Part 9

_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:

“‘Lo, have ye but fed thy herb that it be full o’ bloom, that thou shouldst glad thee o’er thy sister? And lo, the herb o’ her hath drunked her tears shed o’ loving, and standeth sweet-bloomed from out the tears o’ her.’

“And lo, the herb did flower aneath their very eyes. And lo, the flowering wert fulled o’ dews-gleam, and ’twer the sweet o’ her heart, yea, the dew o’ heaven.”

Following this pretty parable someone spoke of a newspaper article that had appeared that day, and Patience remarked:

“’Tis a gab o’ fool. Aye, and the gab o’ fool be like unto a spring that be o’erfull o’ drops, ’tis ne’er atelling when it breaketh out its bounds.”

With this sage observation she dismissed the “fool” as unworthy of further consideration, and gave this poem:

Do I to love the morn, When Earth awakes, and streams Aglint o’ sun’s first gold, As siren’s tresses thred them through the fields; When sky-cup gleameth as a pearl; When sky-hosts wake, and leaf bowers Wave aheavied with the dew? Do I to love the eve, When white the moon doth show, And frost’s sweet sister, young night’s breath, Doth stand aglistened ’pon the blades; When dark the shadow deepeth, Like to the days agone that stand As wraiths adraped o’ black Along the garden’s path; When sweet the nestlings twitter ’Neath the wing of soft and down That hovereth it there within The shadows deep atop the tree?

Do I to love the mid-hours deep— The royal color o’ the night? For earth doth drape her purpled, And jeweled o’er athin this hour.

Do I to love these hours, then, As the loved o’ me? Nay, for at the morn, Lo, do I to love the eve! And at the eve, Lo, do I to love the morn! And at the morn and eve, ’Tis night that claimeth me.

A little of the reasoning of Patience upon Earth questions may appropriately come in here. The Currans, with a single visitor, had talked at luncheon of various things, beginning with music and ending with capital punishment, the latter suggested by an execution which at the moment was attracting national attention. When they took the board, after luncheon, Patience said:

“List thee. Earth sendeth up much note. Yea, and some do sound them at wry o’ melody, and others sing them true. And lo, they who sing awry shall mingle much and drown in melody. And I tell thee, o’er and above shall sound the note o’ me!”

And then she gave them to understand that she had listened to their discussion!

“Ye spake ye of eye for eye. Yea, and tooth for tooth. Yea, but be thy brother’s eye not the ope o’ thine, then ’tis a measure less the full thou hast at taking o’ the eye o’ him. Yea, and should the tooth o’ him put crave for carrion, and thine for sweets, then how doth the tooth o’ him serve thee?”

Here the sitters asked: “How about a life for a life, Patience?”

_Patience._—“Ye fill thy measure full o’ sands that trickle waste at each and every putting. I tell thee thou hast claimed life; aye, and life be not thine or yet thy brother’s for the taking or giving. Yea, and such an soul hath purged at the taking or giving, and rises to smile at thy folly.

“Aye, and more. List! The earth’s baggage, hate, and might, and scorn, fall at earth’s leave, a dust o’ naught, like the dust o’ thy body crumbleth.

“Thou canst strip the body, yea, but the soul defieth thee!”

* * * * *

The visitor referred to in the preceding talk is a frequent guest of the Currans, and is one of the loved ones of Patience. This visitor, who is a widow, remarked one evening that Patience was deep and lived in a deep place.

“Aye,” said Patience, “a deeper than word. There be ahere what thou knowest abetter far than word o’ me might tell. (This seems to refer to the visitor’s husband.) Ayea thou hungereth, and bread be thine, for from off lips that spaked not o’ the land o’ here in word o’ little weight, thou hast supped of love, and know the path that be atrod by him shall be atrod even so by thee, e’en tho’ thou shouldst find the mountain’s height and pits o’ depth past Earth’s tung.

“Shouldst thou at come o’ here to hark unto the sound of this voice, thinkest thou that heights, aye or depths, might keep thee from there? And even so, doth not the one thou seeketh too, haste e’en now to find the path and waiteth?

“Then thinkest thou this journey be lone? Nay, I tell thee, thou art areach e’en past the ye o’ ye, and he areach ato. Then shall the path’s ope be its end and beginning. In love is the end and beginning of things.

“Yea, yea, yea, the earth suppeth o’ the word o’ me, and e’en at the supping stoppeth and speaketh so. What that one not o’ me doth brew. Thou knowest this, dame. Aye, but what then? And why doth not the blood o’ me speak unto me?