Part 29

Patience.—“Nay, here be a one who tickleth with quill, I did hear ye put. Think ye not a one who putteth as me, be not a love o’ me? Yea, she be. And I tell thee a something that she will tell unto ye is true. Oft hath she sought for word that she might put, and lo, from whence she knoweth not it cometh.”

Miss J. said this was true.

Patience.—“Shall I then sing unto thee, wench?”

Miss J. expressed delight, and the song followed.

Ah, how do I to build me up my song for thee? Yea, and tell unto thee of Him. I’d shew unto thee His loving, I’d shew unto thee His very face. Do then to list to this my song.

Early hours, strip o’ thy pure, For ’tis the heart of Him. Earth, breathe deep thy busom, Yea, and rock the sea, For ’tis the breath of Him. Fields, burst ope thy sod, And fling thee loose thy store, For ’tis the robe of Him. Skies, shed thou thy blue, The depth of heaven, For ’tis the eyes of Him. Winter’s white, stand thou thick And shed thy soft o’er earth, For ’tis the touch of Him. Spring, shed thou thy loosened Laughter of the streams, For ’tis the voice of Him. Noon’s heat, and tire o’ earth, Shed thou of rest to His, For ’tis the rest of Him. Evil days of earth, Stride thou on and smite, For ’tis the frown of Him.

Earth, this, the chant o’ me, May end, as doth the works o’ man, But hark ye; Earth holdeth all That hath been; And Spring’s ope, and sowing O’ the Winter’s tide, Shall bear the Summer’s full Of that that be no more.

For, at the waking o’ the Spring, The wraiths o’ blooms agone Shall rise them up from out the mould And speak to thee of Him.

Thus, the songs o’ me, The works o’ thee, The Earth’s own bloom, Are HIM.

The interest of Dr. X. in this phenomenon brought an eminent psychologist, associated with one of the greatest state universities in the country, some distance from Missouri, for an interview with Patience. He shall be known here as Dr. V. With him and Dr. X. was Dr. K., a physician. Dr. V. sat at the board first, and Patience said to him:

“Here be a one, verily, that hath a sword. Aye, and he doth to wrap it o’er o’ silks. Yea, but I do say unto thee, he doth set the cups o’ measure at aright, and doth set not the word o’ me as her ahere (Mrs. Curran). Nay, not till he hath seen and tasted o’ the loaf o’ me; and e’en athen he would to take o’ the loaf and crumb o’ it to bits and look unto the crumb and wag much afore he putteth. And he wilt be assured o’ the truth afore the putting.”

This was discussed as a character delineation.

Patience.—“I’d set at reasoning. Since the townsmen do fetch aforth for the seek o’ me, and pry aneath the me o’ me, then do thou alike. Yea, put thou unto me.”

Dr. V.—“Why fear Death?”

Patience.—“Thou shouldst eat o’ the loaf (her writings). Ayea, ’tis right and meet that flesh shrinketh at the lash.”

Dr. V. was told of her poems on the fear of death.

Dr. V.—“What do you think of the attempts to investigate you? Is it right?”

Patience.—“Ayea. And thou hast o’ me the loaf o’ the me o’ me, and thou hast o’ it afar more than thou hast o’ thy brother o’ earth, and yet they seek o’ me and seek ever.”

Dr. V.—“Have you ever lived?”

Patience.—“What! Think ye that I be a prater o’ thy path and ne’er atrod? Then thou art afollied, for canst thou tell o’ here?”

Dr. V.—“When did you live on earth?”

Patience.—“A seed aplanted be watched for grow. Ayea, but the seed held athin the palm be but a seed, and Earth hath seeds not aplanted that she casteth forth, e’en as she would to cast forth me, do I not to cloak me much.”

Dr. V.—“I understand; but can you not answer a little clearer the question I put?”

Patience.—“The time be not ariped for the put o’ this.”

Dr. V.—“What does Lethe mean?”

Patience.—“This be a tracker! Ayea, ’tis nay a word o’ thy day or yet the word o’ thy brother, that meaneth unto me. I be a maker o’ loaf for the hungered. Eat thou. ’Tis not aright that thou shouldst set unto the feast athout thou art fed.”

By this she seemed to mean that she wanted him to read her writings and see what it is she is endeavoring to do. She continued:

“Brother, this be not a trapping o’ thy sword, the seeking o’ me. Nay, ’tis ahind a cloak I do for to stand, that this word abe, and not me.”