to There 1 The Love o' Earth ! 
 
 Aye, and Hate hath made o' man 
 
 To know thee not 
 
 Thou! Thou! O Death! 
 
 She finds Death terrible from the human 
 point of view, and reveals him at the end as 
 " the gift of Him, the Key to There! " 
 
 One of her constant objects seems to be to 
 rob death of its terrors, and to bring the 
 ' There " into closer and more intimate con- 
 nection with us. Here is another effort: 
 
 Spring's morn afulled o' merry-song, 
 Aye, and tickle o' streams-thread through Summer's 
 noon; 
 
 Arock o' hum o' hearts-throb, 
 
 And danced awhite the air at scorch; 
 
282 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Winter's rage asing o' cold 
 
 And wail o' Winter's sorry at the Summer's 
 leave ; 
 
 Ashivered breeze, abear o' leaf's rustling 
 At dry o' season's ripe; 
 
 Night's deep, where sound astarteth silence; 
 Morn's sweet, awooed by bird's coax. 
 
 Earth's sounds, ye deem? 
 
 I tell thee 'tis but the echoing o' Here. 
 
 Thy days be naught 
 Save coax o' Here athere ! 
 
 All that is worth while pn earth is but the 
 echoes of Heaven, and there would be noth- 
 ing to life but for the joys that have been 
 " coaxed " from there. How closely that 
 thought unites the here and the there. Earth 
 sounds but the echoes of the other land adjoin- 
 ing! She makes it something tangible, some- 
 thing almost material, something we may 
 nearly comprehend; and then, having opened 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 
 
 the door a little way, as far, no doubt, as it is 
 possible for her to do, she presents this re- 
 sponse to human desires, this promise of joys 
 to come : 
 
 Swift as light-flash o' storm, swift, swift, 
 
 Would I send the wish o' thine asearch. 
 
 Swift, swift as bruise o 5 swallows' wing 'pon air, 
 
 I'd send asearch thy wish, areach to lands unseen; 
 
 I'd send aback o' answer laden. 
 
 Swift, swift, would I to flee unto the Naught 
 
 Thou knowest as the Here. 
 
 Swift, swift I'd bear aback to thee 
 
 What thou wouldst seek. Swift, swift, 
 
 Would I to bear aback to thee. 
 
 Dost deem the path ahid doth lead to naught? 
 
 Dost deem thy footfall leadest thee to nothing- 
 ness ? 
 
 Dost pin not 'pon His word o' promising, 
 
 And art at sorry and afear to follow Him? 
 
 I'd put athin thy cup a sweet, a pledge o' love's- 
 buy. 
 
 I'd send aback a glad-song o' this land. 
 
 Sing thou, sing on, though thou art ne'er aheard 
 
 Like love awaked, the joy o' breath 
 
 Anew born o' His loving. 
 
284 PATIENCE WORTH 
 
 Set thee at rest, and trod the path unfearing. 
 
 For He who puti;eth joy to earth, aplanted joy 
 
 Athin the reach o' thee, e'en through 
 
 The dark o' path at end o' journey. 
 
 His smile! His word! His loving! 
 
 Put forth thy hand at glad, and I do promise thee 
 
 That Joy o' earth asupped shall fall as naught, 
 
 And thou shalt sup thee deep o' joys, 
 
 O' Bearer, aye, and Source ; and like glad light o' day 
 
 And sweet o' love, thy coming here shall be! 
 
 
 
 With this promise, this covenant, we bring 
 the narrative of Patience to an end. There 
 will be many and widely varied views of the 
 nature of this intelligence, but surely there can 
 be but one opinion of the beauty of her words 
 and the purity of her purpose. She has 
 brought a message of love at a time when the 
 world is sadly deficient in that attribute, wisely 
 believed to be the best thing in earth or heaven; 
 and an inspiration to faith that was never so 
 greatly in need of strength as now. An in- 
 evitable consequence of the world-war will be a 
 universal introspection. There will be a great 
 turning of thought to serious things. That 
 
THE IDEAS ON IMMORTALITY 285 
 
 tendency is already discernible. May it not be 
 possible that it is the mission of Patience 
 Worth to answer the question that is above all 
 questions at a time when humanity is filled 
 with interrogation? 
 
 FINIS. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Affection, 46 
 
 Allegory, on faith (verse), 
 
 255-266 
 Anatomist. See Teacher of 
 
 anatomy 
 
 Anglo-Saxon, 104 
 Anne, 145, 146 
 Ape, 112, 117 
 Aphorisms, 19 
 Attunement, 203 
 Autumn (verse), 82, 83, 84 
 
 B., Mrs., 182 
 Babe, parable of a, 168 
 Bartman, parable of a, 165 
 Basketmaker, parable of the, 
 
 167 
 
 Beppo, 112 
 Birth of a Song (verse), 86, 
 
 87 
 
 Blank verse, 21, 64, 107 
 Book learning, 251 
 Books, 60 
 Botanist. See Teacher of 
 
 botany 
 Brew, 185 
 " Builder of dreams " (verse), 
 
 85, 86 
 Burke, 89 
 
 Capital punishment, 217 
 Carrington, W. T., quoted, 6 
 Charlie, Prince, 145, 146 
 Childhood, tone of, 51 
 Christ, 122 
 
 Attitude toward, 244 
 Christmas (verse), 99 
 Christmas story, 122, 123- 
 
 141 
 Cloak, parable of the, 171 
 
 Cockshut, 57 
 Communications, character, 
 
 32, 202, 203 
 Genuineness, 33, 39, 41 
 Intellectual character, 9, 11 
 Method, 187 
 Compliments, 49 
 Composition, method, 66, 67, 
 
 80, 164, 185 
 Conversations, character, 173, 
 
 174 
 Substance in her words, 
 
 211 
 
 Cup, 224, 225 
 Curran, John H., 53, 178, 
 
 199 
 
 Curran, Mrs. John H., 3, 4, 
 14, 31, 41, 45, 46, 182, 
 187, 188, 189, 201, 205 
 Education, 34 
 Sittings, 35, 36 
 
 D., Dr. and Mrs., 207-212 
 
 Day, paean to the (verse), 84 
 
 Death, fear of, 196 
 
 Fear of (verse), 267-269 
 Life following, 79 
 robbed of terrors, 281 
 Solemn address to (verse), 
 279-281 
 
 Devotional verse, 97 
 
 Divinity of the human, 245 
 
 Doubt (verse), 365 
 
 Dougal, 145, 146 
 
 Drama, 109 
 
 Six-act medieval play de- 
 scribed, 142 
 
 Dress, references to, 52, 56, 
 192 
 
 287 
 
288 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Dreams. See "Builder of 
 
 dreams " 
 
 See Phantom also 
 Dreamer (verse), 72, 73 
 
 Earth questions, reasoning 
 
 upon, 217 
 
 Eastern morn, 144, 145 
 England, 15, 33, 149 
 
 Northern, 60 
 
 Epigrams. See Aphorisms 
 Ermalihe, Princess, 145, 146 
 
 Failures in life, 227 
 
 Fairy's wand, parable of, 168 
 
 Faith, allegory on (verse), 
 
 255-266 
 Triumph of (verse), 253- 
 
 266 
 
 Femininity, 42, 52 
 Flesh. See Soul 
 Folly, 221, 222 
 Fool, 112 
 Fool and the Lady, The 
 
 (story), 109, 111-121 
 Franco, 151 
 
 Friendship (verse), 96 
 Fun-loving spirit, 53 
 Future. See Immortality 
 
 G., Miss, 207 
 G., Mr., 208 
 G., Mrs., 207 
 God, 226 
 
 Identity with, 242 
 
 Love for (verse), 237-239 
 
 Song of, 193 
 
 "Hands" (verse), 233 
 Harp (verse), 86, 87 
 Herbs, story of the, 212-215 
 Holmes, John Haynes, quoted, 
 
 10 
 
 Hours of day (verse), 215 
 Housekeeping, 42 
 Humor, 31 
 
 in verse, 74, 75, 76 
 Hutchings, Mr., 53 
 
 Hutchings, Mrs. Emily Grant, 
 4, 44, 188 
 
 Imagery, 72, 78 
 Immortality, growth, 277 
 
 Mystery, 249, 250 
 
 Nature, 272 
 
 Reality, 247 
 
 Recognition of friends, 
 
 270, 276 
 
 Impatience, 45, 46 
 Individuality, 41 
 Infancy, 92, 94 
 Inn of Falcon Feather, 111 
 
 J., Miss, 189, 192, 193 
 James, Wm., 199, 200 
 Jana, 127 
 
 Jane-o'-apes, 58, 131 
 John the Peaceful, 122, 123, 
 
 132 
 Joy, promise of future, 283- 
 
 284 
 
 K., Dr., 195, 199 
 King of Wisdom, 221 
 Kirtle, 55, 56 
 
 Language, 13, 56, 104, 149, 
 
 150, 153, 164, 189 
 Laughter, 168 
 Leaf, fallen (verse), 82 
 Leta, 124 
 
 Life for a life, 218 
 Life likened to the seasons 
 
 (verse), 252 
 Lisa, 109, 112 
 Literature, 223, 224 
 Love, childhood, 51 
 
 Divine (verse), 235, 236 
 
 for Christ, 244 
 
 for the loveless (verse), 226 
 
 for the wearied (verse), 
 227 
 
 Friendly, 96 
 
 God's (verse), 97 
 
 Man and woman (verse), 
 94 
 
INDEX 
 
 289 
 
 Love, maternal, 92, 94 
 
 Religious, 226 
 
 Song, "Drink ye unto me," 
 180 
 
 to God (verse), 237-239 
 
 Universal, 234 
 "Loves of yester's day" 
 
 (verse), 88 
 Lullaby, 64, example, 68 
 
 Spinning Wheel, 69 
 
 M., Mr. and Mrs., 207-210 
 
 Marion, 153 
 
 Mary, the Virgin, 245 
 
 Marye, Lady, 122, 123 
 
 Massinger, 58 
 
 Maxims. See Aphorisms 
 
 Men, attitude toward, 49 
 
 Men and women, 94 
 
 Merchants, parable of, 166 
 
 Message, 224 
 
 Metaphor, borrowed, 78, 79 
 
 Metaphysics, 29 
 
 Mise-man song, 179 
 
 Mission, 284 
 
 Mite and the Seeds, tale of 
 
 the, 176-178 
 Musician, 208 
 
 Nature, Love of, 25, 79 
 
 Value of, 251 
 Neurologist, 204 
 New England, 15, 33 
 New Year (verse), 101 
 Newspaper article, 215 
 Newspaper writer, 189 
 
 Ouija board, 1, 5, 65, 187 
 
 P., Dr., 204-207 
 Parables, 165 
 
 Story of the herbs, 212-215 
 Personality, 59 
 Pettieskirt, 52, 54, 56, 154, 
 
 186, 205 
 Phantom and the Dreamer, 
 
 The (verse), 255-266 
 Physicians, 204 
 
 Physician, conversation with 
 
 a young, 16 
 Description, 50 
 Poetry. See Songs; Verse 
 Pollard, Mrs. Mary E., 5, 43, 
 
 44 
 
 Prayers, Character, 239, 243 
 Examples (verse), 239-244 
 " Primrose path," 77, 78 
 Prose, 107 
 Psychic communications. See 
 
 Communications 
 Puritan, 55, 59, 69, 192 
 "Put," 186-189 
 
 R., Dr., 204-207 
 
 Records of communications, 
 
 character, 3 
 Regal, 123 
 Religion, 223, 226 
 Revelation, 225, 226 
 Rhyme, 21, 64 
 Rhythm, 107 
 
 Sarcasm, 49 
 
 Scottish, 60 
 
 Seed, 224, 225 
 
 Seeds. See Mite and the 
 
 Seeds 
 
 Self, 221, 222 
 Shakespeare, 57, 77, 104 
 Shelley, 90, 105 
 Simplicity 104, 105 
 Sittings, character, 18, 35 
 Skylark (verse), 89 
 Society for Psychical Re- 
 search, 223 
 Song, birth of a (verse), 86, 
 
 87 
 Songs, 173 
 
 "Do I love the morn? "215 
 
 " Drink ye unto me," 180 
 
 "Gone, gone," 198 
 
 "How have I sought!" 203 
 
 "Loth as Night," 211 
 
 Mise-man, 179 
 
 To Miss J., 193 
 
 To Mr. G., a musician, 209 
 
290 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Sorrow, comfort for, 231 
 
 "Sorrows ripened to a mel- 
 low heart," 275, 278 
 
 Soul, 190 
 Body and, 218 
 
 Spelling, 66 
 
 Spinning, 206 
 
 Spinning Wheel (verse), 69 
 
 Spinster, 49, 69 
 
 Spirituality, 24, 152 
 
 Spring (verse), 81 
 
 Stories, 108 
 Character, 185 
 Dramatic character, 109 
 
 Story of Telka, described, 149 
 
 "Story of the Judge Bush," 
 153-163 
 
 Stranger, The (story), 108, 
 122, 123-141 
 
 Subconsciousness, 34, 35 
 
 Teacher of anatomy, 182, 190 
 
 Teacher of botany, 183 
 
 Telka, 149, 150 
 
 Theater, 53 
 
 Throb, 202 
 
 Timon, 124 
 
 Tina, 124 
 
 Tonio, 113 
 
 Tournament, 114) 
 
 Tricksters, 208 
 
 Triviality, 10 
 
 Truth, 182 
 
 V., Dr., 195-201 
 Verse, 21 
 
 Dictation, manner, 65 
 
 Range, 63 
 
 Technique, 65, 81 
 Virgin Mary, 245 
 
 W., Dr., 176, 178 
 
 W., Mrs., 176, 178, 182 
 
 War, 284 
 
 War (verse), 91 
 
 "Waste of earth" (verse). 
 228-231 
 
 Wasted words, 243 
 
 Wearied ones, 227 
 
 "Weaving," 175 
 
 Widow, visitor at the Cur- 
 rans, 217, 218 
 
 Wind (verse), 75 
 
 Winter (verse), 79, 80 
 
 Wisdom, 222 
 
 Wit, 18, 19 
 
 Worth, Patience, advent, 2; 
 affection, 46; appearance, 
 207; book learning, 60; 
 date, 37, 197; elusiveness, 
 60; femininity, 42, 52; 
 fun-loving spirit, 53; 
 impatience, 45, 46; in- 
 dividuality, 41; laughter, 
 love of, 168; love her in- 
 spiration, 234; men, atti- 
 tude toward, 49; mes- 
 sage, 224; mission, 284, 
 285; obscurity, 199; on 
 being investigated, 196; 
 personality, 12, 59, 220, 
 224 ; phrases, striking, 
 40; place, 38; revelation, 
 226; sarcasm, 49; speech, 
 39, 56, 104, 149, 150, 153, 
 164,- 189; spinster, 49, 69; 
 substance in her words. 
 211 
 
 X., Dr., 182-195, 204 
 X., Mrs., 182, 183 
 
 Z., Dr., 187-189 
 
PATIENCE WORTH: A PSYCHIC MYSTERY 
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 the finest short story, we believe, that Dorothy Canfield has ever 
 written; the second, the glowing account of a woman surgeon 
 who vorked side by side with men through the siege of Verdun. 
 And America's part is not omitted. Dorothy Canfield has had 
 unusual opportunities to see the work of Americans in France, 
 and was the first American woman to follow American troops 
 into Chateau Thierry. The book reaches its culminating point 
 and its end in her wonderful account of that day when the 
 salvo of cannon from the Invalides announced to Paris and the 
 world the signing of the armistice. 
 
 HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 
 
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