Beatrice: Your Shining Hour

1901 Standing on the platform at the Nipissing Junction Station and waiting for the call “All Aboard!” fourteen-year-old Beatrice looked back at her grandfather and said her last goodbyes then leaned in for an awkward hug. She picked up her suitcase with her left hand, her lunch basket with her right and proceeded to board the train. Feeling downhearted and forsaken, Beatrice searched to find an empty seat by the window. Her heart was racing as she sat down and organized her few belongings silently praying, “Please God, take care of me”! With steadfast faith, she embarked on her journey to United States of America. Poetry, part of her life from the time she could hold a pencil, soon became her almost daily outlet. Her natural gift for words allowed her to express her thoughts and feelings and to give her solace. My Childhood’s Home My day’s work is completed and I’m sitting all alone, Above me are the gas lights burning bright, My mind is turning backward to the things of long ago, I’m thinking of my childhood’s home to-night. The old vine-covered cottage in my fancy I can see, - The pretty brook that rippled past the door, And as I dream about it in a distant land to-night I love it as I never did before. In fancy I am picturing the apple trees in bloom, And cherry trees that blossomed on the hill, And now as I recall the days I sought those blossoms rare My heart aches and my eyes begin to fill. I hear the cow-bells tinkle on the distant hills away, I hear the robin calling to his mate; I’m back again in happy days when I was free from care And swung upon the little garden gate. On either side the door there grew two purple lilac trees, And every spring their fragrance filled the air: While on the lawn my parents built three rustic rockeries To lend a touch of beauty here and there; But I am only dreaming of the home that once was mine, The country home so cheerful and so bright, May Heaven guard that little spot beyond the lofty pines, The home that I am thinking of to-night. 1903 Circus Day When you think about the pleasures That have brightened up your way Was your very biggest moment Not the thrill of Circus Day When your hometown seemed the finest In a fine and happy land And the ball grounds had been taken For a busy one-day stand? You recall the big procession That you followed down the street, And the cracker jack and peanuts That were such a special treat; When you wore your Sunday oxfords And your legs were firm and brown On those special days in childhood When the circus was in town. How you loved the dancing ponies And their bareback riders too! All the big tent’s many wonders Made it Fairyland, to you, - From the acrobats and tumb’lers To the silly, painted clown; You seemed very near to heaven When the Circus was in town.   To A Jack Pine Oh, Jack Pine, symbol of the North, Whose fragrant boughs weave to and fro, While rooted firmly in the earth You challenge all the winds that blow. Serene and tall you gently sway And hold the sunbeams to your breast; Among your limbs, at close of day, The songbirds find a place to rest. You seem so steady, strong and sure Within your hard, rough bark encased; It takes you ages to mature, - You never feel the need for haste. Oh, Jack Pine, symbol of the North, I take to heart your lesson true; May He who placed us each on earth Keep me as strong and firm as you. 1942   Thankful Attitude No need to own a font of land For every time I see The sky and woods, - the lake and sand, They all belong to me. No orchestra may come to play My favourite symphony, But songbirds call for crumbs each day And stay to sing for me. I may not have a thing of worth As far as some can see, But all the worthwhile things of earth Are spread in front of me. You’d learn the secret? Cultivate A thankful attitude, You’ll find no wealth can ever rate With love and gratitude. 1952 (Written for Granddaughter Linda, 7 years old )   A Perfect Evening This is a perfect evening: Overhead Bright clouds have banked themselves against the blue To be reflected in the lake beneath; While white gulls soar and circle gracefully, Doubtless intent on some small darting fish That sport themselves oblivious to their fate; Above the hills is hung a thin, faint haze, The type of haze bespeaking summer heat. Tomorrow will be warm, but ere it comes How sweet the cool perfection of this hour In which the weary soul may find itself And meditate or even dream awhile. The white clouds turn to rose and then to gold, - We watch their bright reflection on the lake; Its clear, still surface looks like so much glass For there is not the faintest breeze astir. We hear small children laughing as they take One last cool dip ere scampering to bed, While parents plan a few more fishing trips Before these halcyon holidays must end, A whippoorwill calls faintly from afar As down the shore the cottage lights are lit; - Scarce any other sound can now be heard Except our rhythmic dipping of the oars. The darkness settles quickly, so we turn Shoreward to share the cottage we call home, And on this lovely evening to our hearts There comes a peace in tune with Nature’s mood: We know not what the coming day may hold Because a wise Creator planned it so, But no unborn tomorrow has the power To mar the perfect evening we have known. 1953