Three Women Part 14

I hold it the truth that no woman can be An excellent wife and an excellent mother, And leave enough purpose and time for another Profession outside. And our s.e.x was not made To jostle with men in the great marts of trade.

The wage-earning women, who talk of their sphere, Have thrown the domestic machine out of gear.

They point to their fast swelling ranks overjoyed; Forgetting the army of men unemployed.

The banner of Feminine "Rights," when unfurled, Means a flag of distress to the rest of the world.

And poor Cupid, depressed by such follies and crimes, Sits weeping, alone, in the Land of Hard Times.

The world needs wise mothers, the world needs good wives, The world needs good homes, and yet woman strives To be everything else but domestic. G.o.d's plan Was for woman to rule the whole world, _through a man_.

There is nothing a woman of sweetness and tact Can not do without personal effort or act.

She needs but infuse lover, husband or son With her own subtle spirit, and lo! it is done.

Though the man is unconscious, full oft, of the cause, And fancies himself the sole maker of laws.

Well, let him. The cannon, no doubt, is the prouder For not knowing its noise is produced by the powder.

Yet this is the law: _Who can love, can command_.) But I wander too far from the subject in hand, Which is, your home coming. Make haste, dear; I find More need every day of your counseling mind.

I work well in harness, but poorly alone.

Until that bright day when Fate brings us our own, Let us labor together. I see many ways, Many tasks, for the use of our talents and days.

Your wisdom shall better the workingmen's lives, While I will look after their daughters and wives, And teach them to cook without waste; for, indeed, It is knowledge like this which the poor people need, Not the stuff taught in schools. You shall help them to think, While I show them what they can eat and can drink With least cost, and most pleasure and benefit. Please Write me and say you will come, dear Maurice.

Home, sister, and duty are all waiting here; Who keeps close to duty finds pleasure dwells near.

XII.

_Maurice's Letter to Ruth:_

No, no. I have gambled with destiny twice, And have staked my whole hopes on a home; but the dice Thrown by Fate made me loser. Henceforward, I know My lot must be homeless. The G.o.ds will it so.

I fought, I rebelled; I was bitter. I strove To outwit the great Cosmic Forces, above, Or beyond, or about us, who guide and control The course of all things from the moat to the soul.

The river may envy the peace of the pond, But law drives it out to the ocean beyond.

If it roars down abysses, or laughs through the land, It follows the way which the Forces have planned.

So man is directed. His only the choice To help or to hinder--to weep or rejoice.

But vain is refusal--and vain discontent, For at last he must walk in the way that was meant.

My way leads through shadow, alone to the end I must work out my karma, and follow its trend.

I must fulfill the purpose, whatever it be, And look not for peace till I merge in G.o.d's sea.

Though bankrupt in joy, still my life has its gain; I have climbed the last round in the ladder of pain.

There is nothing to dread. I have drained sorrow's cup And can laugh as I fling it at Fate bottom up.

I have missed what I sought; yet I missed not the whole.

The best part of love is in loving. My soul Is enriched by its prodigal gifts. Still, to give And to ask no return, is my lot while I live.

Such love may be blindness, but where are love's eyes?

Such love may be folly, love seldom is wise.

Such love may be madness, was love ever sane?

Such love must be sorrow, for all love is pain.

Love goes where it must go, and in its own season.

Love cannot be banished by will or by reason.

Love gave back your freedom, it keeps me its slave.

I shall walk in its fetters, unloved, to my grave.

So be it. What right has the ant, in the dust, To cry that the world is all wrong, and unjust, Because the swift foot of a messenger trod Down the home, and the hopes, that were built in the sod?

What is man but an ant, in this universe scheme?

Though dear his ambition, and precious his dream, G.o.d's messengers speed all unseen on their way, And the plans of a lifetime go down in a day.

No matter. The aim of the Infinite mind, Which lies back of it all, must be great, must be kind.

Can the ant or the man, though ingenious and wise, Swing the tides of the sea--set a star in the skies?

Can man fling a million of worlds into s.p.a.ce, To whirl on their orbits with system and grace?

Can he color a sunset, or create a seed, Or fas.h.i.+on one leaf of the commonest weed?

Can man summon daylight, or bid the night fall?

Then how dare he question the Force which does all?

Where so much is flawless, where so much is grand, All, all must be right, could our souls understand.

Ah, man, the poor egotist! Think with what pride He boasts his small knowledge of star and of tide.

But when fortune fails him, or when a hope dies, The Maker of stars and of seas he denies!

I questioned, I doubted. But that is all past; I have learned the true secret of living at last.

It is, to accept what Fate sends, and to know That the one thing G.o.d wishes of man--is to grow.

Growth, growth out of self, back to him--the First Cause: Therein lies the purpose, the law of all laws.

Tears, grief, disappointment, well, what are all these To the Builder of stars and the Maker of seas?

Does the star long to s.h.i.+ne, when He tells it to set, As the heart would remember when told to forget?

Does the sea moan for flood tide, when bid to be low, As a soul cries for pleasure when given life's woe?

In the Antarctic regions a volcano glows, While low at its base lie the up-reaching snows.

With patient persistence they steadily climb, And the flame will be quenched in the pa.s.sage of time.

My heart is the crater, my will is the snow, Which yet may extinguish its volcanic glow.

When self is once conquered, the end comes to pain, And that is the goal which I seek to attain.

I seek it in work, heaven planned, heaven sent; In the kingdom of toil waits the crown of content.

Work, work! ah, how high and divine was its birth, When G.o.d, the first laborer, fas.h.i.+oned the earth.

The world cries for workers; not toilers for pelf, But souls who have sought to eliminate self.

Can the lame lead the race? Can the blind guide the blind?

We must better ourselves ere we better our kind.

There are wrongs to be righted; and first of them all, Is to lift up the leaners from Charity's thrall.

Sweet, wisdomless Charity, sowing the seed Which it seeks to uproot, of dependence and need.

For vain is the effort to give man content By clothing his body, by paying his rent.

The garment re-tatters, the rent day recurs; Who seeks to serve G.o.d by such charity errs.

Give light to the spirit, give strength to the mind, And the body soon cares for itself, you will find.