In My Garden - The War Years

The Writings of Zelda Lorraine Brown Kline
Edited by Owen A. Kline and Michael E. Kline. Assistant Photo Editor David O. Kline
Copyright @1999 The Kline Family Organization, Inc.
First published in the United States of America by The Kline Family Organization, Inc. 4381 West 5375 South Kearns, Utah 84118
 
The Message

Yesterday I stood looking toward the west,

My face lifted to the evening sky.

A breeze came,

And touched me with gentle fingers,

Gaily it ruffled my hair,

And whispered to me a message

As it passed over

A scrap of island in a sea of blue,

A man in battle clothes looked up and said,

Tell her when you see her,

I send my love.

Later I stood looking upon the night.

I found a star, more bright than all the rest

And reaching up, I whispered,

Tell him I too send my love.

Today

Today is my day.

I take it and hold it carefully within my hand,

And say --

This is the only day I have!

Yesterday is, after all, a dream

And tomorrow a vision.

But today -- ah, today is mine

To do with as I will.

And at its close

I can say,

What a lovely day to leave behind!

Or--

Well, it's gone, and glad I'll be to find another.

Yes, today is mine

To laugh or cry over

When I add it to my string of memories.

Of This Hour

This is the hour

For which all my life has been.

The dreams I dreamed,

The hope I knew,

The wish on evening's first star;

The solemn pledge of sunlight

Through church windows,

The laughter that spoke of joy,

The tears for a crushed rose

That was sixteen's first knowledge of love,

These are the elements of this hour.

Spring

Spring is long coming this year.

The trees keep fast their secret of spring,

The sun does not warm the winter weary earth,

And the birds bring not their song of awakening life.

Each new day I find that winter still holds us fast.

And yet, this I know,

That if you were here to smile at me,

Winter could not steal the joyous song of spring

That would be within my heart.

A Prayer For Our Youth

Dear God, keep for us always the lighthearted gaiety of youth

But let us combine it with the age old wisdom of understanding, patience and love.

Give us some high goal to strive for and keep our feet ever on the path that leads up to it.

When the way grows dark and we flounder in the mire of greed and hate,

Lift up our eyes to the beauty of a crimson sunset or a child's heavenly smile.

Give us the light, Lord, to see the loveliness of the common everyday things,

The drifting leaves in the fall, gleaming glasses on the cupboard shelf, a dog, friendly and sleepy.

Above all, Lord, give us faith in ourselves, in our country and in our fellow man,

That we may do the right in all that we do.

Amen

In Lafayette Square

1942 Zelda in Lafayette Square

Two men sit not far from where I stand,

And plan the fate of nations.

From the words they speak this night

Shall history of the future come.

Armies shall march at their command,

Nations shall fall,

Or rise again from trampled earth.

Around the world

They throw the challenge of free men.

From where I stand

I see the very house

In which they plan the battles of the coming days.

I am humble,

For it is few

To whom is given the privilege of watching

The very house wherein history

Is being molded to the pattern of tomorrow.

1942 Winston Churchill and President Roosevelt

Faith

The moonlight comes through the casement,

Falling with silver light upon her sleeping face.

She stirs, and smiles;

Knowing that a thousand leagues away

He will see the same moon

And find, perhaps, her image therein.

Thus they meet--

In the land that lies between reality and dreams.

And no idle dream theirs,

For they know that there is nothing

Strong enough to divide their love,

No barrier high enough to separate their destiny.

So they find courage,

Meeting the darkness of today

With the faith that lives for tomorrow.

This Is Washington

Washington Monument, Washington D.C.

How many tall tales are told of this city?

How many tales of woe,

Of waiting lines and crowded spaces,

Of shortages and homesickness?

Yet how many have seen the beauty

That is everywhere at hand.

How many have watched dawn come over

The white marble of Abraham's Memorial,

And felt his presence,

And heard the morning breeze

Whispering through white pillars,

Seeming to say in his own words,

A nation, undivided?

How many have seen the evening star,

Shining Like an emblem,

Above the Heaven-pointed finger

Of Washington's Monument?

How many, when the rain is falling,

Have seen the park lawns

Looking like jeweled carpets,

Beneath the silver mist?

How many have watched the "passing parade"

Of young and old,

Of great and obscure,

From every people, every kindred, every tongue,

And have said unto themselves,

This is the heart of the world?

A heart that beats for free men.

What matters, crowds and waiting lines

When one can live upon the very pulse

Of history past,

And of history being made?

Yes, this is Washington,

And, in future years, when tall tales are told,

And a new generation listens breathlessly

To the stories of this time,

We can proudly say,

I was there!

Shall Come The Order

A phantom bugle sounds

And calls to arms

They who long have slept.

Men, valorous in action,

Who once gave their last full measure

That a nation might be born.

A free nation of a free people.

For mankind, a heritage of liberty,

Equality and justice.

Let them arise now.

Those men of Valley Forge and Gettysburg,

And whisper again to the hearts of men.

The blessing of freedom,

The courage to carry on,

Until from all the earth

Shall come the order.

Cease Firing,

For now men are free.

Symphony

Each day has its own melody,

With blended overtones of yesterday

And a muted rhythm of tomorrow.

We lift up our voices

In joy, sorrow, triumph, hate.

It is a symphony of the people.

The people's music,

Incredible in its beauty,

Equally incredible in its ugliness.

Listen!!

A sound, scarcely heard,

Yet stronger than the thunderous sound of war

That seeks to drown it out.

Muted, distant now,

But rising in volume, increasing in tempo.

The voice of the people

Singing their ageless tale of love, hate and woe,

Of sorrow, sympathy and joy.

The people will be heard.

If not today, then tomorrow or next year,

Or even a hundred or a thousand years from now.

They will be heard,

For the common man shall yet conquer the earth!

Not Alone

They do not stand alone at dawn,

On guard against the Rising Sun.

Others come to stand beside them.

Stealing up softly, one-by-one.

They do not stand alone at dawn,

When morning mist comes stealing 'round,

But others come to stand on guard,

Called by a phantom bugle sound.

Men in tatters and cocked blue hats,

Led by one, tall and brave,

General Washington called again,

To stand with these of the land of the brave.

The man named Lee, stalwart, unshaken,

Stands with ghosts in storm-scarred gray,

Whose eyes, undaunted by defeat,

Hold comradeship for foes of yesterday.

Comradeship for men in Union blue,

Free men against a common foe, united now,

To inspire, to lead the living heroes

Who, to a tyrant's yoke will not bow.

Abe Lincoln, one time rail-splitter,

Then leader, patriot, and now saint,

Looks with troubled eyes upon the world of evil

That Hell alone can paint

Pioneers who stood unconquerable

Against hunger, defeat and despair,

To make from hostile wilderness

A home in the land of the free and the fair

No, they do not stand alone,

All men who lived or died

That freedom on earth might be

Are standing with them, side-by-side

I Am An American

I am an American.

God make me worthy of such a title

As kings might be proud to bear.

Let me have the faith and courage, Lord,

That is born of freedom.

Make me see the endless parade:

The great, the small, the mighty, the weak,

The rich, the poor, the young and the old.

Make me see the land, the rolling plains,

The mountains raising snow-capped peaks to the skies;

The north and south, the east and west;

The azure blue of the sky

And the rich brown of the earth.

Let me see the freedoms, Lord,

The freedoms that let us lift up our voices in song

And our hearts in prayer.

Let me say, Lord…

Oh, let me pray…

I am an American.

Prayer

There is a prayer I say.

It is a single word,

Yet holds for me all promise of days to come.

One word: Peace.

Peace for hungry hearts that now are lonely;

For children's' answered prayers;

For tired men in battle scarred dress,

Who have all but forgotten such a word;

For waiting mothers.

Peace. Peace for the very dead

Who lie beneath blue-green waters

And the soil of distant shores.

Surely they must wait the coming of quiet,

When thundering cannon will roar no more

And they might sleep.

Peace. Peace for a weary world

That knows now only weeping;

And blood red dawns;

Marching me;

And grief bowed nations.

This is my prayer:

Peace…

For the village,

For the nation,

For the world,

For man,

For dreams,

For hopes.

Peace…

To bring faith again to men's hearts,

To live,

Love and be happy,

Having no fear for tomorrow,

Nor fear, ever again.

Forever More

I am an American,

Born of a freedom that has long endured,

And it shall yet endure,

For so I have pledged myself.

I did not make this land,

It was made for me by others who came before,

But with God's help I shall keep it.

Just as they kept it for me,

So shall I keep it for my children who shall follow after.

I look to the broad horizons of my country.

I stand on the earth,

And lift my eyes toward the blue dome of the skies,

Knowing that God dwells therein.

I am not one, but many.

I am every race, every creed,

Every man or woman who has desired and found freedom.

Freedom to work, to love, and to learn,

To find new paths to better things.

That is part of my heritage,

Looking for something that is better,

And finding it.

Now, in this weary night of war,

I can turn my eyes to the past

And find the courage to meet the darkness,

The faith, knowing that tomorrow will be good,

That man has ever found in his eternal guest.

And because it has been known,

It can never die again.

I am an American.

It is a prayer I say each day, each hour

For it is within me,

A part of me,

Always.

I Wonder

I wonder

If God must not grow weary

Of the multitude of burdens cast on Him

By thoughtless ones, like myself

Who come with petty cares,

Forgetting those whose cares are great

And who can find no other way

To ease the weight of sorrow

Far beyond the simple shadow that we could

Disperse with a smile

And yet, I know…

That God,

Like the father who listens with a patient smile

To a small son's woes,

Does find time to hear and comfort me.

Fulfillment

Each day I must live to the hilt,

Every hour, every moment.

Of its joys, of its tears,

Not one precious drop shall I let go untasted.

From the first pale fingers of dawn

Until the evening star dips below the ridge,

I must seek and ever find

The secret of life.

Perhaps, again and again, the thorns

Shall prick my fingers.

But the rose shall be mine.

Perhaps I shall stumble on the mountain path,

But I shall reach the top,

And the world will be at my feet

Pride

I cry not,

Though within me, my heart begs

To let the mourning be heard.

But still, I hold my head high

And my eyes snap defiance

At any who would give me sympathy.

And I see their looks of sympathy

Change to scorn.

"You are without heart",

They challenge me.

"You can not show grief."

"How could you have shown love?"

But he had known,

And I had known,

That this hour would be.

So we had taken our lives.

And each hour, we filled with happiness.

Our love filled our days

Until they overflowed with joy.

Now I weep not

Nor pity take,

For have we not lived more in these brief years

Than many who reach the full span.

And so, though my heart

Will mourn within me,

For the years I must yet go alone,

I will keep the pledge I made with him,

And proudly go my way.

Give Me Until Tomorrow

Give me until tomorrow

And I will smile again.

Give me until tomorrow

To find the sunshine

In place of the rain.

For I know I shall find the stars,

And love again will come my way.

But give me until tomorrow

To say goodbye to yesterday's dream.

The handwriting above the article and pictures that appeared in The Washington Post for Sunday, September 13, 1942 reads "Your daughter in formal 20 hostesses in formals"

All That I Desire

All that I desire

Is to know again,

Even for one brief moment,

Though it be but in memory,

The contentment that I found with you.

Then I will know that these black hours of fury

Cannot take from me,

The peace that once was mine.

Though I die,

Though my body shatters to a million fragments,

Still, they cannot touch my heart, my soul,

Because they are safe with you always.

No Rendezvous

I have no rendezvous with death.

I must only sit and wait

For that which will never come.

My life began with ringing bells and joy,

And ended.

He kept his rendezvous, but alone.

I have left not, but memory

Of what might have been.

For our span of happiness was all too brief

To leave behind even a faded rose.

God, why must women always wait?

I would that I had a rendezvous,

Could feel my blood surge up in acclamation,

Rushing to meet death

In a last mighty strength of will,

By his side!

But no, I must only watch and wait

For that which will never come.

I Kneel To Pray

I kneel to pray…

Then, ashamed, I lower, even bow my head

And say,

Please God, forgive.

These many days,

I found no need to pray…

To even thank Thee

For blessings bestowed with thy generous hand.

But now…

When sorrow takes its measure,

I come, like the ungrateful child that I am,

And seek solace and understanding

From the source that never fails.

Father

Father, we are thankful for so much

Sunlight falling like a benediction

Through our windows

For a child's unrestrained laughter

And for a Grandmothers' gentile smile;

For the knowledge that life is good;

For harvest time;

For a teacher's patience;

For the mountain's grandeur;

For the change of seasons;

For the greatness of men who were our Statesmen;

And for our history that holds so

Much of promise for tomorrow;

For our children's prayers;

For the living testimony of the old;

For music and those who make it;

For hope and faith that shines like a

Beacon throughout all our days.

For all this, dear Father, we thank Thee.

Our hearts are happy in our knowledge of Thee.

Prophecy Of Spring

It was so gay,

Standing on its pedestal, alone,

In that great window.

It was like a pagan queen

Set down in some sedate and dismal throne room.

And so, though the skies were gray,

And flakes of snow settled down

Among the hurrying crowd.

I knew that spring was surely coming soon.

Bare branches of wind blown trees

Could not deny the fact,

While in that show window

An Easter bonnet reigned supreme.

Alone

I woke up crying last night

And reached to take his hand.

It was not there,

For halfway round the world from me

It held a gun.

I sang a love song,

But it had no melody

Because a thousand leagues away

He sang a marching song.

It wasn't always so.

Once he walked beside me,

Taking my hand when night was dark,

Helping me count a million stars.

He was there to lead me

When the way was rough,

To sing with me an ageless love song.

I am alone now

And every day is a thousand years

But when he comes back to me

And the cannon's roar has ceased,

He shall take my hand again

And I shall walk alone no more.

1941 Company A, 31st Combat Engineers Battalion

Our Brothers

To those of the 31st whom we knew

We have paused

And in pausing have found a gift more precious

Than a King's ransom could buy,

Comradship.

Tomorrow we go our separate ways,

Tomorrow, each will seek his own destiny,

But today is ours forever.

When we leave this hour

We take a bit of the heart of each other.

Our paths may never cross again,

But here's a toast to brothers,

To brothers tried and true.

To the long, the short and the tall.

To Joe of Boston, the cocky Irish grin and cocked hat;

To Knobby and his song that never ends;

To Mathew, watching like a mother hen his wandering chicks;

To the other Joe, tall and boyish, with a heart-warming smile;

To Red, cynical, yet knight-errant;

To George, sleepy, hungry, thirsty;

To Pop and his confessing moods;

To Pineapple's deep-throated chuckle;

To JB's slow, teasing smile.

Yes, War is thunder,

War is hate,

And War is fear,

But War also makes brothers of men.

So all hail to these our brothers

1941 Zelda the Coast Guard Recruit

Recruit

I catch a furtive glance in the window..

As I pass by.

Beside me is reflected another girl.

Her trim uniform makes my gay dress

Seem as the faded rose of last summer,

Found between the pages of some unread book.

Halfway down the block a strident voice tells the headlines of a new battle.

In my heart I see that far-away beach head.

I turn back, cross a threshold and pass a guard.

He grins and accepts my pass.

I climb to the second floor and enter a door.

Over the door is a sign:

"Recruiting".

On Our Way

The train hurries through the night.

Outside my window, America passes by.

My thoughts hurry even faster.

Where am I going?

How came I here?

Every moment carries me further

From all that is familiar.

Night comes. In the blackness of the window

I see reflections of all the rest.

Some sit quietly, others sing and laugh,

One reads a book and I see quiet

Tears fall upon its pages.

Then, from the very end of the car,

The sound of a harmonica comes forth.

A voice joins, and another, and yet another.

Soon the sound swells and all sing.

In that moment fear dies, doubt leaves

And together we sing.

A simple melody, yet the answer to everything:

"It's a Grand Old Flag!"

1941 Zelda the Coast Guard Boot

Boot

The streets lie hot and dry beneath the Florida sun.

The truck, with its cargo of boots and baggage ,

Rumbles across the bridge and we are quiet.

The peaceful Sunday sky welcomes us.

But fear of the unknown holds us fast.

When the doors open wide to untrained marching feet,

I take one last look before I turn to red arrows

Pointing the way to new adventure.

And, for the first time,

I cross the "quarterdeck"

And climb the "ladders"

That will be my thoroughfare in the weeks to come

1942 Zelda's Poetry on the cover

Morning Colors

I wear a suit of blue today.

Once, in now what seems worlds ago,

I wore colors as gay as flowers.

Awaiting the trumpets of peace,

And instead, I find my colors in a flag

Rising on a white mast.

The breeze of early morning catches it

And flings it full…

And I know that half-way around the world from me

Another such flag rises

Because men have given their homage

In blood and fire and hell

So that this flag may always rise!

I am proud to be a sister in arms

With the men who carry this flag,

And plant it deep in the soil of a far-flung island;

And land that has known naught before

But the conqueror's tread and flags of hate.

Yes, I wear the blue,

And I am proud to wear it!

I pray that I might have the grace to wear it well!

Taps

I lie in the thick, black quiet.

Through the unblinded windows

The thin sickle of a new moon casts pale shadows.

Suddenly, there in the dark,

I am alone for the first time in many days.

My mind wanders to other times.

A quiet sadness fills my heart.

God and man seem far away

And there is no tomorrow.

Then, through the night,

Comes the distant clear sound of a bugle.

"All is well."

At last I sleep

While taps fades like a benediction.

Sunrise In Sick Bay

I lie, watching dawn

Touch the edges of the world with pale light

And, as I watch, she becomes more bold

And flings her mantle over all that lies in her path.

I lie breathless, waiting for that distant cloud

To gather up and hold the full glory of morning.

Outside my window a single bird sings a high sweet song.

Men arise and go about their labors,

For dawn has come.

Zelda in Uniform, 1943

Farewell

I am saying goodbye.

In the short weeks since first we came

We have found a great comradeship.

We part now as sisters in blue.

Perhaps our paths may never cross again

And in this thought there is sadness

For so much we have shared.

Yet I look forward to new places.

So, though there is reluctance in this farewell,

I turn eager eyes toward new duties,

And fold away memories of this place

Acknowledgments

"Patriotism" was first published as an editorial by the Army Medical Corps Newspaper, This N' That, April 24, 1943.

'Our Father Which Art In Heaven', an editorial, was first published in the Penthouse Pickin's, April 25, 1943.

"In Lafayette Square" dated May 15, 1943, was written in Lafayette Square while across the street at the White House, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Winston Churchill were meeting.

"This Is Washington", is dated May 28, 1943 at 9:56 a.m.

"Morning Colors", by then Seaman 2nd Class Zelda Lorraine Brown, first appeared in the U. S. Coast Guard paper, A Spar, exact date unknown, approximately June 1943. It was also published in several other periodicals and numerous requests for copies were received.

'Easter', an editorial was first published in the Penthouse Pickin's, April 1, 1945.

'A Tree' (1972) was printed by the Salt Lake City Garden Club for Arbor Day, 1972.

In My Garden - Her School Years

I am calling Lorrie Brown

Behold - the Poet Laureate of the Spars.
When Uncle Sam put her in uniform She did not need to lay aside her pen.
He found her verses heartened up His fighting men.
And so I see within the mists of time,
Lorrie - what e'er her duties are
Will glorify them in rhyme.

(The above tribute was found on a 2-page memento 'year book' of the 1942 graduating class of Spars)

The Writings of Zelda Lorraine Brown Kline

Edited by Owen A. Kline and Michael E. Kline. Assistant Photo Editor David O. Kline

Copyright @1999 The Kline Family Organization, Inc.

First published in the United States of America by The Kline Family Organization, Inc. 4381 West 5375 South Kearns, Utah 84118

FOREWORD

A Tribute By Her Husband And Best Friend

The very best thing that ever happened to me in my lifetime was meeting and marrying Zelda Lorraine Brown. Without her my life would have taken an entirely different course. We had a very good marriage and I believe that we were somewhat successful in raising our family. Without a doubt we had our moments of disagreements and would flare out at each other but they only lasted for a short time. One or the other of us would apologize. It really didn’t matter who was right or wrong. I cannot recall a time that we ever went to bed mad at each other but there were times that I wish that I had taken her advice. I would have been much better off financially but I over-ruled her because I wanted to help one or the other of my children and my investments did not accomplish what I had hoped.


Zelda was not very interested in worldly ways or worldly possessions. She truly loved her religion and was extremely well versed in the scriptures. She loved the church and tried very hard to abide by the teachings of the apostles.

I’m sure that in many ways that I was a disappointment to her. I did not do the things that would have pleased her most and I truly regret that I did not. I know that she would have been much happier. I pray that in the hereafter that I can make up for my shortcomings and that I can spend eternity with her.

Owen Arthur Kline

Introduction

This work is a compilation of the poetry, prose, stories and editorials written by Zelda Lorraine Brown Kline, along with tributes, and writings by family and friends. We included as many of her writings as we could gather from her manuscripts and notes on notebooks, scraps of paper and box tops. We know that not all of them are of great literary worth to the world, but several are. They all mean something special to her extended family. We hope that you will enjoy them all and find your own special treasures.

Zelda was born in Ogden, Utah eight years before the stock market 'Crash of 1929' and before the 'Great Depression' started. She was in her teens at the depths of the depression. Then, just as her heart was about to find the joy of her life, the Second World War erupted; changing everything about the direction her life was taking. She went from the loss of things to the loss of friends and yet her spirit knew hope strong and bright. Her story is definitely a chronicle of the times in which she lived.

Except for those works published in periodicals which have long since ceased to exist, most of the items in this compilation are not accompanied by any dates. They have not been widely distributed, although most of them have been shared with family and friends. Dates of publication do not accompany most of the items, however, the periods for some of them have been guessed at by the topics.

Easter

"And upon the third day, He arose ---"

Death could no longer conquer man.

For here he was, freed forever from its fear

By Him who wore the crown of thorns

And died upon a cross.

That cross stood upon a hill

So that men, through the ages,

Looking up from everyday tasks

Have seen it.

And seeing it have known that not death,

But life is to be found in its shadow.

The Dreamer

He would sigh as he caught a glint

Of gold in the sky,

Of a sunset in the fall,

And wish that he could put it on canvas

To show us all.

He would sigh again

At the soft musical pattern of rain

And wish that he could compose a score

To pass the sound on to generations more.

He wished that he could wield a mighty pen

And write the doings of great and common men

So that when his time had past,

His memory and works would last.

But all he does is sigh

While his dreams go hurrying by.

All he dreams to do

Very seldom comes true.

Who is this man who dreams so?

Why, don't you know?

Perhaps it is the man next door,

Or what's more,

Perhaps it's you.

Vision

"Where is my mother?", she asked.

She was small,

With dusky curls framing questioning eyes of gray.

I turned my head from her gaze,

Not knowing how to answer.

I was asking too. What could I say?

Fumblingly, the answer came.

"Somewhere in Heaven."

Those eyes lifted then to the blue arch.

"Oh, I see.", she gave a happy cry.

Then a tiny finger pointed up,

And pointed to where a single cloud

Floated like a billowing white dress

On the azure blue carpet of the sky.

Thanksgiving

Early winter and the air frosty,

Pale golden with early morning sunlight…

And I came from the warm, snug comfort of sleep.

This is a special day, my excited pulses tell me.

Yet why?

Then I remember

For already the air bears the faint fragrance

Of spice and roasting fowl.

I find the kitchen warm and gay,

An enchanted place of many colors:

The warm brown ginger cookies;

The crimson of cranberries;

The gold of pumpkin pie,

With flour strewn here and there like a small snow storm,

Mid the gleaming pots and pans.

I do a small jig for sheer joy, for being alive.

Then the woman with the wise eyes,

Filled with patience and love,

Kisses my crown of tangled locks

And lifts my face to ask,

"Did you think to pray?"

I drop my eyes - "No."

"Not even a small prayer

Of thanks for a golden day?"

"For all the blessings you know so well,

For friends and family?"

Then tears come

And I kneel with one word,

"Thanks!"

I, The Earth

I, the earth, am weary.

My face scarred by centuries of marching feet and strife.

Many times I have gathered my children to my breast

And fed and clothed them from my bounty

Only to see them turn to hate.

See them take my riches stored within me

And use them to destroy

What it takes us both so long to build

And the rich red blood of their young ones

Comes back to me

But still they stand

With futile broken sword in hand

Knowing not even yet the price of hate

Nor the message of peace.

Drought

The sky is a blue glass bowl turned upside down.

Soft gray clouds hurry by like silent shadows.

Taunting weary mortals

Who pray for the surcease of falling rain.

The Rockies

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.

And when all else fails

I shall go again unto them;

For long have they sheltered me.

My first knowledge of strength

Came as I looked to their towering blue heights.

I found infinity in snow-capped peaks

Touching the very dome of heaven.

And peace in the security of green valleys

Beneath their benevolent shadows.

Living

I must learn to live in my own day

Not on the valor of ages past

Nor on the promise of years to come

Without the deeds of this day

Past and future are as naught

And would have and will be in vain.

Heaven

A kneeling child,

Folded hands,

And face uplifted in reverent prayer:

Untouched by hate or sorrow.

But filled with wondering awe.

Oh God!

I would that thus I could kneel again,

And have the faith to find once more

The heaven that that child found.

Two Plates Of Pride

Two plates stood side by side on the mantle. One was made of finely-cut glass with a gown of pink, glass lace. She was haughty and dignified as she stood straight and stiff beside her companion. She was horrified that she, the most beautiful of glass, should be placed so close to one of such age and ugliness as was her companion plate. And, in truth, he was ugly and old. His pewter surface was cracked and stained and his age was belied by the tarnished surface of a once bright face.

One night, when the clock struck twelve and the mortals were asleep, the old pewter plate spoke to the new glass one. To some this may seem strange, but there are others who are well versed in fairy tales and know that at the stroke of midnight it is possible for inanimate objects to speak. They may do so until the fingertips of dawn are seen.

"You're a proud one, aren't you?" His voice was as cracked as his tarnished surface.

"Were you speaking to me?" Her voice was high and shrill. Perhaps it would have been sweet were it not for her dignity.

"Most certainly I was speaking to you." he answered. "Young lady, you have a lot to learn. You are young and new and still beautiful. What do you know of that world that you should be so proud?"

"Why, I have been in a great factory." She answered proudly. "I remember well the first time I awoke. I was lying on a great belt that carried me through many rooms and past noisy machinery. At the end there were pretty girls who picked me up and packed me in straw and placed me in a great dark box with many others of my family. For a long time I remained in my straw and when I was finally unpacked and removed from the box I found myself in a great, dimly lighted store. There I was placed upon a shelf with others of my family. Presently, the beautiful lady who is our mistress came in. She bought me immediately and I was wrapped in white tissue paper and brought here where I was placed on this mantle beside you. It is really a disgrace that I, who am such a beauty, should be placed beside you who has such a homely face." And she almost wept.

"Humph!", the old plate replied, "and you believe that you have reasons to be proud? You are yet a child in experience. Have you ever crossed great bodies of water and seen an Indian attack? I am old, very old. As old as this nation in which you have been made. I have seen children born, raised, have families of their own and die as old men, and still I have stayed. I too remember my first awakening, but it was in no great factory such as you describe. It was in a small cottage with a blue tile floor and a many-paned window above me. See the windmill upon my face? It is a picture of the windmill that could be seen through that very window, for I was made in Holland. An Englishman brought me to America the first time. Since then I have crossed the ocean four times more. George Washington once ate a meal upon my surface. I trembled upon a shelf while the guns of Fort Sumter roared around me. Upon me were placed the first grains of golden wheat of a western homesteader. Many, many are the tales of adventure I could tell if I but had the time."

The plate of pink glass changed her manner of dignity and hurt pride for one of reverence and pride of position. "Oh, please tell me more." She begged. But the dawn was already there. The night was over.

When the night was over and the mistress awoke in the morning, she found that her new plate had rolled close to the old one, as though they were in a spirit of confidence, and indeed they were.