Fay Inchfawn

I know it all . . . I know. For I am God. I am Jehovah, He Who made you what you are; and I can see

There I halted. Further down the hollow Stood the township, where my errand lay. Firm my purpose, till a voice cried (Follow!

(PSALM CXVI.) Because He heard my voice, and answered me, Because He listened, ah, so patiently,

Quick through the gates of Fairyland The South Wind forced his way. 'Twas his to make the Earth forget

Up to the Hall, my lady there'll wear her satin gown, For little Miss and Master'll be coming down from town. Oh ay, the childern's coming! The CHILDERN did I say?

GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It seems The Church is full of bygone dreams.) LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own,

I shut my eyes to rest 'em, just a bit ago it seems, An' back among the Cotswolds I were wanderin' in me dreams. I saw the old grey homestead, with the rickyard set around,

If only dinner cooked itself, And groceries grew upon the shelf; If children did as they were told,

Not long ago, I prayed for dying grace, For then I thought to see Thee face to face. And now I ask (Lord, 'tis a weakling's cry)

In Dorset Dear they're making hay In just the old West Country way. With fork and rake and old-time gear

In Somerset they guide the plough From early dawn till twilight now. The good red earth smells sweeter yet,

Sometimes, when everything goes wrong: When days are short, and nights are long; When wash-day brings so dull a sky

His step? Ah, no; 'tis but the rain That hurtles on the window pane. Let's draw the curtains close and sit

When little Fanny came to town, I felt as I could sing! She were the sprackest little maid, the sharpest, pertest thing. Her mother were as proud as punch, and as for I -- well, there!

"The Fairies must have come," I said, "For through the moist leaves, brown and dead, The Primroses are pushing up,

Oh, the garden ways are lonely! Winds that bluster, winds that shout, Battle with the strong laburnum,

"I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit My mother's got the copper lit; An' piles of clothes are on the floor,

Silent was I, and so still, As day followed day. Imprisoned until

Summer met me in the glade, With a host of fair princesses, Golden iris, foxgloves staid,

"Owd John's got past his work," said they, Last week as ever was -- "don't pay To send by him. He's stoopid, too,

Such a sensation Sunday's preacher made. "Christian!" he cried, "what is your stock- in-trade? Alas! Too often nil. No time to pray;

Back in the dear old country 'tis Christ- mas, and to-night I'm thinking of the mistletoe and holly berries bright. The smoke above our chimbley pots I'd dearly love to see,

There's a rustle in the woodlands, and a sighing in the breeze, For the Little Folk are busy in the bushes and the trees; They are packing up their treasures, every one with nimble hand,

"In my father's house!" The words Bring sweet cadence to my ears. Wandering thoughts, like homing birds,

Across the town the evening bell is ringing; Clear comes the call, through kitchen windows winging! Lord, knowing Thou art kind,

See, I am cumbered, Lord, With serving, and with small vexatious things. Upstairs, and down, my feet

Down in the dear West Country, there's a garden where I know The Spring is rioting this hour, though I am far away -- Where all the glad flower-faces are old loves of long ago,

One yestereve, in the waning light, When the wind was still and the gloaming bright, There came a breath from a far countrie,

In her last hour of life the tree Gave up her glorious memories, Wild scent of wood anemone,

Some day of days! Some dawning yet to be I shall be clothed with immortality! And, in that day, I shall not greatly care

I've had a naughty day to-day. I scrunched a biscuit in my hair, And dipped my feeder in the milk,

"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air, but I hit hard and straight at my own body." -- 1 Cor. ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation). 'T'was breakfast time, and outside in the street The factory men went by with hurrying feet.

"Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that turneth aside to tarry for a night?" -- Jer. xiv. 8. Nay, do not get the venison pasty out; I shall not greatly put myself about

The shopping had been tedious, and the rain Came pelting down as she turned home again. The motor-bus swirled past with rush and whirr,

When Winter's ahead, What can you read in November That you read in April

The Master of the Garden said; "Who, now the Earth seems cold and dead, Will by his fearless witnessing

I would that you should know, Dear mother, that I love you -- love you so! That I remember other days and years;

Into the world you came, and I was dumb, Because "God did it," so the wise ones said; I wonder sometimes "Did you really come?"

You call authority "a grievous thing." With careless hands you snap the leading string, And, for a frolic (so it seems to you),

Now from the dust of half-forgotten things, You rise to haunt me at the year's Spring- cleaning, And bring to memory dim imaginings

"I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they be of the same mind in the Lord" -- Phil. iv. 2, EUODIAS. But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am sure

When Baby strayed, it seemed to me, Sun, moon and stars waned suddenly. At once, with frenzied haste, my feet

"When He comes! My sweetest 'When'!" C. ROSSETTI.

First, there's the entrance, narrow, and so small, The hat-stand seems to fill the tiny hall; That staircase, too, has such an awkward bend,