The Project Gutenberg eBook ofCross RoadsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Cross RoadsAuthor: Margaret E. SangsterRelease date: January 1, 2001 [eBook #2487]Most recently updated: February 8, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CROSS ROADS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Cross RoadsAuthor: Margaret E. SangsterRelease date: January 1, 2001 [eBook #2487]Most recently updated: February 8, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger
Title: Cross Roads
Author: Margaret E. Sangster
Author: Margaret E. Sangster
Release date: January 1, 2001 [eBook #2487]Most recently updated: February 8, 2013
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CROSS ROADS ***
NOTESome of the verses in this book have been printed by The Christian Herald, Good Housekeeping, Pictorial Review, New Fiction Publishing Company and theC. H. Young Publishing Company. I wish to acknowledge, with thanks, permission to reprint them.
Some of the verses in this book have been printed by The Christian Herald, Good Housekeeping, Pictorial Review, New Fiction Publishing Company and theC. H. Young Publishing Company. I wish to acknowledge, with thanks, permission to reprint them.
CONTENTSPREFACEWOOD MAGICWATERIN' TH' HORSESAT DAWNII. THE PIONEERIII. THE FARMERTHE HAUNTED HOUSETO A PAIR OF GLOVESPEAKSLIL' FELLERTO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSETHE OLD SAILORTHE RIVER AND THE TREEAUTUMN SONGSCARLET FLOWERSON FIFTH AVENUEFROM A CITY WINDOWTHE LADY ACROSS THE COURTTO A PORCELAIN PUPPY DOGCOLORSLIGHTS OF THE CITYSTEELMUSIC OF THE SLUMSI. THE VIOLIN-MAKERII. THE PARK BANDIII. THE ORGAN MAN"BE OF GOOD CHEER!"FROM MY ROOMTHE BALCONY SCENESA BOWERY PAWN-SHOPSPRING IN THE CITYLI'L EMPTY CLOSETTWO LULLABYSII. POPPY LANDI DREAMED YOUR FACEANSWERA BABY'S HANDSALL ALONG THE BROAD HIGHWAYMY MOTHERHEREDITYAPRILTHE DESERT PATH—SEVEN SONNETSSUMMER SONGCOMPREHENSION—A MOTHER'S SONGSINGING ON THE MARCHEASTERRESURRECTIONTHE QUEENFRAGMENTSIT'S LOTS OF FUN—VALENTINETHE SACRIFICETO A CERTAIN ROOMOTHER DAYSAT TWILIGHTTHERE ARE SUCH WEARY LITTLE LINESTHREE SONGS OF AWAKENINGIN A CANOECAPTIVE-HEARTEVENING SONGAFTER A DAY OF WAITINGINTANGIBLEAT FIRST SIGHTFIVE SONNETSIII. THE RAIN OUTSIDEIV. I USED TO WRITEV. MOON-GLOWFORGIVENTHE WRITINGAT PARTINGTHE REFUGETO DREAM ALONE....NOW I MAY SING OF SADNESS....WHEN WAR CAMEWHEN YOU WENT BYIN MEMORIAMTOGETHERJIM-DOGSIX SONNETSFROM THE DECK OF A TRANSPORTTIM—MY BUNKIEA PRAYER FOR OUR BOYS RETURNINGPARISII. THE RUE DE LA PAIX—(A STREET OF JEWELS)III. THE FLOWER WAGONSSONGS FROM FRANCEFROM PARIS TO CHATEAU THIERRYA RUINED CHURCHCHILD FACESRETURNTHE PHOENIXINDEPENDENCE DAY—1919SHADOWSL'ENVOI
CONTENTS
PREFACE
WOOD MAGIC
WATERIN' TH' HORSES
AT DAWN
II. THE PIONEER
III. THE FARMER
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
TO A PAIR OF GLOVES
PEAKS
LIL' FELLER
TO AN OLD SCHOOLHOUSE
THE OLD SAILOR
THE RIVER AND THE TREE
AUTUMN SONG
SCARLET FLOWERS
ON FIFTH AVENUE
FROM A CITY WINDOW
THE LADY ACROSS THE COURT
TO A PORCELAIN PUPPY DOG
COLORS
LIGHTS OF THE CITY
STEEL
MUSIC OF THE SLUMS
I. THE VIOLIN-MAKER
II. THE PARK BAND
III. THE ORGAN MAN
"BE OF GOOD CHEER!"
FROM MY ROOM
THE BALCONY SCENES
A BOWERY PAWN-SHOP
SPRING IN THE CITY
LI'L EMPTY CLOSET
TWO LULLABYS
II. POPPY LAND
I DREAMED YOUR FACE
ANSWER
A BABY'S HANDS
ALL ALONG THE BROAD HIGHWAY
MY MOTHER
HEREDITY
APRIL
THE DESERT PATH—SEVEN SONNETS
SUMMER SONG
COMPREHENSION—A MOTHER'S SONG
SINGING ON THE MARCH
EASTER
RESURRECTION
THE QUEEN
FRAGMENTS
IT'S LOTS OF FUN—
VALENTINE
THE SACRIFICE
TO A CERTAIN ROOM
OTHER DAYS
AT TWILIGHT
THERE ARE SUCH WEARY LITTLE LINES
THREE SONGS OF AWAKENING
IN A CANOE
CAPTIVE-HEART
EVENING SONG
AFTER A DAY OF WAITING
INTANGIBLE
AT FIRST SIGHT
FIVE SONNETS
III. THE RAIN OUTSIDE
IV. I USED TO WRITE
V. MOON-GLOW
FORGIVEN
THE WRITING
AT PARTING
THE REFUGE
TO DREAM ALONE....
NOW I MAY SING OF SADNESS....
WHEN WAR CAME
WHEN YOU WENT BY
IN MEMORIAM
TOGETHER
JIM-DOG
SIX SONNETS
FROM THE DECK OF A TRANSPORT
TIM—MY BUNKIE
A PRAYER FOR OUR BOYS RETURNING
PARIS
II. THE RUE DE LA PAIX—(A STREET OF JEWELS)
III. THE FLOWER WAGONS
SONGS FROM FRANCE
FROM PARIS TO CHATEAU THIERRY
A RUINED CHURCH
CHILD FACES
RETURN
THE PHOENIX
INDEPENDENCE DAY—1919
SHADOWS
L'ENVOI
The candlelight sweeps softly through the room,Filling dim surfaces with golden laughter,Touching with mystery each high hung rafter,Cutting a path of promise through the gloom.Slim little elves dance gently on each taper,Wistful, small ghosts steal out of shroudedcorners—And, like a line of vague enchanted mourners,Great shadows sway like wind-blown sheets of paper.Gently as fingers drawn across your hair,I see the yellow flicker of it creep—And in a silence that is kin to sleep,I feel a world away from pain and care.Roads stretch like arms across the world outside,Roads reach to strife, to happiness, to fame—Here, in the candlelight, I speak your name,Here we are at life's cross way, side by side!OH, THERE ARE BROOKS THERE, AND FIELDS THERE AND NOOKSTHERE—NOOKS WHERE A SEEKER MAY FIND FOREST FLOWERS;BLUE IS THE SKY THERE, AND SOFT WINDS CREEP BY THERE,SINGING A SONG THROUGH THE LONG SUMMER HOURS.
The woods lay dreaming in a topaz dream,And we, who silently roamed hand in hand,Were pilgrims in a strange, enchanted land,Where life was love, and love was all a-gleam.And old remembered songs came back to greetOur ears, from other worlds of long ago,The worlds that we of earth may seldom know—And to those songs we timed our vagrant feet.We did not speak, we did not need to sayThe thought that lay so buried in our hearts—The thoughts as sweet as springtime rain, thatstartsThe buds to blossoming in wistful May.We did not need to speak, we could not speak,The wonder words that we in silence knew—We walked, as very little children do,Who feel, but cannot tell, the thing they seek.Beyond a screen of bushes, bending low,We knew that fair Titania lay at rest,Her pillowed head upon her lover's breast,Her kisses swift as birds that come and go!And underneath a wall of mottled stone,We knew the sleeping beauty lay in state,Entangled in a mist of tears, to waitThe prince whose kiss would raise her to a throne.Perhaps a witch with single flaming eye,Was watching from beneath the hemlock tree;And fairies that our gaze might never see,Laughed at us as we, hand in hand, crept by.Laughed at us? No, I somehow think they knewThat you and I were kin to them that day!I think they knew that we were years awayFrom everything but make-believe, come true.I think they knew that, singing through the air,There thrilled a vague, insistent, harp-like call—And that, where woodbine blazed against the wall,You held me close and kissed my wind-tossed hair!
I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,Th' air was cold with just a touch o' frost;And as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help butthink,O' city folk an' all the things they lost.O' cause they have their lighted streets—their GreatWhite Way an' such,O' course they have their buildings large an' tall;But, my! they never know th' joy o' ridin' ter th'brook,An' somehow I don't envy 'em at all!Perhaps I'd like it—for awhile—to hear th' songs an'laughter,But somehow, I don't know exactly why;I'd feel th' country callin' me; I'd long again fersilence,An' fer God's mountains, blue against the sky.I took th' horses to th' brook—to water 'em you know,Th' day was pretty as a day can be;An' as we went a-joggin' down I couldn't help butthink,O' city folk an' all they never see!
I. THE CAVEMANI live! And the scarlet sunrise is climbing themountain steep,I live... And below, in the caverns, the restof my clansmen sleep;But I—I am here, and chanting, I could slay abeast with my hand,And I thrill as the mist of the morning creeps upfrom the rock-strewn land!I live, I have strength for fighting—and courage torend and slay,I live! And my eyes are lifting to gaze at the new-born day;And I pause, on the way to my hewn-out cave,though I know that she waits me there,My mate, with her eyes on the scarlet dawn, and thewind in her flame-like hair.I live—and the joy of living leaps up in my searchingeyes,I live, and my soul starts forward, to challenge thewaking skies!Far down are the torrents roaring, far up are theclouds, unfurled;And I stand on the cliff, exultant, akin to the wakingworld.The mists are gone, and an eagle sweeps down fromthe mountain high,And I wish that my arms were feathered and strong,that I, too, might fly;I live! I am one with the morning! Ah, I am aMAN, and free!And I shout aloud, and the scarlet dawn shouts back,on the gale, to me!
I creep along, but silently,For, oh, the dawn is coming;I creep along, for I have heardA flint-tipped arrow, humming;And I have heard a snapping twig,Above the wind's low laughter;And I have known—and thrilled to know,That swift THEY followed after!The forest turns from black to grey,The leaves are silver-shining;But I have heard a far-off call—The war-whoop's sullen whining.And I have been a naked form,Among the tree trunks prowling;And I have glimpsed a savage face,That faded from me, scowling.A rosy color sweeps the sky,A vagrant lark is singing,But, as I steal along the trail,I know that day is bringingA host of red-skins in its train,Their tommy-hawks are gleaming—I SEE THEM NOW; or can it beThe first pale sunlight beaming?I creep along, but stealthily,For, oh, the dawn is coming!I creep along—but I have heardA flint-tipped arrow, humming....And yet, my heart is light, inside,My soul, itself, is flyingTo greet the dawn! I AM ALIVE—AND WHAT IS DEATH—BUT DYING?
The dawn is here! I climb the hill;The earth is young and strangely still;A tender green is showing whereBut yesterday my fields were bare....I climb and, as I climb, I sing;The dawn is here, and with it—spring!My oxen stamp the ground, and theySeem glad, with me, that soon the dayWill bring new work for us to do!The light above is clear and blue;And one great cloud that swirls on high,Seems sent from earth to kiss the sky.The birds are coming back again,They know that soon the golden grainWill wave above this fragrant loam;The birds, with singing, hasten home;And I, who watch them, feel their songDeep in my soul, and nothing wrong,Or mean or small, can touch my heart....Down in the vale the smoke-wreaths start,To softly curl above the trees;The fingers of a vagrant breezeSteal tenderly across my hair,And toil is fled, and want, and care!The dawn is here!I climb the hill;My very oxen seem to thrill—To feel the mystery of day.The sun creeps out, and far awayFrom man-made law I worship God,Who made the light, the cloud, the sod;I worship smilingly, and sing!* * *The dawn is here, and with it—spring!
It stands neglected, silent, far from the ways of men,A lonely little cottage beside a lonely glen;And, dreaming there, I saw it when sunset's goldenraysHad touched it with the glory of other, sweeter days.They say the house is haunted, and—well, it is, Iguess,For every empty window just aches with loneliness;With loneliness that tortures and memory that flays;Ah, yes, the house is haunted with ghosts of otherdays.The ghost of childish laughter rings on the narrowstair,And, from a silent corner, the murmur of a prayerSteals out, and then a love song, and then a buglecall,And steps that do not falter along the quiet hall.The story of the old house that stands beside theglen?That story is forgotten by every one; but whenThe house is touched and softened by sunset's goldenrays,I know that ghosts must haunt it, the ghosts ofsweeter days.
Jus' a little pair o' gloves,Sorter thin an' worn;With th' fingers neatly darned,Like they had been torn.Jus' a little pair o' gloves,Not s' much ter see....Not a soul on earth can guessWhat they mean ter me!Jus' a little pair o' gloves,Sorter tossed aside;Limp an' quiet, folded up,Like their soul had died.Every finger seems ter lookLonely, an' my handTrembles as it touches them—Who can understand?Jus' a little pair o' gloves,Ah, she tossed 'em there....Singin'-like, she turned ter go,Didn't have a care!Kissin' them? A prayer, a tear?God, my head WILL bow—Jus' a little pair o' gloves,.... Empty, now!
A storm may rage in the world below,It may tear great trees apart;But here on the mountain top, I knowThat it cannot touch my heart.I have struggled up through the lightning's glare,I have walked where the cliffs fell sheerTo a gorge below, but I breathed a prayer,And my soul passed doubt and fear!Here on the mountain top the airIs clear as a silver song;And the sun is warm on my unbound hair;AND WHAT THOUGH THE WAY WAS LONG?What though the way was steep and bleak,And what though the road was hard?I stand at last on the mountain peak,With my eyes upraised to God!A storm may sweep through the world below,It may rend great rocks apart;But here on the crest of the world I knowThat it cannot touch my heart.
When th.' sunshine's golden-yellerLike th' curls upon his head,Then he wakes—th' lil' feller—An' he jumps up, outen bed;An' he scrambles fer his knickersFlung, perhaps, upon th' floor,An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),An' he races through th' door—An' I hear his voice, a-singin',In his odd, ole-fashioned way,'Cause he's glad—th' lil' feller—In th' mornin' o' the day.Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,So I hurry up, outside,Where th' mountains smile down, friendly—And th' earth looks sorter wide;An' I hear his voice a-callin',Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"An' I find him makin' gardensWhere a rock pile uster be—An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"An' my heart feels light an' gay,Fer he's singin'—lil' feller—In th' mornin' o' th' day.Lil' feller, an' his gardens!It don't matter much ter him,If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,An' th' crop he grows is slim;Fer he loves ter be a-workin',An' he loves ter see things startOuter nothin'.... There's a gardenIn th' rock-bed o' my heartThat he's planted, just by singin'In his odd, ole-fashioned way—'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,In th' mornin' o' th' day!
Down by the end of the lane it stands,Where the sumac grows in a crimson thatch,Down where the sweet wild berry patch,Holds out a lure for eager hands.Down at the end of the lane, who knowsThe ghosts that sit at the well-scarred seats,When the moon is dark, and the gray sky meetsWith the dawn time light, and a chill wind blows?Ghosts—well not ghosts, perhaps, but dreams—Rather like wistful shades, that standWaiting a look or an outstretched hand,To call them back where the morning gleams—Dreams of the hopes we had, that died,Dreams of the vivid youth we sold;Dreams of a pot of rainbow gold—Gold that we sought for, eager-eyed!Dreams of the plans we made, that sleepWith the lesson books on the dusty rack,Of the joyous years that will not come back—That are drowned in the tears we have learned toweep.Ghosts did I call them! Sweet they areAs a plant that grows in a desert place,Sweet as a dear remembered face—Sweet as a pale, courageous star.Where the sumac grows in a flaming wall,It stands, at the end of a little lane,And there do the children come again,Answering, still, the bell's shrill call,Just as we came, with their songs unsung,And their hopes all new, and their dreams dewkissed,Brave as the sun in a land of mist—JUST AS WE CAME WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG!
I've crossed the bar at last, mates,My longest voyage is done;And I can sit here, peaceful,And watch th' setting sunA-smilin' kind of glad likeUpon the waves so free.My longest voyage is done, mates,But oh, the heart of me,Is out where sea meets skyline!My longest voyage is done....But—can I sit, in peace, mates,And watch the settin' sun?For what's a peaceful life, mates,When every breeze so free,When every gale a-blowin',Brings messages to me?And is the sky so shinin',For all it's golden sun,To one who loves the sea, mates,And knows his voyage is done?And, can a year on land, mates,Match with one day—at sea?Ah, every wind a-singin'Brings memory to me!I've crossed the bar at last, mates,My longest voyage is past,And I must watch the sunset,Must see it fade, at last.My steps are not so light, mates,As they were, years ago;And sometimes, when I'm tired,My head droops kind of low—Yet, though I'm old and—weary,The waves that dance so free,Keep callin' to my soul, mates,And thrill the heart of me!
"You are white and tall and swaying," sang the riverto the tree,"And your leaves are touched with silver—but younever smile on me;For your branches murmur love songs to the sun-kissed turquoise sky,And you seem so far above me that I always hurryby!""You are laughing in your shallows, you are somberin your deeps,And below your shining surface there's a heart thatnever sleeps;But all day you pass me, dancing, and at eveningtime you dream,And I didn't think you liked me," sang the birch-tree to the stream.So they got a bit acquainted on a glowing summerday,And they found they liked each other (which is oftentimes the way);And the river got so friendly, and it ran so very slow,That the birch-tree shone reflected in the water downbelow!
Let's go down the road together, you and I,Let's go down the road together,Through the vivid autumn weather;Let's go down the road together when the red leavesfly.Let's go searching, searching afterJoy and mirth and love and laughter—Let's go down the road together, you and I.Let's go hunting for adventure, you and I,For the romance we are knowingWaits for us, alive and glowing,For the romance that has always passed us by.Let's have done with tears and sighing,What if summer-time IS dying?Let's go hunting for adventure, you and I.Let's go down the road together, you and I—And if you are frightened lest youWeary grow, my arms will rest you,As we take the road together when the red leaves fly.Springtime is the time for mating?Ah, a deeper love is waitingDown the autumn road that calls us, you and I!
THE CITY—TOWERS AND CANYONS, AND SLUMS,MAN BUILT....AND SOULS,GOD BUILT!
The window box across the streetIs filled with scarlet flowers;They glow, like bits of sunset cloud,Across the dragging hours.What though the mist be like a shroudWhat though the day be dreary?The window box across the streetIs warm, and gay, and cheery!The window box across the streetIs filled with scarlet flowers;I almost catch their perfume sweet....Above the sound of tramping feet,They sing of country bowers.Against the house that looms so gray,They smile in—well, a friendly way.A tired shop girl hurries by;Their color seems to catch her eye;She pauses, starts, and wistfullyShe gazes up. It seems to meThat I can hear her longing sigh....A little shop girl hurries by.A newsboy stops to sell his wares;The crowds brush by him; no one caresTo buy his papers. But aboveThe scarlet flowers bravely growIn token of the Father's love....The crowds brush coldly by below.
A blind man stumbles, groping past;He cannot see their scarlet shine;And yet some memory seems to twineAbout his soul.For, oh, he turnsAs trusting as a child who yearnsFor some vague dream, and smilinglyHe lifts the eyes that cannot see....A blind man stumbles, groping past.The window box across the streetIs filled with scarlet flowers;They tell a secret, tender, sweet,Through all the dreary hours.And folk who hurry on their wayDream of some other brighter day....The window box across the streetIs filled with scarlet flowers.
I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day(In the languid summertime everybody strolls downFifth Avenue);And I passed women, dainty in their filmy frocks,And much bespatted men with canes.And great green busses lumbered past me,And impressive limousines, and brisk little 'lectrics.I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day,And the sunshine smiled at me,And something, deep in my heart, burst into song.And then, all at once, I saw her—A woman with painted lips and rouge-touchedcheeks—Standing in front of a jeweler's window.She was looking at diamonds—A tray of great blue-white diamonds—And I saw a flame leap out of her eyes to meet them(Greedy eyes they were, and cold, like too-perfectjewels);And I realized, for the first time,That diamonds weren't always pretty.And then I SAW THE OTHER ONE:A thin little girl looking into a florist's shopAt a fragrant mass of violets, dew-purple and fresh.She carried a huge box on her arm,And a man, passing, said loudly,"I guess somebody's hat'll be late today!"And the thin little girl flushed and hurried on,But not before I had seen the tenderness in her eyes—The tenderness that real women showWhen they look at vast rolling hills, or flowers, orvery small pink babies.I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day.(All the world walks, leisurely, down Fifth Avenuein the summertime.)
The dust is thick on the city street,The smoke on the city skyHangs dense and gray at the close of day—And the city crowds surge byWith heavy feet through the summer heatLike a sluggish sullen tide;...But hand in hand through a magic landWe are wandering side by side.For somewhere, dear, there's a magic landOn the shores of a silver sea;And there is a boat with turquoise sails—With sails that are wide and free;A boat that is whirling through the spray,That is coming for you and me!Somewhere, dear, there's a singing breezeThat creeps through the laughing airTo the wide-flung boughs of a blue-black tree—It touches your joyous hair;And the touch of it is as soft and lightAs a baby's lisping prayer.Somewhere, dear, there's a bit of beachWhere the sand is warm and white;Where the sky seems close and the drifting cloudsAre tenderly, warmly bright.And there is a ship with turquoise sails,With sails like a living light!Ah, the ship is bringing us dreams come true,And hopes that are all dew-kissed;It is bringing us days that are all aglowWith scarlet and amethyst;...Bringing us faith to find our wayThrough a world that is wrapped in mist.Our window looks on the city street,We can glimpse the city sky;But our hearts are gay at the close of day,Though the tired crowds pass byWith heavy feet through the blinding heat,Like a sullen, sluggish tide....For hand in hand through a magic land.We are wandering side by side.
She only comes when night is near,And stands a moment quietlyBeside her window, in the dusk—She lives across the court from me—And though I cannot see her eyesBecause she is too far away,I somehow feel that they are kind,And very soft, and widely gray!Her hands are only dim white blurs,That rest against the window pane;And yet I know that they are firm,And cool and sweet as April rain.And, oh, I cannot help but wishAs, through the dark, I go to bed,That they might rest a moment likeA little prayer upon my head!She only comes when night is near,I do not know who she can be;I never see her anywhereBut just across the court from me....I am so small the curtains hideThe wistful smiles that I have smiled,And yet I, somehow, think she feelsThe love of me—a lonely child.