Part 31

“Yea, brother, hark unto the word o’ me, for thou dost seek amid the fields o’ Him! Aye, and ’tis, thou knowest, earth’s men that be afar amore awry athin the in-man than in the flesh. And ’tis the in-man o’ men thou knowest.”

Dr. R., a neurologist, gave hearty assent.

“Put thou unto me. (Question me.) ’Tis awish I be that ye weave.”

Dr. R.—“Do you see through Mrs. Curran’s eyes and hear through her ears?”

Patience.—“Even as thou hast spoke, it be. Aye, and yet I say me ’tis the me o’ me that knoweth much she heareth and seeth not.”

Then to a question had she ever talked before with anyone, she said: “Anaught save the flesh o’ me.”

“Fetch ye the wheel,” she commanded, “that I do sit and spin.”

This was one of her ways of saying that she desired to write on her story, and she dictated several hundred words of it, after which Dr. P. took the board and she said:

“What abe ahere? A one who seeth sorry and maketh merry! Yea, a one who leaveth the right hand o’ him unto its task, and setteth his left at doing awry o’ the task o’ its brothers. Aye, he doeth the labors o’ his brother, aye, and him. Do then, aweave.”

In compliance some more of the story was written, and then Dr. R. “wondered” why he could not write for Patience, to which she answered:

“Hark unto me, thou aside. Thou shalt put (say) ’tis her ahere (i.e., Mrs. Curran, who does it); ayea, and say much o’ word, and e’en set down athin thy heart thy word o’ what I be, and yet I tell thee, I be me! Aye, ever, and the word o’ me shall stand, e’en when thou and thou art ne’er ahere!

“E’en he who doth know not o’ the Here hath felt the tickle o’ my word, and seeketh much this hearth.

“Then eat thee well and fill thee up, and drink not o’ the brew o’ me and spat forth the sup. Nay, fill up thy paunch. ’Twill merry thee!”

Dr. P. asked her a question about her looks.

“’Tis a piddle he putteth,” she said.

* * * * *

And now we come to a sitting of a lighter character. There were present at this Dr. and Mrs. D., Mr. and Mrs. M. and Mrs. and Miss G.

“Aflurry I be!” cried Patience. “Aye, for the pack o’ me be afulled o’ song and weave, and e’en word to them ahere.

“Yea, but afirst there be a weave, for the thrift-bite eateth o’ me.” (The bite of her thrifty nature.)

Some of the story followed and then she said to Mrs. M., who sat at the board:

“Here be aone who doth to lift up the lid o’ the brew’s pot, that she see athin! Aye, Dame, there abe but sweets athin the brew for thee. Amore, for e’en tho’ I do brew o’ sweets and tell unto thee, I be a dealer o’ sours do I to choose! Ayea, and did I to put the spatting o’ thee athin the brew, aye verily ’twould be asoured a bit!” Then deprecatingly: “’Tis a piddle I put!

“Yea, for him aside who sitteth that he drink o’ this brew do I to sing; fetch thee aside, thee the trickster o’ thy day!”

There being so many “tricksters” in the room, they were at a loss to know which one she meant. Mr. C. asked if she meant Dr. D., but Patience said:

“Thinkest thou he who setteth astraight the wry doth piddle o’ a song? Anay, to him who musics do I to sing.”

This referred to Mr. G., who is a musician and a composer, and he took the board. Patience at once gave him this song:

Nodding, nodding, ’pon thy stem, Thou bloom o’ morn, Nodding, nodding to the bees, Asearch o’ honey’s sweet. Wilt thou to droop and wilt the dance o’ thee, To vanish with the going o’ the day? Hath the tearing o’ the air o’ thy sharped thorn Sent musics up unto the bright, Or doth thy dance to mean anaught Save breeze-kiss ’pon thy bloom?

Hath yonder songster harked to thee, And doth he sing thy love? Or hath he tuned his song of world’s wailing o’ the day? Doth morn shew thee naught save thy garden’s wall That shutteth thee away, a treasure o’ thy day? Doth yonder hum then spell anaught, Save whirring o’ the wing that hovereth O’er thy bud to sup the sweet?

Ah, garden’s deep, afulled o’ fairies’ word, And creeped o’er with winged mites, Where but the raindrops’ patter telleth thee His love— Doth all this vanish then, at closing o’ the day? Anay. For He hath made a one who seeketh here, And storeth drops, and song, and hum, and sweets, And of these weaveth garland for the earth. From off his lute doth drip the day of Him.