Chapter IV: Part 4

But there is another form of prose composition that Patience has given to us. While she is writing a story she does not confine herself to that work, but precedes or follows it with a bit of gossip, a personal message, a poem or something else. Sometimes she stops in the midst of her story to deliver something entirely foreign to it that comes into her mind. During one week, while “Telka” was being received, she presented three parables, all in the peculiar language of that story. I reproduce them here and leave it to the reader to ponder o’er their meaning.

“Long, yea, long agone, aside a wall atilt who joined unto a
brother-wall and made atween a gap apoint abacked, there did upon
the every day, across-leged, sit a bartmaker, amid his sacks
aheaped. And ne’er a buy did tribesmen make. Nay, but ’twere the
babes who sought the bartman, and lo, he shutteth both his eyes and
babes do pilfer from the sacks and feed thereon, till sacks asink.
And still at crosslegs doth he sit.

“Yea, and days do follow days till Winter setteleth ’pon his locks
its snow. Aye, and lo, at rise o’ sun ’pon such an day as had
followed day since first he sat, they did see that he had ashrunked
and they did wag that ’twere the wasting o’ his days at sitting at
crossleg.

“And yet the babes did fetch for feast and wert fed. Till last a day
did dawn and gap ashowed it empty and no man woed; but babes did
sorry ’bout the spot ’till tribesmen marveled and fetched alongside
and coaxed with sweets their word. But no man found answer in their
prate. And they did ope remaining sacks and lo, there be anaught
save dry fruit, and babes did reach forth for it and wert fed, and
more, it did nurture them, and they went forth alater to the fields
o’ earth astrengthened and fed ’pon—what, Brother? List ye. ’Pon
truth.”

* * * * *

“There be aside the market’s place a merchant and a brother
merchant. Aye, and one did put price ahigh, and gold aclinketh and
copper groweth mold atween where he did store. And his brother
giveth measure full and more, for the pence o’ him who offereth but
pence, at measure that runneth o’er to full o’ gold’s price.

“And lo, they do each to buy o’ herds, and he who hath full price
buyeth but the shrunk o’ herd, and he who hath little, buyeth the
full o’ herd. And time maketh full the sacks o’ him who hoardeth
gold, and layeth at aflat the sacks o’ him who maketh poor price.
And lo, he who hath plenty hoardeth more, and he who had little
buyed o’ seed and sowed and reaped therefrom. And famine crept it
nearer and fringed ’pon the land and smote the land o’ him who
asacketh o’ gold and crept it ’pon the land o’ him o’ pence.

“And herds did low o’ hunger and he who hath but gold hath naught to
feed thereon. For sacks achoked ’pon gold. And he who had but pence
did sack but grain and grass and fed the herd. And lo, they fattened
and did fill the emptied sacks with gold, while he who hath naught
but gold did sick, and famine wasted o’ his herd and famine’s sun
did rise to shine ’pon him astricken ’pon gold asacked.”

* * * * *

“There wert a man and his brother and they wrought them unalike.
Yea, and one did fashion from wood, and ply till wonderwork astood,
a temple o’ wood. And his brother fashioneth o’ reeds and worketh
wonder baskets. And he who wrought o’ wood scoffeth. And the
tribesmen make buy o’ baskets and wag that ’tis a-sorry wrought the
temple, and spake them that the Lord would smite, and lay it low.
For he who wrought did think him o’ naught save the high and wide o’
it, and looked not at its strength or yet its stand ’pon earth. And
they did turn the baskets ’bout and put to strain, and lo, they did
hold. And it were the tribesmen, who shook their heads and murmured,
‘Yea, yea, they be a goodly.’

“So ’tis; he who doth fashion from wood o’ size doth prosper not,
and he who doth fashion o’ reed and small, doth thrive verily.”

These are all somewhat cryptic, although their interpretation is not difficult, but that which follows on the magic of a laugh needs no explanation. “I do fashion out a tale for babes,” said Patience, when she presented this parable of the fairy’s wand, and in it she gives expression to another one of her characteristics, one that is intensely human, the love of laughter, which she seems to like to hear and often to provoke.

“Lo, at a time thou knowest not, aye, I, thy handmaid, knowest not,
there wert born unto the earth a babe. And lo, the dame o’ this babe
wert but a field’s woman. And lo, days and days did pass until the
fullness of the babe’s days, and it stood in beauty past word o’me.

“Yea, and there wert a noble, and he did pass, and lo, his brow was
darked, and smile had forsook his lips. And he came unto the cot and
there stood the babe, who wert now a maid o’ lovely. And he spaked
unto her and said:

“‘Come thou, and unto the lands of me shall we make way. Thou art
not o’ the fields, but for the nobles.’

“And she spake not unto his word. And lo, the mother of the babe
came forth and this man told unto her of this thing, that her babe
wert not of the field but for the nobled. And, at the bidding of the
noble, she spake, yea, the maid should go unto his lands.

“And time and time after the going, lo, no word came unto the
mother. And within the lands of the noble the maid lived, and lo,
the days wert sorry, and the paths held but shadows, and nay smiles
shed gold unto the hours. And she smiled that this noble did offer
unto her much of royal stores. Yea, gems, and gold, and all a maid
might wish, and she looked in pity unto the noble and spake:

“‘What hast thou? Lo, thou hast brought forth of thy store and given
unto me, and what doth it buy? Thy lips are ever sorry and thy hours
dark. Then take thou these gifts and keep within such an day as
thine, for, hark ye, my dame, the field’s woman, hath given unto me
that which setteth at a naught thy gifts; for hark ye: mid thy dark
o’ sorry I shall spill a laugh, and it be a fairies’ wand, and
turneth dust to gold.’

“And she fled unto the sun’s paths of the fields.

“Verily do I to say unto thee, this, the power of the fairies’ wand,
is thine, thy gift of thy field-mother, Earth. Then cast out that
which earth-lands do offer unto thee and flee with thy gift.”

It is somewhat difficult to select an ending for this chapter on the prose of Patience: the material for it is so abundant and so varied, but this “Parable of the Cloak” may perhaps form a fitting finish:

“There wert a man, and lo, he did to seek and quest o’ sage, that
which he did mouth o’ermuch. And lo, he did to weave o’ such an
robe, and did to clothe himself therein. And lo, ’twer sun ashut
away, and cool and heat and bright and shade.

“And lo, still did he to draw ’bout him the cloak, and ’twer o’ the
mouthings o’ the sage. And lo, at a day ’twer sent abroad that Truth
should stalk ’pon Earth, and man, were he to look him close,
shouldst see.

“And lo, the man did draw ’bout him the cloak, and did to wag him
‘Nay’ and ‘Nay, ’twer truth the sages did to mouth and I did weave
athin the cloak o’ me.’

“And then ’twer that Truth did seek o’ Earth, and she wert clad o’
naught, and seeked the man, and begged that he would cast the cloak
and clothe o’ her therein. And lo, he did to draw him close the
cloak, and hid his face therein, and wag him ’Nay,’ he did to know
her not.

“And lo, she did to fetch her unto him athrice, and then did he to
wag him still a ‘Nay! Nay! Nay!’ And lo, she toucheth o’ the cloth
o’ sage’s mouths and it doth fall atattered and leave him clothed o’
naught, and at a wishing. And he did seek o’ Truth, aye, ever, and
when he did to find, lo, she wagged him nay, and nay, and nay.”

CONVERSATIONS

“This be bread. If man knoweth not the grain from which ’twer fashioned, what then? ’Tis bread. Let man deny me this.”—PATIENCE WORTH.

But after all, perhaps the truest conception of the character and versatility of Patience can be acquired from her “conversations.” The word “conversation” I here loosely apply to all that comes from her in the course of an evening, excepting the work on her stories. The poems and parables are usually woven into her remarks with a sequence that suggests extemporaneous production for the particular occasion, although as a rule they are of general application. Almost invariably they are brought out by something she or someone else has said, or as a tribute, a lesson or a comfort to some person who is present. Her songs, as she calls her poems, are freely given, apparently without a thought or a care as to what may become of them. They seem to come spontaneously, without effort, with no pause for thought, no groping for the right word, and to fall into their places as part of the spoken rather than the written speech. So it is that the term “conversation” in this connection is made to include much that ordinarily would not fall within that designation.

One of the pleasures of an evening with Patience is the uncertainty of the form of the entertainment. Never are two evenings alike in the general nature of the communications. She adapts herself to circumstances and to the company present, serious if they are bent on serious subjects, merry if they are so; but seldom will the serious escape without a little of the merry, or the merry without a little of the serious. Sometimes her own feelings seem to have an influence. Always, however, she is permitted to take her own course, except in the case of a formal examination, to which she readily responds if conducted with respect. She may devote the evening largely to poetry, possibly varying the themes, as on one evening when she gave a nature poem, one of a religious character, a lullaby, a humorous verse and a prayer, interspersed with discussion. She may talk didactically with little or no interruption. She may submit to a catechism upon religion, philosophy, philology, or any subject that may arise. She may devote an evening to a series of little personal talks to a succession of sitters, or she may elect just to gossip. “I be dame,” she says, and therefore not averse to gossip. But rarely will she neglect to write something on whatever story she may have in hand. She speaks of such writing as “weaving.” “Put ye to weave,” she will say, and that means that conversation is to stop for a time until a little real work is accomplished.

The conversations which follow are selected to illustrate the variety of form referred to, as well as to introduce a number of interesting statements that throw light on the character of the phenomena.

Upon a certain evening the Currans had two visitors, Dr. and Mrs. W. With Dr. W. and Mrs. C. at the board and Mrs. W. leaning over it, Patience began:

“Ah, hark! Here abe athree; yea, love, faith and more o’ love! Thee
hast for to hark unto word I do put o’ them, not ye.”

And then she told this tale of the Mite and the Seeds:

“Hark! Aneath the earth fell a seed, and lay aside a Mite, a winged
mite, who hid from cold. Yea, and the Mite knew o’ the day o’er the
Earth’s crust, and spake unto the Seed, and said:

“‘The hours o’ day show sun and cloud, aye, and the Earth’s crust
holdeth grass and tree. Aye, and men walk ’pon the Earth.’

“Aye, and the Seed did say unto the Mite:

“‘Nay, there be a naught save Earth and dark, for mine eye hath not
beheld what thou tellest of.’

“Yea, and the Mite spake it so:

“‘’Tis dark and cold o’er the crust o’ Earth, and thou and me awarm
and close ahere.’

“But the Seed spake out: ‘Nay, this be the time I seek me o’er the
Earth’s crust and see the Day thou tellest of.’

“And lo, he sent out leaf, and reached high. And lo, when the leaf
had pushed up from ’neath the crust, there were snow’s cut and cold,
and it died, and knew not the Day o’ the Mite: for the time was not
riped that he should seek unto new days.

“And lo, the Stalk that had sent forth the Seed, sent forth amore,
and lo, again a one did sink aside the Mite. And he spake to it of
the Day o’ Earth and said: ‘Thy brother sought the Day, and it wert
not time, and lo, he is no more.’

“And he told of the days of Earth unto the seed, and it spaked unto
him and said: ‘This day o’ thee meaneth naught to me. Lo, I shall
spring not a root, nor shall I to seek me the days o’ Earth. Nay, I
shall lay me close and warm.’

“And e’en though the Mite spake unto the Seed at the time when it
wert ripe that it should seek, lo, it lay, and Summer’s tide found
it a naught, for it feeded ’pon itself, and lo, wert not.

“And at a later tide did a seed to fall, and it harked unto the Mite
and waited the time, and when it wert riped, lo, it upped and sought
the day. And it wert so as the Mite had spaked. And the Seed grew
into a bush.

“And lo, the winged Mite flew out: for it had brought a brother out
o’ the dark and unto the Day, and the task wert o’er.

“These abe like unto them who seek o’ the words o’ me.

“Now aweave thou.”

Patience then wrote about two hundred words of a story, after which Mrs. W. inquired of Mr. C:

“Don’t you ever try to write on the board?” To which he replied facetiously, “No, I’m too dignified.”

_Patience._—“Yea, he smirketh unto swine and kicketh the nobles.”

Then seeming to feel that the visitors were wanting something more personal than the “Tale” she said:

“Alawk, they be ahungered, and did weave a bit. Then hark. Here be.

“What think ye, man? They do pucker much o’er the word o’ me, and
spat forth that thou dost eat and smack o’ liking. Yea, but hark!
Who shed drop for Him but one o’ His, yea, the Son o’ Him? Think ye
this abe the pack o’ me? Nay, and thou and thou and thou shalt shed
drops in loving for the pack, for it be o’ Him. Now shall I to sing:

How doth the Mise-man greed,
And lay unto his store,
And seek him out the pence of Earth,
Wherein the hearts do rust?

How doth the Muse-man greed,
And seek him o’ the Day,
And word that setteth up a wag—
While hearts o’ Earth are filthed?

How doth the See-man greed?
Yea, and how he opeth up his eye,
And seeth naught and telleth much—
While hearts of earth are hurt.

How doth the Good-man greed,
Who dealeth o’ the Word?
He eateth o’ its flesh and casts but bone,
While hearts o’ Earth are woed.

How doth the Man-man greed?
He eateth o’ the store, yet holdeth ope
His hands and scattereth o’ bread
And hearts o’ Earth are fed.

This then abe, and yet will be
Since time and time, and beeth ever.”

As soon as this was read, she followed with another song:

Drink ye unto me.
Drink ye deep, to me.
Yea, and seek ye o’ the Brew ye quaff,
For this do I to beg.
Seek not the wine o’ Summer’s sun,
That hid ’mid purpled vine,
And showeth there amid the Brew
Thou suppest as the Wine.
Seek not the drops o’ pool,
Awarmed aneath the sun,
And idly lapping at the brink
Of mosses’ lips, to sup.
Seek not o’ vintage Earth doth hold.
Nay, unto thee this plea shall wake
The Wine that thou shouldst quaff.
For at the loving o’ this heart
The Wine o’ Love shall flow.
Then drink ye deep, ah, drink ye deep,
And drink ye deep o’ Love.

“Yea, thine unto me, and mine to thee.”

After which she explained:

“I did to fashion out a brew for her ayonder and him ahere. And they
did eat o’ it. Yea, for they know o’ Him and know o’ the workings o’
Him and drinked o’ the love o’ me as the love o’ Him. Yea, and hark,
there abe much athin this pack for thee.”

This, it will be observed, is rather a discourse than a conversation, and it is often so, Patience filling the evening with her own words; not as exclusively so, however, as this would indicate: for there is always more or less conversation among the party, which it would profit nothing to reproduce.

* * * * *

The next sitting is somewhat more varied. There were present Dr. X., a teacher of anatomy, Mrs. X., Mrs. W. and Miss B. Dr. X. sat at the board with Mrs. Curran:

_Patience._—“Eh, gad! Here be a one who taketh Truth unto him and
setteth the good dame apace that she knoweth not the name o’ her. I
tell thee ’tis he who knoweth her as a sister, and telleth much o’
her, and naught he speaketh oft holdeth her, and much he speaketh
holdeth little o’ her, and yet ever he holdeth her unto him. He
taketh me as truth, yea, he knoweth he taketh naught and buildeth
much, and much and buildeth little o’ it. I track me unto the door
o’ him and knock and he heareth me.”

This, of course, referred to Dr. X. and his work, and it aroused some discussion, after which Patience asked, “Would ye I sing?” The answer being in the affirmative, she gave this little verse, also directed to Dr. X.:

Out ’pon the sea o’ learning,
Floateth the barque o’ one aseek.
Out ’pon troubled waters floateth the craft,
Abuilded staunch o’ beams o’ truth.
And though the waves do beat them high
And wash o’er and o’er the prow,
Fear thee not, for Truth saileth on.
Set thy beacon, then, to crafts not thine,
For thou hast a light for man.

“There, thou knowest me. I tell thee I speak unto him who hath truth
for his very own. Set thee aweave.”

The sitters complied and received about six hundred words of the story, after which Mrs. X. took the board, remarking as she did so that she was afraid, which elicited this observation from Patience:

“She setteth aside the stream and seeth the craft afloat and be at
wishing for to sail, and yet she would to see her who steereth.”

Mrs. X. gave up her place to Miss B., a teacher of botany, to whom Patience presented this tribute:

“The eye o’ her seeth but beauties and shutteth up that which
showeth darked, that that not o’ beautie setteth not within the see
o’ her. Yea, more; she knoweth how ’tis the dark and what showeth
not o’ beauty, at His touching showeth lovely for the see o’ her.

“Such an heart! Ah, thou shouldst feast hereon. I tell thee she
giveth unto multitudes the heart o’ her; and such as she dealeth
unto earth, earth has need for much. She feasteth her ’pon dusts and
knoweth dust shall spring forth bloom. Hurt hath set the heart o’
her, and she hath packed up the hurt with petals.”

Patience then turned her attentions again to Dr. X. “He yonder,” she said, “hath much aneath his skull’s-cap that he wordeth not.”

Thus urged, Dr. X. inquired:

“Does Patience prepare the manuscript she gives in advance? It rather seems that she reads the material to Mrs. Curran.”

“See ye,” cried Patience, “he hath spoke a thing that set aneath his skull’s-cap!” And then, in answer to his question:

“She who afashioneth loaf doth shake well the grain-dust that husks
show not. Then doth she for to brew and stir and mix, else the loaf
be not afit for eat.”

By grain-dust she means flour or meal, and she uses the word brew in its obsolete sense of preparation for cooking. The answer may be interpreted that she arranges the story in her mind before its dictation, and as to her formal work she has said many things to indicate that such is her method. Dr. X. then asked:

“Are these stories real happenings?”

To which Patience replied:

“Within the land o’ here [her land] be packed the days o’ Earth, and
thy day hath its sister day ahere, and thy neighbor’s day and thy
neighbor’s neighbor’s day. And I tell thee, didst thou afashion tale
thou couldst ne’er afashion lie, for all thou hast athin thy day
that thy put might show from the see o’ thee hath been; at not thy
time, yea, but it hath been.”

“Then,” asked Dr. X., “should you have transmitted through one who spoke another language you would have used their tongue?”

Patience answered:

“I pettiskirt me so that ye know the me of me. Yea, and I do to take me o’ the store o’ her that I make me word for thee.”

“Pettiskirt” is a common expression of hers to mean dress, in either a literal or a figurative sense. The answer does not mean that she is limited by Mrs. Curran’s vocabulary, but is an affirmative response to the question.

The word “put” in the preceding answer is one that requires some explanation, for it is frequently used by her, and makes some of her sayings difficult to understand. She makes it convey a number of meanings now obsolete, but it usually refers to her writings, her words, her sayings. She makes a noun of it, it will be noticed, as well as a verb. In the foregoing instance it means “tale,” and it has a relation to the primary meaning of the verb, which is to place. The words that are put down become a “put,” and the writer becomes a “putter.” To a lady who told her that she had heard a sound like a bell in her ear, and asked if it was Patience trying to communicate with her, she answered dryly: “Think ye I be a tinkler o’ brass? Nay. I be a putter o’ words.” Further to illustrate this use of the word, and also to throw an interesting light upon her method of communication and the reason for it, I present here a part of a conversation in which a Dr. Z. was the interrogator.

_Dr. Z._—“Why isn’t there some other means you could use more easy
to manipulate than the ouija board?”

_Patience._—“The hand o’ her (Mrs. Curran) do I to put (write) be
the hand o’ her, and ’tis ascribe (the act of writing) that setteth
the one awhither by eyes-fulls she taketh in.”

By this she seems to mean that if Mrs. Curran tried to write for Patience with a pen or pencil, the act, being always associated with conscious thought, would set her consciousness to work, and put Patience “awhither.”

_Dr. Z._—“How did you know this avenue was open?”

_Patience._—“I did to seek at crannies for to put; aye, and ’twer
the her o’ her who tireth past the her o’ her, and slippeth to a
naught o’ putting; and ’twer the me o’ me at seek, aye, and find.
Aye, and ’twer so.”

At the time Patience first presented herself to Mrs. Curran, she (Mrs. Curran) was very tired, and was sitting at the board with Mrs. Hutchings, with her head, as she expresses it, absolutely empty.

_Dr. Z._—“Did you go forth to seek, or were you sent?”

_Patience._—“There be nay tracker o’ path ne’er put thereon by
sender.”

_Dr. Z._—“Did you know of the ouija board and its use before?”

_Patience._—“Nay, ’tis not the put o’ me, the word hereon. ’Tis the
put o’ me at see o’ her.

“I put athin the see o’ her, aye and ’tis the see o’ ye that be
afulled o’ the put o’ me, and yet a put thou knowest not.

“That which ye know not o’ thy day hath slipped it unto her, and
thence unto thee. And thee knowest ’tis not the put o’ her; aye, and
thee knowest ’tis ne’er a putter o’ thy day there be at such an put.
Aye, and did he to put, ’twould be o’ thy day and not the day o’ me.
And yet ye prate o’ why and whence and where. I tell thee ’tis thee
that knowest that which ye own not.”

_Dr. Z._—“Why don’t we own it, Patience?”

_Patience._—“’Tis at fear o’ gab.”

It is no easy task to untangle that putting of puts, but, briefly, it seems to mean that Patience does not put her words on the board direct, with the hands of Mrs. Curran, but transmits her words through the mind or inner vision of Mrs. Curran, and yet it is the word of Patience and not of Mrs. Curran that is recorded. This accords with Mrs. Curran’s impressions. And thou knowest, Patience farther says, that it is not the language of her, and no writer of thy day would or could write in such a language as I make use of.

* * * * *

Returning to Dr. X. and his party. They were present again a few days after the interview just given, having with them a Miss J., a newspaper writer from an Ohio city. Dr. X. in the meantime had thought much upon the phenomena, and Patience immediately directed her guns upon the anatomist, in this manner:

_Patience._—“Hark ye, lad, unto thee I do speak. Thou hast a sack o’
the wares o’ me, and thou hast eat therefrom. Yea, and thou hast
spat that which thou did’st eat, and eat it o’er. And yet thou art
not afulled.

“Hark! Here be a trick that shall best thee at thine own trick. Lo,
thou lookest upon flesh and it be but flesh. Yea, thou lookest unto
thy brother, and see but flesh. And yet thy brother speakest word,
and thou sayest: ‘Yea, this is a man, aye, the brother o’ me.’ Then
doth death lay low thy brother, and he speak not word unto thee,
thou sayest: ‘Nay, this is no man; nay, this is but clay.’ Then
lookest thou unto thy brother, and thou seest not the him o’ him.
Thou knowest not the him o’ him (the soul) but the flesh o’ him
only.

“More I tell thee. Thy very babe wert not flesh; yea, it were as
dead afore the coming. Yet, at the mother’s bearing, it setteth
within the flesh. And thou knowest it and speak, yea, this is a man.
And yet I tell thee thou knowest not e’en the him o’ him! Then doth
it die, ’tis nay man, thou sayest. Yet, at the dying and afore the
bearing, ’twer what? The him o’ him wert then, and now, and ever.

“Yea, I speak unto thee not through flesh, and thou sayest: This is
no man, yea, for thine eyes see not flesh, yet thou knowest the me
o’ me, and I speak unto thee with the me o’ me. And thou art where
upon thy path o’ learning!”

There was some discussion following this argument in which Dr. X. admitted that he accepted only material facts and believed but what he saw.

_Patience._—“Man maketh temples that reach them unto the skies, and
yet He fashioneth a gnat, and where be man’s learning!

“The earth is full o’ what the blind in-man seeth not. Ope thine
eye, lad. Thou art athin dark, and yet drink ye ever o’ the light.”

_Dr. X._—“That’s all right, Patience, and a good argument; but tell
me where the him o’ him of my dog is.”

_Patience._—“Thou art ahungered for what be thine at the hand o’
thee. Thy dog hath far more o’ Him than thy brothers who set them as
dogs and eat o’ dog’s eat. The One o’ One, the All o’ All, yea, all
o’ life holdeth the Him o’ Him, thy Sire and mine! ’Tis the breath
o’ Him that pulses earth. Thou asketh where abides this thing.
Aneath thy skull’s arch there be nay room for the there or where o’
this!”

Miss J. then took the board and Patience said:

“She taketh it she standeth well athin the sight o’ me that she
weareth the frock o’ me.”

This caused a laugh, for it was then explained by the visitors that Miss J. had chosen to wear a frock somewhat on the Puritan order, having a gray cape with white cuffs and collar, and had said she thought Patience would approve of it.

_Patience._—“Here be a one aheart ope, and she hath the in-man who
she proddeth that he opeth his eyes. Yea, she seest that which be
and thou seest not.”

It was remarked that Patience was evidently trying to be very nice to Miss J.

_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.”

Mr. Curran here stated that this had ever been so; that Patience had obscured herself so that her message could not be clouded.

_Patience._—“Aright. I do sing.

Gone! Gone! Ayea, thou art gone!
Gone, and earth doth stand it stark.
Gone! Gone! The even’s breath
Doth breathe it unto me
In echo soft; yea, but sharped,
And cutting o’ this heart.

Gone! Gone! Aye, thou art gone!
The day is darked, and sun
Hath sorried sore and wrapped him in the dark.
Gone! Gone! This heart doth drip o’ drops
With sorry singing o’ this song.

Gone! Gone! Yea, thou art gone!
And where, beloved, where?
Doth yonder golden shaft o’ light
That pierceth o’ the cloud
Then speak unto this heart?
Art thou athin the day’s dark hours?
Hast thou then hid from sight o’ me,
And yet do know mine hour?

Gone! Gone! What then hath Earth?
What then doth day to bring
To this the sorry-laden heart o’ me,
That weepeth blood drops here?

Gone! Gone! Yea, but hark!
For I did trick the sorry, loved;
For where e’er thou art am I.
Yea, this love o’ me shall follow thee
Unto the Where, and thou shalt ever know
That though this sorry setteth me
I be where’er thou art.”

After this Dr. K., who resides in St. Louis, took the board.

_Patience._—“Here abe a townsman. Aye, a Sirrah who knoweth men and
atruth doth ne’er acloak the blade o’ him as doth brother ayonder.
Ayea, ahind a chuckle beeth fires.

“There abe weave ’pon the cloth o’ me, yea, but ’tis nay ariped the
time that I do weave. Yea, thou hast a pack o’ tricks. Show unto me,
then, thine.”

Here Dr. V. asked: “Do you know Dr. James?”

This referred to the late Dr. William James, the celebrated psychologist of Harvard.

_Patience._—“I telled a one o’ the brothers and the neighbors o’ thy
day, and he doth know.”

She had given such an answer to a frequent visitor who had inquired as to her knowledge of several eminent men long since dead. It was considered an affirmative answer.

_Dr. V._—“Have you associated with Dr. James?”

_Patience._—“Hark! Unto thee I do say athis; ’tis the day’s break
and Earth shall know, e’en athin thy day, much o’ the Here.

“This, the brother o’ ye, the seeker o’ the Here, hath set a promise
so, and ’tis for to be, I say unto thee. Thou knowest ’tis the word
o’ him spaked in loving. Yea, for such a man as the man o’ him wert,
standeth as a beacon unto the Here.”

_Dr. V._—“Could Dr. James, by seeking as you did, communicate with someone here as you are doing?”

_Patience._—“This abe so; he who seeketh abe alike unto thee and
thee. Ayea, thee and thy brother do set forth with quill, and thou
dost set aslant, and with thy hand at the right o’ thee. And thy
brother doth trace with the hand at the left of him. And ’tis so,
thou puttest not as him. This, the quill o’ me, be for the put o’
me, and doth he seek and know the trick o’ tricks o’ sending out a
music with the quill o’ me, it might then be so.”

This was interpreted as meaning that if Dr. James could find one who had the conditions surrounding Mrs. Curran, and was able to master the rhythm which Patience uses to give the matter to her, then he could do it.

When the record of the foregoing interview was being copied, Mrs. Curran felt an impulse to write. Taking the board, Patience indicated that she had called, and at once set forth, apparently for Dr. V., the following explanation of her method of communication and the principle upon which it is based:

_Patience._—“Aye, ’tis a tickle I be. Hark, there be a pulse—Nay,
she (Mrs. Curran) putteth o’ the word! Alist.—There abe a throb;
yea, the songs o’ Earth each do throb them, like unto the throbbing
o’ the heart that beareth them. Yea, and there be a kinsman o’ the
heart that beareth them. Yea, and there be a kinsman o’ thee who
throbbeth as dost thou. Yea, and he knoweth thee as doth nay brother
o’ thee whose throb be not as thine. So ’tis, the drop that falleth
athin the sea, doth sound out a silvered note that no man heareth.
Yet its brother drops and the drop o’ it do to make o’ the sea’s
voice. Aye, and the throb o’ the sea be the throb o’ it. So, doth
thy brother seek out that he make word unto thee from the Here, he
then falleth aweary. For thee of Earth do hark not unto the throb.
And be the one aseeked not attuned unto the throb o’ him he findeth,
’tis nay music. So ’tis, what be the throb o’ me and the throb o’
her ahere, be nay a throb o’ music’s weave for him aseek.

“I tell thee more. The throb hath come unto thy day long and long.
Yea, they be afulled o’ throb, and yet nay man taketh up the
throbbing as doth the sea. The drop o’ me did seek and find, and
throb met throb o’ loving. Yea, and even as doth the sea to throb
out the silvered note o’ drop, even so doth she to throb out the
love o’ me.”

This seems, in effect, a declaration that communications of this character are a matter of attunement, possible only between two natures of identical vibrations, one seeking and the other receptive. It indicates too that her rhythmical speech has an influence upon the facility of her utterances. At another time she described her own seeking in this verse:

How have I sought!
Yea, how have I asought,
And seeked me ever through the earth’s hours,
Amid the damp, cool moon, when winged scrape
Doth sound and cry unto the day
The waking o’ the hosts!
Yea, and ’mid the noon’s heat,
When Earth doth wither ’neath the sun,
And rose doth droop from sun’s-kiss,
That stole the dew; and ’mid the wastes
O’ water where they whirl and rage,
And seeked o’ word that I
Might put to answer thee.
Ayea, from days have I then stripped
The fulness of their joys, and pryed
The very buds that they might ope for thee.
Aye, and sought the days apast,
That I might sing them unto thee.
And ever, ever, cometh unto me
Thy song o’ why? why? why?
And then, lo, I found athin this heart
The answer to thy song.
Aye, it chanteth sweet unto this ear,
And filleth up the song.
Do hark thee, hark unto the song,
For answer to thy why? why? why?
I sing me Give! Give! Give!
Aye, ever Give!

When the foregoing verse was received, Dr. X. was again present, this time with his wife and two physicians, Dr. R. and Dr. P. It will have been observed that many doctors of many kinds have “sat at the feet” of Patience Worth, but all, as I have said, have come as the friends of friends of Mrs. Curran, upon her invitation, or upon that of Mr. Curran. On this occasion Patience began:

“They do seek o’ me, ever; that they do see the pettiskirt o’ me,
and eat not o’ the loaf! (More interested in the phenomenon than the
words.) Ayea, but he ahere (Dr. R.) hath a wise pate. Aye, he
seeketh, and deep athin the heart o’ him sinketh seed o’ the word o’
me. Aye, even though he doth see the me o’ me athrough the sage’s
eye o’ him, still shall he to love the word o’ me.”

After due acknowledgments from Dr. R., she continued:

“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.

Patience then turned her attention to Mr. M., saying:

“Ayea, he standeth afar from the feasting place and doth to smack
him much!”

Mr. M. took the board, and she began to talk to him in an intimate way about the varying attitudes of people toward her and her work, and what they say of her:

“I be a dame atruth,” she said, “and I tell thee the word o’ wag
that shall set thy day, meaneth anaught but merry to me. Hark! I put
a murmur o’ thy day, for at the supping o’ this cup the earth shall
murmur so:

“’Tis but the chatter o’ a wag! Aye, the putting o’ the mad! ’Tis
piddle! Yea, the trapping o’ a fool! Yea, ’tis but the dreaming o’
the waked! Aye, the word o’ a wicked sprite! Yea, and telleth naught
and putteth naught!

“And yet, do harken unto me. They then shall seek to taste the brew
and sniff the whiffing o’ the scent; ayea, and stop alonger that
they feast! And lo, ’twill set some asoured, and some asweet; aye
and some, ato (too), shall fill them upon the words THEY do to put
o’ me, and find them filled o’ their own put, and lack the room for
eat o’ the loaf o’ me. ’Tis piddle, then! Aye, and yet I say me so,
’tis bread, and bread be eat though it be but sparrows that do seek
the crumb. Then what care ye? For bake asurely shall be eat!”

This is a point she often makes, and strives earnestly to impress—that whatever she may be, whatever the world may think she is, there is substance in her words. It is bread, and will be eaten, if only by the sparrows. So, she is content. She has put this thought, somewhat pathetically, into the little verse which follows:

Loth as Night to dark o’ Day,
Loth do I to sing.
Aye, but doth the Day aneed a song,
’Tis they, o’ Him,
The songsters o’ the Earth,
Do sing them on, to Him.
What though ’tis asmiled? And what
Though ’tis nay aseeked o’ such a song?
Aye, what though ’tis sung ’mid dark?
’Tis I would sing,
Do thee to list, or nay.

“I be a dame who knoweth o’ the hearth. Aye, and do to know o’ the hearts o’ men,” she said to Mrs. D., who next took the place with Mrs. Curran. “Ayea, and do to put o’ that athin the hearts o’ them that doth tickle o’ their merry! This be a tale for her ahere.”

THE STORY OF THE HERBS

“Lo, there wert a dame and her neighbor’s dame and her neighbor’s
dame. And they did to plant them o’ their gardens full. And lo, at a
day did come unto the garden’s ope a stranger, who bore him of a
bloom-topped herb. And lo, he spaked unto the dame who stood athin
the sun-niche that lay at the garden’s end, and he did tell unto her
of the herb he bore. And lo, he told that he would give unto her one
of these, and to her neighbor dame a one, atoo (also), and to her
neighbor dame a one atoo, and he then would leave the garden’s place
and come at the fulling o’ the season-tide when winter’s bite did
sear, and that he then would seek them out, and they should shew
unto him the fulling o’ the herb.

“And lo, he went him out unto the neighbor’s dame and telled unto
her the same, and to her neighbor’s dame the same, and they did seek
one the other and tell o’ all the stranger had told unto them. And
each had sorry, for feared ’twer the cunger o’ the wise men, and
each aspoke her that she would to care and care for this the herb he
did to leave, and that she would have at the fulling o’ the season
the herb that stood at the fullest bloom. And each o’ the dames did
speak it that this herb o’ her should be the one waxed stronger at
the fulling. And lo, none told unto the other o’ how this would to
be.

“And lo, the first o’ dames did plant her herb adeep and speak
little, and lo, her neighbor dames did word much o’ the planting,
and carried drops from out the well that the herbs might full. And
lo, they did pluck o’ the first bud that them that did follow should
be afuller. And lo, the dame afirst o’ the garden the stranger did
to seek, did look with sunked heart at the thriving o’ the herbs o’
the neighbor dames. And lo, she wept thereon, and ’twer that her
well did dry, and yet she seeked not the wells of her sisters. Nay,
but did weep upon the earth about the herb, and lo, it did to spring
it up. And lo, she looked not with greed upon her sister’s herb;
nay, for at the caring for the bloom, lo, she loved its bud and wept
that she had nay drop to give as drink unto it.

“And lo, at a certain day the stranger came and did seek the dames,
and came him unto her garden where the herb did stand, and he bore
the herbs of her sisters, and they wert tall and full grown and
filled o’ bloom. And he did to put the herb o’ her sisters anext the
herb o’ her, and lo, the herb o’ her did spring it up, and them o’
her sisters shrunked to but a twig. And he did call unto the dames
and spake: