HER FINGER FATE
“A friend, a foe, a true love, a beau, a journey to go.”
“A friend, a foe, a true love, a beau, a journey to go.”
The old superstition of naming the spots on the fingernails still survives in country places, where some old lady may say gravely: “You have an enemy; look at the spots on your finger nails,” and young girls count them for friend or lover. “I knew he would be a wanderer,” said one woman of an absent son, “there was always a journey on both his hands.”
Softly she whispered it over,Knee deep in the scented grass,Where I and the first wild rosesLingered to watch her pass.She kissed her hand to the swallowsSkimming the pond below,And turned with a face all archnessAs she chanted ‘Friend or foe?’“See, here is my life before me,All that I keep or fail;”And she counted the spots that glistenedOn each rose-leaf finger nail;Like baby pearls in the sunshine,Or wind-rocked, cloudy flecks;The little white dots that dappledHer nails with snowy specks.“A friend—but look, how many!A foe—” Not one, I said;“A true love”—Sweet, he is near you—She blushed as the roses red.He is waiting, dear, to claim you;Your truest love and beau—Ah! why did my eyes turn mistyAs she murmured “A journey to go”?The roses bloom in the meadowAs they bloomed that other day,And I and the spring and the swallowsWander the old sweet way;We call but we cannot wake her,So still in the vale below;And my heart and the blossoms whisper,“A journey, a journey to go.”