Nursing Diary no1 - 5 September 1922-3 June 1923

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The Third Column WAVES.

Sometimes the waves come roaring in Like troops round a beleaguered city, Advancing with the will to win And deaf to every cry for pity; Mad with the power which they possess, The angry waves are merciless.

Another day, when skies are fair, They come to shore with joyous singing, And play with all the children there Who seek the shells which they are bringing; To see them on a summer's day You'd never dream such waves would slay.

Again you'll see them wearing plumes Like knights of old on chargers prancing, like a field of lily blooms On which the morning sun is dancing; Then riding shorewards, one by one. They're handsome things to look upon.

And so with us and all our moods, Smiles of contentment light our faces, We sing our gentle interludes And hide our strength 'neath courtly graces; But roused by hate and temper-tossed, Then all our finer traits seem lost.

--Edgar A. Guest. (Copyright, 1923, by Edgar A. Guest.)

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The Wail of the Pines

I walked alone in the twilight, In the city of the dead, No sound was heard save my footfall And the twittering birds o'er head.

It seemed so quiet and sacred I knew no sense of fear, But thought of the beautiful song, Oh, it's quiet down here.

The pine trees standing side by side Like soldiers in a row, They stood as tho' they were on guard O'er those who slept below.

But as the shadow deepened Then I heard other sounds, A gentle breeze began to blow Through trees and over mounds.

The pine trees seemed to sob aloud While swaying to and fro; I asked is it for the babes you weep, They sighed and answered, "No."

Why should we weep for the babes? They knew no sin nor care; They stayed such a very little while, Now they're angels bright and fair.

Is it for those who in their youth were early called to go-- The buds about to burst in bloom? And they moaned, "Ah, no; ah, no!"

The work the Master gave was done, Were it only to stand and wait; Now they are with that happy throng Beyond the beautiful gate.

Is it for the aged then you mourn, Whose white heads bended low With the load of grief and care they bore? And again they answered, "No."

They bore the brunt of noon-day heat, Their battles they fought and won, They made the world a better place And have heard their Lord's "Well done."

"We weep for those who lived for self, Nor lightened another's load, Nor gave to any a helping hand Along life's weary road.

"The joy of service they never knew, Their interests were all their own, Their lives meant nothing to anyone else And now they are missed by none."

If you don't want the pines to weep, To your own self be true; Just help in every way you can And they will not weep for you

--Mary I.

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The Third Column

WAVES. Sometimes the waves come roaring in Like troops round a beleaguered city, Advancing with the will to win And deaf to every cry for pity; Mad with the power which they possess, The angry waves are merciless.

Another day, when skies are fair, They come to shore with joyous singing, And play with the children there Who seek the shells which they are bringing; To see them on a summer's day You'd never dream such waves would slay.

Again you'll see them wearing plumes Like knights of old on chargers prancing, [] like a field of lily blooms On which the morning sun is dancing; Then riding shorewards, one by one. They're handsome things to look upon.

And so with us and all our moods, Smiles of contentment light our faces, We sing our gentle interludes And hide our strength 'neath courtly graces; But roused by hate and temper-tossed, Then all our finer traits seem lost.

--Edgar A. Guest. (Copyright, 1923, by Edgar A. Guest.)

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APPLETIME IN ACADIE.

The mellow golden afternoon Rests like a blessing on the valley fields Glimmering with gorgeous golden rod And burnished with the orange BlackEyed Susans With here and there a soft thread of dull blue asters Weaving like a minor undertone That modifies some brilliant theme Of melody so golden rich and rare The heart can hardly bear its poignance.

The cloudlike amethystine mountains to the north Now wear a tinge of gold along their rim, And nearer, winding down their lower hills With mystic seeming of a gypsy caravan Surrounded by a cloud of golden dream dust, Minted by the Midas touch of soft September suns, Comes creaking, swaying leisurely, A load of creamy barrels hooped with bronze; And near and far on every side the golden road Lies orchard after orchard basking in the sun, Their tent-like bronze-green trees borne down with fragrant fruit The rosy astrachans and golden gravensteins, Not bearing discord as the apple famed, of gold, Rather abundance, fair seeming and good worth, Filling the countryside with wealth and thankfulness.

Happy the travler who may by the wayside rest In Acadie at apple-gathering time, And from the golden goblet of the autumn fair Imbibe rich draughts of happiness and deep content.

--Erica Austin Selfridge, in The Christian Science Monitor.

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We Can't Spell Any More By ANNE CAMPBELL

He's growing older every way, The baby we adore! We noticed it the other day, We can't spell any more.

I said at dinner, "Well, I guess We'll see a s-h-o---" Before I'd finished he cried "Yes, That's where I want to go!"

It used to be we could talk Of c-a-n-d-y, He'd just as likely take a walk, But now he stays nearby.

And if we say "To b-e-d Somebody soon must run." Hi sighs and cuddles close to me! No secrets from our son!

He's growing up! He goes to school, The baby we adore! He's just a bit too old to fool! We can't spell any more!

(opyright, North American Newspaper Alliance, 1923.)