The times dispatch. [volume] (Richmond, Va.) 1903-1914, 1913-04-27
A Perfect Day

The vision OF a perfect day, IL YOU
have spent one, is something that lives
long In the heart, and forever and al
ways in mcmory's temple is a burning
shrine for tho happiness of it: but even
If the day has never come, perhaps 1t is
coming. and the song in your heart Is
there just the same. AS to what con-
stitutes Il perfect day. there are 80
many sorts of days and SO many sorts
Of people to decide that you suppose
everything is in the point of view after
all Don't you remember the story Of
two little children sitting on the land
ing. and the little girl signs and shakes
her pessimistic. curly head and says:
II should think stairs would get aw.
fully tired Of always climbing up"
And the small boy. whose happy little
soul hasn't room for anything but the
Joy OF ten rabbits and 81 new baseball
suit. answers cheerfully: why, Sally.
if you'll only turn round you can see
that these lazy old stairs are always
running down"
Sometimes for weeks you have said
over and over to the secret place in
your soul; Il will go out and gather
ladys slippers and wild iris In tho
woods, and will snatch a perfect day
in the soft pine woods. where | can
look until | am tired at the now blue
SKY that does not live beyond April
and ] viii be perfectly satisfied with
the fields. that this fierce restless
feeling that ] have Will be satished."
And the days have gone by. and the
weeks have gone by. and that wonder
ful day that you want with all your
heart In Gods great out-o doors Just
seems to be locked up tight where YOU
never Will ind II. Once somebody sent
you the sweetest noscgay of real wood
Niolets. and their little faces peeped
over the top of the vase and whispered
about moss and bleeding heart and wild
honeysuckle and blue forget me -nots
until In fair desperation and longing
you took the car, all crowded with tired
people. You rode and rode until every
Dody mat had a home got of and went
10 It, and only YOU and the desire for
the woods and the conductor and mo-
torman were left. and then YOU got out
ana walked your nice. brand new shoes
into the mud. and lost one of your
gloves. and you hunted everywhere for
The forget-mc -nots, but they weren't
there. Maybe they were tired OF grow.
ing 30 near to town. The sun went
down in a big red splash OF beautiful
SKY. and you brought your DOOR, tired
self TO an ugly old hcld and sat down
10 rest on "A stump. and RICH; when YOU
had forgotten TO look. almost under
Your very nose. were the little blue
nowe-s and two real iris, with the
splashes OF yellow on their queer pet
ais. and before YOU came home you
really had good sniff of somebody's
pine Tree that YOU passed on the way
es indeed. the road Was dusty, and
YOU we're "A sight To behold when YOU
got home. and the forget-me-nots died
on the way back. and YOU lost one OF
me tny iris blossoms: but then YOU
had seen them. Had you not snlffed
n, pine tree had YOU not gathered
blue blossoms and consorted with mild
looking COWS in real meadow: OF
course IL was perfect day
have always believed that Chauccr's
mead. all embroidered in figures white
aud rcddc. way made up out OF whole
cloth. because. search as you may. YOU
don't seem TO be able TO ind thing
red that grows In April They are al
ways pale and pink ana soft and sweet
nothing so distinct and sharply lie.
hncd as red and white but then the
Gear man had "a delicious sense OF hu-
NOR and maybe he did find some grow
ing out OF the meadow stained with the
blood OF so many gallant yeomen. At
any rate. you know that way back Won
der. when all OF the English spoke and
wrote IN that outlandish fashion we
simply cannot read Chauccr spent per-
rect days, one after another. because
he has put them all through the quaint
tales that he has given us
When one day follows another and
We cant seem 10 ma the little blue
Iris, and the road is "a dusty and wind
ing way To go, and for miles and miles
there is no pine tree perhaps IL we'll
only turn round" we can see that the
pretty and perfect part of IL was all
on the way back. and after all we may
set home with only the memory OF the
pale. lovely things. but the happies,
sort of little song Rugged close TO your
heart because OF what you didn't know
was there until YOU turned around and
started home again. y perfect day
your day, my day, TO I'LL with all Of the
pleasant thoughts all OF the little
things that possibly don't count At all
but they arc the grace notes OF the mel
ody that runs through the great and
wonderful composition OF the master
musician II is long day and
weary journey without them
BRENT WITT