IVORY PALACES by Martha Snell Nicholson

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"Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven" (Matthew 18:10)

TO A NEW BABY

O sweet wee stranger lying there,
Come from another sphere;
I bid you welcome, though perhaps
You may not like it here.

It isn't very nice just now,
This world in which we live-
We quarrel, steal, we lie and fight,'
I fear that it must give

A strange impression and a shock
To one whose candid eyes
Have only very lately been
Withdrawn from Paradise.

You dream of Heaven, lying there,
And smiling in your sleep;
Then waking, you forget, and lost,
And desolate, you weep.

We too forgot. And so, my Sweet,
While I apologize
For this sad world to which you came,
I earnestly advise,

Small visitor from other realms
You foolishly forsook,
That you remember all you can,
And keep your backward look!

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"Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name" (Matthew 6:9)

OUR FATHER

I cannot help but wonder
How we must seem to God. . . .
In heavenly holy angels
With shining robes, and shod

With sandals of bright splendor,
Fill all the listening skies
With symphonies, as hourly
Their songs of praise arise.

The only theme in Heaven
The richness of His grace;
Its only light, the glory
And wonder of His face;

Only His perfection,
No hint of sin or shame;
Only adoration
And praise of His dear name.

And so I often ponder
What we must seem to Him,
Poor, groping, crawling creatures
With blinded eyes or dim.

Squabbling and back-biting,
Quick to lie and fight;
O dear Lord in Heaven,
How canst Thou bear the sight?

Sordid and malicious,
No vision and no dream;
We hoard our paltry pennies
And cheat and plot and scheme;

No time for others' troubles,
Concerned with but our own;
Self-absorbed, forgetful
Of God and His dear Son.

Unworthy and unlovely!
Oh how can it be
That God can still be loving
And wanting you and me!

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ONLY A KEY

Only a key to a little house;
But I cannot understand
Why it should throb, so pulsing and warm,
As I hold it in my hand.

A magic key, which unlocked the door
To our kingdom of deep content;
To rooms which are mellow with memories
Where my Love and I have spent

Long golden hours of the dear dead years
Which never can come again.
Now I give the key into alien hands,
But the moment is fraught with pain

And I cling to the key, so strangely warm
That I wonder, as quick tears start,
Instead of the key to a small white house
Have I sod the key to my heart?

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THE WORRIER

Worry, worry, worry, worry!
She knew worry is a sin,
But each night she'd worry, worry
Till her loved ones all were in.

Worry, worry, worry, worry!
It was like a funeral pall.
If they climbed up on a ladder
She was sure that they would fall.

Even at the hour of midnight
She would steal from bed to bed,
Listen to the sleepers breathing
Making sure they were not dead.

If they sneezed they had pneumonia,
If they coughed it was TB,
Till the very air about her
Grew as blue as blue could be.

Late from school? Then she was frantic,
Sure that they had been kidnapped.
Every tumble brought her running
Positive their bones had snapped.

Every stray dog had the rabies,
Every tramp was criminal;
Till, at last, it seemed it really
Wasn't safe to live at all!

When they were out in traffic,
Her alarm was so extreme
That, one night, she slept exhausted,
And she dreamed a worried dream.

Dreamed that God had grown impatient
With His child who worried so,
For He personally managed
All thathappened here below.

Dreamed that God had grown impatient
With His child who worried so,
For He personally managed
All that happened here below.

Dreamed He took her loved ones so she
Needn't worry any more.
There they were, all safe in heaven -
None were left to worry for.

In her dream, then, she was sobbing
"Even though my worries cease,
Lord, I find I cannot bear it,
Such an empty, bitter peace!"

When she woke they were around her,
All her children and her John.
Did it teach her? Not a lesson!
Happily she worries on.

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"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also" (Matthew 6:19-21).

BANK BOOKS

Listen while I tell the story of a man whom once I knew,
And then thank your heavenly FATHER if that person is not you.
Now he had a little hobby, and this hobby that he had
He was sure had made him wealthy, and he thought it made him glad.

It was just a little handful of the thinnest little books,
But he used to count them over, and he gazed with loving looks
At the ever growing totals, and he wished that it were more,
But he never stopped to wonder just what he was saving for.

He would come to church and Bible class, and when they passed the plate
He was sure the dime he parted with was more than adequate.
He would flee finance committees with an obvious unrest,
But if cornered he would murmur, "Well, you see, I'm somewhat pressed."

And he always hoped the preacher wouldn't preach upon the tithe,
For the very thought was painful, and it made him fairly writhe.
But he nodded his approval, looking dignified and grave,
Though too often his approval was the only thing he gave.

Thus his life was slowly passing, and he never guessed nor knew
That his poor, lean soul grew leaner as his hoarded treasures grew
In almost direct proportion. Then one day he kept a date
With that grimmest of grim reapers, and he sadly learned, too late,

(With his lean soul gone, his body snugly tucked within the grave,)
That our bank account in Heaven is the only one we have.
And my heart is filled with pity for that poor old rich man who
Never learned the joy of giving . . . and I'm glad it wasn't you.

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ADVENTURE

Although I walk sedately
In sober dress and plain,
The very Queen of Sheba
Would hardly dare disdain.

The robes I would be wearing
If I could wing my way
(I often do in fancy,)
To skies I watch all day.

My gown, the blue of heaven
Tinted and sunset-kissed,
Or in a pensive moment
Some trailing veil of mist.

The moon a silver crescent
To shine upon my brow,
And comets' hair - no queerer
Than hats they're wearing now.

And in the purple twilight
I'd string the stars like beads;
In those dark velvet meadows
They grow as thick as weeds.

The larger stars a necklace
To scandalize the town,
The smaller ones for buttons
To brighten up my gown.

I'd hang the round horizons
Like bracelets on my arm,
And ride the farthest heavens
Upon the wings of storm!

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THE INDEFATIGABLE GARDENER

I'm planting my garden
As well you can see.
Oh, planting a garden
Is rapture for me. . . .
I'm one with the earth,
And the grass, and the tree.

I'm weeding my garden,
I hope you observe.
It's giving my back
This permanent curve.
I hope I'll be getting
The crop I deserve.

I'm spraying my garden,
A bug must be tough
To weather a dose
Of this redolent stuff.
For me and my wife
Just one whiff is enough.

I'm reaping my garden
And I am content
With the labor and time,
And the money I spent. . . .
Do you know where that latest
Seed catalog went?

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MY OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

Poets rave about their gardens'
Brooding peace;
Here confusion and Alarums
Never cease.

Canterbury bells are ringing
Constantly,
And the coxcomb's raucous crowing
Deafens me!

Here some new and thorough Scotch brooms
Sweep a place
Where the panting scarlet runners
Stage a race.

Hey, you foxgloves chasing hairbells,
Stop it, quick!
You will make the weeping willows
Faint and sick!

See this row of wallflowers sulking
By the wall?
They were snubbed by some primroses
At a ball.

Marquerite's too free with tulips.
The profane
Crocuses roundly, hopes to cause me
Shock and pain.

Bleeding hearts are dripping gory
Drops of woe,
Till the pools where love-lies-bleeding
Overflow!

Oh, these weeds! Just see that henbane
Scraching there!
Dog-fennel has tracked snapdragon
To his lair.

Now sweet William's throwing snowballs
At the girls,
Marigold and brown-eyed Susan.
My head whirls!

Presently the ever punctual
Four-o' clocks
Will chime: it's time to feed and water
Stock and phlox.

When at last the nightshades falling
Bring release,
I'll hie myself to bed, and hope for
Rest and peace!

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TO SANDY

A dog once dead is always dead -
Perhaps, perhaps - yet you and I
Deep in our hearts a dear hope shared
Which might come true in some far sky.

How can one bury in the earth
Devotion, trust, and loyalty?
It seems to even my poor mind
That love lives on eternally.

For eight rich years you lived with us.
And I became your deity,
If I could only serve my God
Once half as well as you served me!

I miss you so. My fingers long
To touch your soft hair once again.
Ah, surely when the Lord made dogs
He gave a precious gift to men.

We cannot know what heaven holds
In store for us, what tender dream
Of earth come true. . . . Perhaps while here
He too loved dogs, so would He deem

Is it wrong if I should sometimes hope
That when at last I reach the skies
I'll find my Sandy waiting there,
A part of God's prepared surprise?

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THE CURTAIN GOES UP

The windows of my room open out upon a back yard. At first glance a commonplace back yard, not even especially pretty, but for several years it was a theater of absorbing interest to me. Upon the stage, with its colorful backdrops varying with seasonal changes, were many actors, but I was usually the sole spectator.

I am no longer able to sit outdoors, but looking through my window I recall with pleasure and wistfulness the hours I used to spend in my big chair.

The Stage Setting

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One could hardly imagine the drama, the tragedy and comedy, the thrill-packed moments, which can occur in an ordinary back yard. There were lessons for me too, and times of high inspiration and solemn joy, as though I met God there in my garden - and who will say that I did not?

Our house was at one end of the yard. On either side, paralleling the fences, were brick walks of which we were very proud; the bricks were salvaged from our earthquake of 1933 when part of our schoolhouse fell down. There were two trees, one peach and one fig; only a few flowers but some shrubs, like guava and oleanders. At the rear of the lot was a little edifice which we called the "shell house" because it contained my husband's collection of seashells. It was really our ex-chicken house, somewhat transformed.

On one side, separating our yard from that of our neighbor, was a tal hedge - blackberry vines and honeysuckle more or less running wild and mingling together. The hedge had grown thick with the years, but there were three children living next door who had kept three little "windows" open in the hedge, for conversational purposes. In the mornings their their yard was quiet; but as soon as school was out, the hedge presented quite a different appearance, each child appropriating a "window" in order to chat with me. It was a charming picture, the three rosy smiling faces framed with vines and flowers. All the events of the day were related to me and eventually the plump one always inquired, "What are you having for dinner tonight, Mrs. Nicholson?"

Our two trees were quite special and with the passing years they grew to seem almost like members of the family.

When we bought this place we found a little seedling whip, a tiny peach tree. My husband was about to pull it up, saying that seedlings were not good fruitbearers but I begged for its life, at least until we could get something else growing. How it repaid us! It grew and grew until it spread over a large part of the lawn, and bore the most delicious peaches we had ever eaten. I do not know when it was loveliest: when covered with the delicate pink blossoms, or later the tender green leaves, or when it hung heavy with fruit. It became a veritable center of community life, and many exciting things happened in its boughs. It lived about twelve years.

The fig tree we started from a shoot given us by a neighbor, and it is still spreading and bearing fat, luscious figs. A garden is a warm and friendly place when planted with slips and seeds and roots given by friends, a spot where memories live.

There were some guavas and a small grapevine. It amused us to see our big dog Sandy, who was fond of fruit, picking blackberries with his mouth carefuly puckered to avoid the briars. He would try the guavas in quite a frugal way, holding one in his mouth an instant without picking, trying it to see if it were soft enough to eat; and if not, then leaving it there until it was.

Later we had a smaller dog, Penny, who used to climb up the ladder in to the branches of the fig tree. My husband had built a little platform for him up there and he liked to stand on it and view the landscape, occasionally picking and eating a ripe fig.

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Some of the Principle Actors

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Of course the bird visitors in the yard brought much interest and joy. It was here that I had the adventure with the little humming bird, related in a previous book. There was another humming bird who built her nest under the porch roof, so close to the ceiling that she could hardly get into it. In order to see the babies, about as large as wasps, I had to climb on a chair and hold a mirror over the nest. After she had raised her first family I saw her one day cleaning out the nest, which was a little worse for wear, running her bill around in it like a spatula, and throwing overboard the debris. Then she built it up again with a little more cotton, and raised two more babies.

It always pleased us when our birds trusted us enough to build their nests in our yard. There was a little linnet who raised five babies in a jungle of honeysuckle. I am no naturalist and I was horrified when I first saw her feeding them, pumping into their own mouths the food prepared for them in her own stomach. But then, if they were not squeamish about it, why should I be?

The mocking birds were our chief delight and we spent hours watching them. Father Mocker has a habit of mimicking his unborn child. Many a time I have looked around for the "baby" bocker whom I heard begging for food, only to discover that it was Father, a little prematurely, as the babies were still in the eggs. How the young fathers whose babies had not yet arrived, knew so well the exact notes is a mystery to me.

I suppose the parent birds know their business, but it seems rigorous and spartan to leave these little baby birds alone and unprotected their first night out of the nest. The parents do not know till morning whether their children have survived the perils of the night - cats and owls.

Just now Father and Mother have deposited their sole remaining child in our berry patch, and there he lives contentedly. Mother is sitting on some more eggs and Father is busily singing about it all. He broadcasts frequently from the top of our aerial. When Bobby Mocker sees him he exclaims, "Oh there is my dear daddy. Hello Daddy, how's for a worm?" But Daddy is unconcerned and figures that Bobby, now being adolescent, can care for himself. So Bobby returns to the berry patch, where he consumes an amazing amount of berries. It reminds me of the lovely old English poem which I read about a fawn who lived in the garden and ate the flowers.

"Had he lived long he would have been
Roses without, lilies within."

Only about Bobby we should have to say,

"If Bobby stays much longer, he
A winged jar of jam will be."

I hope the berries will last until the parents move the new family in on us. The nest is across the street, high up in a palm tree, in the yard of people who have three cats! But Mother Mocker pecks at them violently, even riding in a fine rage on their very backs, out of reach of claws. I have seen one of these intrepid mothers send a good-sized dog cowering into the shelter of a porch.

Sometimes there was the softest whirr of wings and our fig tree - half leafed-out in tender green - would suddenly be filled with a flock of cedar waxwings, adorable little fellows with perky topknots. They were lovable and quiet, pecking away at the tiny insects and "squeaking" as they worked. Then another soft whirr and they were off, usually in a flock.

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Leading Lady, and Dicky and Billy

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One day my husband caled to me, "Martie, look in the peach-tree" - and there I saw a little yellow canary. He answered when we spoke to him and seemed used to people. With the aid of two cages and another canary as decoy we finally captured him. He knew all about cages and his nose was very promptly in the feed bag. He was a mighty hungry bird. It was fortunate that we got him when we did, for that night it rained buckets.

We named him Buddy and never changed his name, even after he proved to be a lady. At first, Buddy was very much afraid of my hands, but in time grew to love them. She spent many hours with me in the back yard, in her cage. When planes soared overhead, she always looked up and saluted them, as one flier to another.

When I had to be on my bed, I let Buddy out of the cage and she flew all around the room. She would sit on the lamp above my head and I would slap at her with my handkerchief, and she would scold and peck and scramble to keep her balance. She loved to play around my pillow, and to get a strand of my hair in her bill, brace her little feet and pull. Evenings I would hold her in my lap and stroke her like a kitten. I'd tell Sandy to come and kiss her goodnight and he would lap her face - a proceeding they both seemed to enjoy.

Budy had a lovely little song - until Billy came to live with us. The first time she sang in his presence, he looked at her in stunned disapproval and after that, she left the singing all to him and took her proper place as a mere female. She was afraid of nothing but a shrike. Two missing toes may have meant that she had encountered an unpleasant experience with one. Perhaps it is instinct - she could identify one on the telephone pole one hundred fifty feet away and would become pencil-thin with fright.

Poor Billy was a neurotic. The people who had him said that he never sang, and that he fainted every time they went near his cage, even to give him his bath. But after I had him only two days he was singing sweetly, and grew to be very fond of me, begging to sit on my finger. He was half again as large as little golden Buddy, and lorded it over her in a way that was quite unjust, as she was really the superior character of the two.

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We had still another bird, Dicky. He was given to me by a neighbor who was moving. He had been a great pet and his original owner had loved him deeply but was desperately poor during the depression and had nothing to feed him but crackers and water. This made him sick, of course, so she finally reluctantly gave him away. He was passed from person to person, and later somebody told her that he was dead, which was untrue; and I have often grieved over this and wish that I knew who she was so I could tell her he lived several years. I would have loved to return him to her with a little pension of bird seed to feed him.

Dicky was an intrepid little soul. Owing to old age and the loss of his tail and some wing feathers he could not fly, so I gave him the run of the back yard, and I learned many things about birds from him. It was he who told me of the sweet grass seeds which I later gave to Buddy and which she enjoyed so much. Dicky was a valient soldier: he would make a run at other birds twice his size and drive them away from his feed. He could not sing a note but he was so brimming with courage and personality that one never missed the song. Many of my shut-in friends tell me that they wish they could write little verses as I do, but though I am glad I have this slight talent, since it gives them pleasure, yet I know that if the song is in their hearts, it will somehow get out, whether in words or just in patient daily living. And so will God be glorified.

Later great sores appeared upon his poor little body which had to be opened, and he was patient and still as I operated on him. And he literally died on his feet, not fallen over on one side as birds usually do. Unfortunately I was not with him when he died, but I can imagine how he faced death and looked that last enemy in the eye. Brave little Dicky, thank you for teaching me courage.

Neither have I ever forgotten a lesson of faith which Buddy taught me. I had left her cage in the window though of course there was a screen. I forgot her until after dark, then went to my room to get the cage and saw two green eyes glaring at me. There outside the screen was a cat, spread eagled against the screen, as close to the cage as it could get. Little Buddy was sweetly sleeping, entirely unaware of the proximity of her deadly foe. She had come to feel so safe in my care that even the slight noise made by the cat did not awaken her. Had it been Billy, he would have gone into a panic and dashed madly around, perhaps even breaking a leg - even though he was perfectly safe, protected by the screen. Many times since, when danger threatened me, I have remembered Buddy, and my heart has stilled even in the presence of terror, knowing that I was also in the presence of God and under His tender care - though the enemy glared at me green-eyed.

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Buddy and I were on such intimate terms that she knew all that was required when she got into trouble (as was often the case) was to call, "Martie, come and help me," and I always came: and her terror by night or arrow by day was instantly taken care of. She often put me to shame by her simple trust in me. O that I might so trust in Him who careth for me! Once, with bird-like curiosity, she investigated too thoroughly a hair net lying on my dresser and wrapper herself in it, soon being in the "snare of the fowler." She began to struggle and call me, but before I could arrive at the scene, she had rolled to the edge of the dresser. Down she went - Plop! with no spreading wings to break her fall. But she was unhurt and I merely cut the net off. She had her faults, of course. I recall that once she became unduly enamored of a brightly colored oriole and showed great excitement when he flew into the yard - another case of a woman liking a man for his good looks alone.

Buddy used to find ways of amusing herself, little guessing (or did she?) that she was entertaining us with her antics. I put a little bell in her cage but she never cared to make it ring. There was a long end of string hanging down from it, and she would take that in her mouth and swing out into space, her entire wight held by that little bill - for all the world like the intrepid maiden of "Curfew shall not ring tonight."

I do not like to remember her death. She was sick a week and reverted to days of babyhood. Every time I passed her cage she opened her mouth wide and begged me with fluttering wings, as a baby bird begs from its mother. It nearly broke my heart for I could not help her: only hold her in my hands and love her. My life has been poorer since we laid her to rest in the yard she loved.

One time a family of four nearly grown young mocking birds moved en masse into our fig tree, perhaps being on their first long trip from home. You know birds divide up territories and do not trespass very much. This particular family lived at the other end of the block.

Buddy's cage was under the tree and she was singing. The young birds were intensely curious about her and one of them, after much peering down, finally sat on the top of her cage. I thought she would be frightened, especially as mockers look so much like shrikes, but that wise young lady could not be fooled and she was wild with joy.

The young birds, I knew, had never sung before, but as she continued her song I noticed the throat of one swelling and moving. This continued for a time and then a little hesitating song came, the first time he had ever tried it. It thrilled me to think that I, of all the people in the world, had seen such a miracle as that bird's first song.

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Villains?

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But there were on my little stage humbler and not so beautiful actors whose lives were none the less interesting. One of my favorites was a huge fat-bodied spider who hung her exquisite web between the house and the fig tree. Though I watched and watched, I never saw how she spanned the distance and stretched her first line from tree to house. Her web was intricate, a marvel of engineering and building, perfect in every respect. She spent hours repairing or rebuilding it. Then she would retire to the honeysuckle on the house and glare out maleveolently and greedily at the snare she had prepared. Every quiver of the web brought her running to see if some hapless insect had become enmeshed.

In the mornings the web was beautifully gemmed with dewdrops, but too often stark tragedy was there too, in the person of some poor moth who had beat his wings in hopeless agony all night. We watched closely during the day, and when a butterfly became entangled we always went to the rescue. The spider had a way of winding her victim up tightly in her tough and surprisingly strong web. I have heard that a spider stings its prey to death, and it would be more merciful if she would always deliver this coup de grace to the moths. Many a time we have taken a long pole and picked out the butterfly, wings bound down till it looked almost like a cocoon. Then with tweezers and small scissors we would cut and unwind the little prisoner. Whe we freed his wings he would struggle to get away from us, but we would persist until the web was unwound first from his body and then from his head and legs. Then . . . what a sense of delight to toss him into the air and see him dart off into the blue - free again, and none the worse for his experience. How often have I struggled against that divine Hand which would cut away some entangling circumstances in order to free me for a higher, finer air.

The snake is usually considered the villain of the piece. Perhaps those who fear him are like Eve, trying to put the blame on someone else. Certainly the garter snakes which sometimes lived in our garden were good fellows, eating many of the pests which were so ruinous. They always charmed me with their sinuous grace. But the mothers of the neighborhood did not share my liking for them, and would call on my husband to "kill the horrid thing." Knowing that they were harmless, he would take them away surreptitiously and turn them loose.

I was always fascinated by the great hop toads, though I failed utterly to understand their ways. Once while sprinkling we turned the hose into a hole in the dry baked adobe soil. After a moment out popped a big toad, who hopped off indignantly. Then another, and another until five had emerged from the hole which could not possibly have afforded roomy quarters for more than one. They must have been packed in like sardines. How they escaped having claustrophobia, I do not know. The whole housing situation was quite like our present human one. I'm so glad there were [/b]many mansions[/b] in Heaven.

Occasionally I found a toad who like to have his back stroked. I would rub him gently and he would fill up with air, growing puffier and puffier. Though he did not actually purr, he looked as if he were trying.

I had a very stange adventure one evening with an unusually large load. As I so often did, I had taken Buddy out of doors to enjoy the late sunset. I placed her cage on the lawn and sat nearby. Suddenly to my amazement I saw a huge toad emerge from some shrubbery and approach the cage slowly, with every appearance of stalking prey. I watched him, sure that he meant no harm to my bird. But there was a look in his eye which I did not like, so when he was close to the cage I took a stick and tried to push him back. To my amazement he held his ground and refused to budge, his eyes glaring at my bird. I had to be quite firm with him before he would retire to his shrubbery. He sat in its shelter for a little while, then emerged with deadly intentness. By this time he was so intent on the bird that he simply ignored me and impatiently brushed aside the stick with which I poked at him. I finally had to take the cage into the house.

The great tomato worm deserves a chapter by himself. He is indeed a fearsome nightmare-ish creature, many legged, and green as the vines on which he makes himself indistinguishable by camouflage. He has a red horn on him. And he is so large that when I occasionally saw one being pecked to death by a mocking bird, it sickened me as though I was watching a murder being commmitted.

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-Musical Interlude

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The bird books say that humming birds do not sing. I was sitting in my big chair not far from the peach tree, scene of so many adventures, and I heard the sweetest sound that has ever ravished my ears. It was like the ringing of fairy bells, or the song of some very small angel strayed down from heavenly choirs. The tree was barely leafed out and I could plainly see the tiny "little men," as we call them. He was singing for all he was worth. I held my breath until he finished and flew away.

I do not know the solution of this little mystery. Perhaps he was some accident among birds, with an unusually shaped larynx such as Caruso is said to have had. Perhaps it was a lovely personal miracle which God performed for me. There have seldom come to me such moments of sheer delight. Exquisitely musical it was, with no hint of the usual squaky tone of the humming bird. Though I have listened for the song through the ensuring years, I have never heard anything even faintly like it.

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Phantasy

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God must have been well pleased with the work of His hands when He created butterflies, those jeweled bits of loveliness.

The mourning cloak, who wears brown velvet richly bordered in deep blue and yellow, for some reason is very friendly. If I put out my arm he will promptly alight on my hand and settle down to enjoy himself, slowly opening and closing his wings. Many a time I have carefully transferred one to my face, where he would walk about, investigating this strange terrain and tickling me with his little fairy feet. I don't know whether they can hear, but I have held one, perched on my finger, close to my lips, crooning to him and he certainly gave every evidence of enjoying the concert. No one else has ever enjoyed my singing, and I try not to suspect that it may have been only the warmth of my breath which he liked. At any rate, it warmed my own heart.

Once my husband called from the shell house and asked me if I could bring my butterfly down there to see him. The little fellow offered no objection until we entered the room, when he took wing, making for the window. Not understanding about glass, of course he bumped his head and went into a panic. But I presented my now familiar finger and he climbed aboard, and I took him outside again, walking the length of the yard with him still on my finger.

Lest I seem to be unduly interested in all the little creatures, remember that God Himself is still more interested. he made them, and never a sparrow falls to the ground without His notice.

The mourning cloaks are more pugnacious than other varieties of butterflies, and will promptly chase out of the yeard even the giant swallowtails. It is indeed odd to see these lovely creatures quarreling, mute evidence that the curse has followed even them all the way from the Garden of Eden. During the Millennium, when animals no longer prey upon one another, it will be interesting to see, how the animal population will be controlled. When I was a little girl I used to pore oover the pictures in our old family Bible. One picture particularly fascinated me: it showed a small child attired in what I was convinced was his nightie, leading a procession of animals which were usually very savage (lions, wolves, tigers, etc.) but in the picture they were all looking extraordinarily meek and mild. If I am to rule some little village during the Millennium, I strongly suspect that I may take a little time off occasionally and join that little boy and his fascinating playmates.

I have never beheld the miracle of a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. I still shudder from the memory of something which happened once. I was overjoyed to see that the butterfly was moving in its little prison, and I prepared to spend all my time watching. But something went wrong. When it was half-way out it could not free itself, but beat its wings and struggled frantically. I hung over it all day in an agony of sympathy, unable to help it, afraid to cut the stiff cocoon lest my scissors bruise the little soft body within. How well, how well I knew its longing to be up and away, into the beckoning blue of Heaven.

All day it struggled and all day I watched it, helpless. Finally with the chill of night it gave up, and hung, a defeated little corpse, half out of its confining bonds. But not so when my time comes to leave this cocoon of flesh which holds my eternal spirit. The body may give me some little trouble, but I am used to that. None can hold me and none can bid me stay, but like a homing bird I shall fly into my FATHER's hands. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints, and He always gives them dying grace. And precious indeed to our hearts is the blessed hope that we may go without dying, caught up to meet the Lord in the air, and so to be with Him evermore. For this my soul waits and longs.

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The Curtain Falls, and Rises Again on Another Scene

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During those years my husband often worked at night, Sandy and I would hurry through our supper and go outside to see the sunset. Incredible palaces reared their towers into the sky. Golden and rosy clouds floated so lightly that I felt I could have blown them away with a breath. As we watched, the crimson blush faded to palest pink, and pastel shades of mauve and lemon.

Then the dusk, trailing her twilight shawl of lavender. . . . She never lingers long in the South, but we did not miss her as we watched the pageant of the sky. The moon rose, a great golden globe which seemed supported in the crotch of a eucalyptus tree in the grove. It shed its pure light over the silent earth.

As darkness gathered, Sandy always came and sat close beside me. He was so large that when I put my arm around him I could rest my head on his shoulder, and we often sat for hours, cheek to cheek, not stirring nor moving, just watching the night which he loved as well as I did.

He was alive to all the small night noises, the breeze in the trees, the sudden flight and fluttering of the humming bird moth, the mantis in the peach tree, the cricket in the grass - perhaps even the music of the singing spheres. When the heavens so declare the glory of God, what is man that He in mindful of him? I thought of the little living things beside and beneath me, the wide sky above, and I in between, more beloved of God than either, and my heart was very humble.

My back is so bent that I can no longer look into the sky over my head, but I can see the horizons, and they are very wide and far. I have spent hours looking into the empty place in the North where heaven is. I pointed it out to Sandy and he wistfully crowded closer as though to delay my departure.

The darkness deepened. The stars came out one by one in the velvet sky. Shodows in the yard became mysterious and lovely dwelling places of beauty. The great fig leaves spread like fans to enjoy the cool dampness. The flowers were almost insuportably sweet in the dew of evening. The silent hours passed, the heavens wheeled, the golden stars slid slowly down toward the horizon. Sometimes the sky grew so heavy with stars that it seemed as though they would break through the thin purple veils which supported them, and lie in the grass at our feet.

All the world was hushed as God walked in my garden. If His footstool is so beautifully decorated, what must be the furnishings of Heaven? And my wistful eyes turned again and again to the empty place in the North, and I thought of a time when a door will be opened in Heaven. The little actors on this small stage will have played out their parts, but in that marvelous scene above I shall no longer be merely a spectator, but a participant through His grace in the Marriage Supper of the LAMB.

And thinking of this, my heart adored Him, my soul delighted in Him, and my spirit worshiped that One who is altogether lovely, the Lord of earth and sky and sea, the tender LOVER of men's souls.

Even so, come quickly, Lord JESUS.

The end

~ stay tuned for her next book, "Thresholds of Heaven" which will start soon ~

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