I love to block this type of work on a set of curtain stretchers, it dries much faster and easy to adjust. I found a very plain but elegant shawl pin to go with it and gave them to my daughter.  She will use it I am sure

I quake not at the thunder’s crack;
I tremble not at news of war;
I swoon not at the news of wrack;
I shrink not at a blazing star,
I fear not loss, I hope not gain;
I envy none, I none disdain.

I see ambition over pleased;
I see some Tantzls starved in store;
I see gold’s dropsy seldom eased;
I see e’en Midas gape for more,
I neither want nor yet abound -
Enough’s a feast: content is crowned.

I feign not friendship when I hate;
I fawn not on the great, in show,
I prize, I praise, a mean estate -
Neither too lofty nor too low,
This, this is all my choice, my cheer -
A mind content, a conscience clear.

We wandered in the shadow of the pines, my love and I,

As the wind was blowing freshly from the sea;

But a sudden fitful darkness stole across the Summer sky,

And a shadow came between my love and me,

Some hasty words were spoken, and then almost unawares,

Hasty answers to unthinking anger led,

And our heartsick, bitter longing, and our weeping and our prayers

Ne’er can make those false and cruel words unsaid.

Chorus:

Come back to me, sweetheart, and love me as before.

Come back, back to me, sweetheart, and leave me nevermore.

In life’s dull pathway, the sun no longer shines;

Come, love, and meet me, in the shadow of the pines.

You took the ring I gave you, nor cast a glance at me,

As you held the jeweled trinket in your hand,

And then you turned and tossed it in the waters of the sea,

Where the waves were splashing idly on the sand.

You went your way unheeding the tears I could not hide,

You went your way and not a word was said,

But my stubborn heart was breaking, underneath its mask of pride,

And the pine trees sobbed in pity overhead.

I wake from bitter dreaming but to call aloud your name,

I sleep again to dream of you once more,

And my stubborn pride has left me, I admit I was to blame;

Forgive me, dear, and love me as before;

for the future is o’er-shadowed with the darkness of despair,

In the sky of life’s love sun no longer shies,

And I’d give the whole world gladly, once again to meet you there,

Reunited in the shadow of the pines.

How grandly he looked in the light of the glooming,
His legs deftly crossed and his face all aglow;
How youthful the scenes, where his spirit was roaming,
As he all so carefully “ros’nd” the bow,
How proudly he smiled on the children around him;
How slowly we bided his time to begin,
We knew that the spirit had caught him and bound him,
When he sounded the “E” of the old violin.

O, fair were the lilies that waved in the meadows,
Still fairer the roses that bloomed on the hill,
Yet fairer than all was the lithe little shadow
I swung to the tune of “The Old Cider Mill.”
How lightly we floated around through the mazes,
Her fair little head resting close to my chin;
Our souls were entranced by the rhythmical hazes
That flowed from the heart of the old violin.

Now old are the graves, and the zephyrs sigh o’er them,
A requiem sad, as of days that are gone;
The green-spreading elm waving grandly before them,
Keeps faithful his vigil from darkness til dawn,
O, long has she slumbered – may God rest her ever -
Yet deep in my heart, that no other can win,
Her love is enshrined with the fame of the giver,
Who willed me the soul of the old violin.

Sent in by A.G., Boston,Mass

The speech – it hadn’t been gone a half a minute
Before I saw the cold, black poison in it;
And I’s have given half I’d had and more
To’ve only safely got it back indoor.
I’m now what most folks “well-to-do” would call:
I feel today as if I’d give it all.
Provided I through fifty years might reach
And kill and bury that half minute speech.
Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged bird;
You can’t do that when you’re flying words;
Things that we think may sometimes fall back dead:
But God himself can’t kill them when they’re said.

She handed back no words as I could hear;
She didn’t frown, she didn’t shed a tear.
Half proud, half crushed, she sat and looked me o’er.
Like someone she had never seen before!
But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise
I never viewed before in human eyes.
(I’ve seen it off enough since in a dream;
it sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.)

That night when theoretically sleeping,
I half heard and half felt that she was weeping,
And my heart then projected a design
To softly draw her face close up to mine,
And beg of her forgiveness to bestow
For saying what we both knew wasn’t so,
I’ve got enough of this world’s goods to do me,
And make my nephews painfully civil to me;
I’d give it all to know she only knew
How near I came to what was square and true.
But somehow every single time I’d try
Pride would appear and kind o’catch my eye,
And hold me on the edge of my advance
With the cold steel of one sly, scornful glance.

Next morning when stone-faced, but heavy-hearted,
With dinner pail and sharpened ax I started
Away for my day’s work, she watched the door,
And followed me half way to it or more;
And I was just a-turning round at this,
And asking for my usual goodby kiss,
But on her lip I saw a proudish curve,
And in her eye a shadow of reserve,
And she had shown – perhaps half unawares -
Some little independent breakfast airs -
And so the usual parting didn’t occur,
Although her eyes invited me to her;
Or rather half invited me, for she
Didn’t advertise to furnish kisses free.
You always had – that is, I had – to pay
Full market price, and go more’n half the way;
So with short “goodby” I shut the door,
And left her as I never had before.

Now when a man works with his muscle smartly,
It makes him up into machinery partly,
And any trouble he may have on hand
Gets deadened like and easier to stand,
And though the memory of last night’s mistake
Bothered me with a dull and heavy ache
I all the forenoon gave my strength full rein
And made the wounded trees bear half the pain;
But when at noon my lunch I came to eat,
Put up by her so delicately neat -
Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday’s had been,
And some fresh, sweet-eyed panseys she’d put in -
“Tender and pleasant thoughts” I knew they meant -
It seemed as if her kiss with me she’d sent;
Then I became once more her humble lover,
And said, “Tonight I’ll ask forgiveness of her.”

I went home over-early on that eve,
Having contrived to make myself believe
By various signs I kind o’knew and guessed,
A thunderstorm was coming from the west,
(‘Tis strange when one sly reason fills the heart
But many honest ones will take its part;
A dozen first-class reasons said ’twas right
That I should strike home early on that night),
Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung
With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue,
But all within looked desolate and bare;
My house had lost its soul – she was not there!
A penciled note was on the table spread,
And there are something like the words it said;
“The cows have strayed away again, I fear;
I’ve watched them pretty close; don’t scold me, dear,
And where are they I think I nearly know,
I heard the bell not very long ago -
I’ve hunted for them all the afternoon;
I’ll try once more – I think I’ll find them soon,

Dear, if a burden I have been to you,
And haven’t helped you as I ought to do,
Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead;
I’ve tried to do my best – I have, indeed.
Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack,
And have kind words for me when I come back.”

Scare did I give this letter sight and tongue -
Some shift-blown raindrops to the window clung,
And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded;
My thunderstorm had come, now ’twasn’t needed.
I rushed outdoor. The air was stained with black,
Night had come early on the storm cloud’s back,
And everything kept dimming to the sight,
Save when the clouds threw their electric light,
When for a flash so clean cut was the view
I’d think I saw her – knowing ’twas not true,
Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray,
As if the ocean waves had lost their way;
Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made,
In the bold clamor of its cannonade,
And she, while I was sheltered dry and warm,
Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm:
She who when storm-frights found her at her best
Had always hid her white face on my breast:

My dog who skirmished round me all the day,
Now crouched and whimpering in a corner lay;
I dragged him by the collar to the wall,
I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl -
“Track her, old boy!” I shouted, and he whined,
Matched eyes with me as if to read my mind;
Then with a yell went tearing through the wood,
I followed him as faithful as I could.
No pleasure trip was that through flood and flame;
We raced with death, we hunted noble game.
All night we dragged the woods without avail,
The ground got drenched – we could not keep the trail.
Three times again my cabin home I found,
Half hoping she might be there safe and sound,
But each time ’twas an unavailing care -
My house had lost its soul – she was not there!

When climbing the wet trees, next morning sun
Laughed at the ruin that the night had done,
Bleeding and drenched, by sorrow and toil bent,
Back to what used to be my home I went,
But as I neared our little clearing ground -
Listen! – I heard the cowbell’s tinkling sound,
The cabin door was just a bit ajar;
It gleamed upon my sad eyes like a star.
“Brave heart,” I said, “for such a fragile form!
She made them guide her homeward through the storm!”
Such pangs of joy, I never felt before.
“You’ve come!” I shouted, and rushed through the door.
Yes, she had come and gone again. She lay
With all her young life crushed and wrenched away -
Lay, the ruins of our home among.
Not far from where I killed her with my tongue.
The rain drops glittered ‘mid her hair’s long strands,
The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands,
And ‘midst the tears – brave tears – that one could trace
Upon the pale but sweet resolute face,
I once again the mournful words could read,
“I’ve tried to do my best – I have, indeed.”

And now I’m mostly done, my story’s o’er
Part of it never breathed the air before,
‘Tisn’t over-usual, it must be allowed,
To volunteer heart history to a crowd,
And scatter ‘monst them confidential tears;
But you’ll protect an old man with his years,
And whosoe’r this story’s voice may reach,
This is the sermon I would have it preach!

Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds,
You can’t do that when you’re flying words,
“Be careful with fire” is good advice we know;
“Careful with birds” is ten time doubly so,
Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead,
But God Himself can’t kill them when they’re said!
You have my life-grief; do not think a minute
‘Twas told to take up time. There’s business in it.
It sheds advice, whoe’er will take and live it
Is welcome to the pain it costs and give it.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,
And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror spreading wide,
And see the mist of mantling blue
Float round the distant mountain’s side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
O, I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o’er.