A Mother's Place

Mothers were made for the home,
no doubt,
But mothers were made for more;
Mothers were made to go out in
the world,
To teach it to climb, to soar.
And if they are bound at home for
a time
By duties they may not slight,
At least they can stir in those
small, sweet souls
The spirit that starts them
aright.
And when they have guided as far
as they can
The ones that they call their
own--
Ah, then is the time they must give
to the world
The wisdom that's theirs alone.

E.G.H.

Regrets (With apologies to Tennyson)

In the spring the writer's fancy
Lightly turns to thoughts of gold,
And she sets her brains to working
Heedless of catarrh or cold.

Visions sees of new spring dresses
And the hatter's gay display,
Wishes she had thought last autumn
Of the things she'd want in May!

E.G.H.

Look! The Christmas candles
In the window frame
Bear a Christmas message
Iin the Christ-child's name.

E.G.H.

'Tis New Year's Day, a time for all new things,
For courage, hope, and trying of our wings.
For looking forth upon the year's new days,
And turning to new ways.

E.G.H

Shine, O Christmas star--
Give to thy people
Some of the peace that thy light foretold,
Some of the frankincense, myrrh and gold,
Some of the joy of those days of old.
Shine, O star!

E.G.H.

"Peace on earth, good will to men!"
As we hear those words again,
Christmas peace and Christmas cheer
Bring the climax of the year.

E.G.H.

Christmas In Central California

Bluest skies are o'er us shining,
Not a snowdrift anywhere
Frosty nights and dazzling mornings,
Zippy sparkle in the air.

Far away the tops of mountains
Whitely gleam beneath the sun,
While below, to join their fellows,
Dancing little streamlets run.

But down here amid the valleys
Fresh-plowed fields lie rich and black,
Save where sheen of emerald glistens
Where the grain is coming back.

In the hills the toyon berries
Flash their scarlet 'mid the green,--
California's brilliant holly,
Always loved where'er 'tis seen.

In the gardens still are blossoms,
Laggard roses still are sweet;
And, as first of spring's forerunners,
Here and there a primrose neat.

Not the Christmas tradition,
Icy winds and glistening snow.
yet the soul of Christmas finds us
Here where the gentler breezes blow.

Edith Granger Hawkes

Christmas candles and Christmas stars
Come to the world together.
They bring a message of Christmas cheer
Along with the Christmas weather.

E.G.H.

Joy to the world-the old song comes unsought
And lingers like a benison in the soul.
Bearing good will to all, and peace and love,
And blessed giving, too, from pole to pole.

E.G.H.

The Dancing Child

Like a leaf in the wind,
Blowing here, blowing there;
Darting up, dropping down,
In the cool autumn air.
Arms outflung, poised on toe,
Like a flash on the sward;
Glancing back as she flies
Arrow-like from the cord.
Arms on high, whirling round,
As from sheer joy of heart,
Now she laughs and is gone.
Is it life? Is it art?
Like a leaf in the wind,
Blowing here, blowing there;
She's a thistle-down puff
Floating free in the air.

Edith Granger Hawkes

Progress

When Grandma went to school,
If she but broke a rule
She sat upon a stool,
And wore a cap.

When Mother took her turn,
She had so much to learn
She says she used to yearn
to take a nap.

But I have lovely times!
I make the nicest rhymes,
And listen to the chimes,
And learn to cook.

I learn to figure pay,
And how to model clay,
And how grass turns to hay,
And read a book.

I learn from radio
And from a picture show
How minds and bodies grow
And what they do.

I travel up and down
And know my native town,
And learn how not to drown
And his'try too.

I learn to make a chair,
And how to do my hair,
And how to mend a tear,
And how to dance.

Oh, I have lots of fun!
I sew and swim and run,
Shoot camera and gun.
This is advance!

Edith Granger Hawkes 1891

Canadian River

Within a gorge of grey, sharp rock
A river rushes, tumbles, swirls;
No sky reflected in its depths,
No life, no bird its wings unfurls.

No trees or bushes on its banks,
But bare, flat rocks above, below;
Yet in the crevices in June
The tender, gallant bluebells grow.

Edith Granger Hawkes 1891

(This poem received honorable mention in February 1941 in League of Western Writers Poetry Contest, sponsored by Seattle Branch No. One.)