Patience Worth: A Psychic Mystery. Casper S. Yost
George, she’s right there with the grease, isn’t she?”
Patience.—“Enough to baste the last upon the spit.”
Doctor.—“Well, that’s quick wit for you. Pretty hard to catch her.”
Patience.—“The salt of today will not serve to catch the bird of tomorrow.”
Doctor.—“She’d better call herself the bird of yesterday. I wonder what kind of a mind she had, anyway.”
Patience.—“Dost crave to taste the sauce?”
Doctor.—“She holds to her simile of the goose. I wish you’d ask her how she makes that little table move under your hands to spell the words.”
Patience.—“A wise cook telleth not the brew.”
Doctor.—“Turn that board over and let me see what’s under it.”
This was done, and after his inspection it was reversed.
Patience.—“Thee’lt bump thy nose to look within the hopper.”
Doctor.—“Whew! She doesn’t mind handing you one, does she?”
Mrs. Pollard.—“That’s Patience’s way. She doesn’t think we count for anything.”
Patience.—“The bell-cow doth deem the good folk go to Sabboth house from the ringing of her bell.”
Doctor.—“She evidently thinks we are a conceited lot. Well, I believe she’ll agree with me that you can’t get far in this world without a fair opinion of yourself.”
Patience.—“So the donkey loveth his bray!”
The Doctor’s Wife.—“You can draw her on all you please. I’m going to keep perfectly still.”
Patience.—“Oh, e’en the mouse will have a nibble.”
Mrs. Curran.—“There! She isn’t going to let you off without a little roast. I wonder what she has to say to you.”
Patience.—“Did’st ever see the brood hen puff up with self-esteem when all her chicks go for a swim?”
Doctor.—“Let’s analyze that and see if there’s anything in it.”
Patience.—“Strain the potion. Mayhap thou wilt find a fly.”
This will be sufficient to illustrate Patience’s form of speech and her ready wit. It also shows something of the character of the people to whom and through whom she has usually spoken. They are not solemn investigators nor “pussy-footed” charlatans. There is no ceremony about the sitting, no dimmed lights, no compelled silences, no mummeries of any sort. The assistance is of the ordinary, fun-loving, somewhat irreverent American type. The board is brought into the living-room under the full glare of the electric lamps. The men perhaps smoke their cigars. If Patience seems to be in the humor for conversation, all may take part, and she hurls her javelins impartially. A visitor is at once brought within the umbra of her wit.
Her conversation, as already indicated, is filled with epigrams and maxims. A book could be made from these alone. They are, of course, not always original. What maxims are? But they are given on the instant, without possibility of previous thought, and are always to the point. Here are a few of these prompt aphorisms:
“A lollypop is but a breeder of pain.”
“An old goose gobbles the grain like a gosling.”
“Dead resolves are sorry fare.”
“The goose knoweth where the bin leaketh.”
“Quills of sages were plucked from geese.”
“Puddings fit for lords would sour the belly of the swineboy.”
“To clap the cover on a steaming pot of herbs will but modify[1] the stench.”
1. A word of this degree of latinity is very rare with her.
“She who quacketh loudest deems the gander not the lead at waddling time.”
“Climb not the stars to find a pebble.”
“He who hath a house, a hearth and a friend hath a lucky lot.”
She is often caustic and incisive.
“A man loveth his wife, but, ah, the buckles on his knee breeks!”
“Should I present thee with a pumpkin, wouldst thou desire to count the seeds?”
“A drink of asses’ milk would nurture the swine, but wouldst thou then expect his song to change from Want, Want, Want?”
“Some folk, like the bell without a clapper, go clanging on in good faith, believing the good folk can hear them.”
“Were I to tell thee the pudding string were a spinet’s string, thou wouldst make ready for the dance.”
“Thee’lt tie thy God within thy kerchief, else have none of Him, and like unto a bat, hang thyself topsy-turvy to better view His handiwork.”
“ ’Twould pleg thee sore should thy shadow wear cap and bells.”
“From constant wishing the moon may tip for thee.”
“Wouldst thou have a daisy blossom upon a thistle?”
“Ye who carry pigskins to the well and lace not the hole are a tiresome lot.”
“He who eateth a bannock well made flattereth himself should his belly not sour.”
Aside from the dramatic compositions, some of which are of great length, most of the communications received from Patience have been in verse. There is rarely a rhyme, practically all being iambic blank verse in lines of irregular length. The rhythm is almost uniformly smooth. At some sittings the poetry begins to come as soon as the hands are placed upon the planchette, and the evening is given over to the production of verse. At others, verses are mingled with repartee and epigram, but seldom is an evening spent without at least one poem coming. This was not the case in the earlier months, when many sittings were given up wholly to conversation. The poetry has gradually increased in volume, as if the earlier efforts of the influence had been tentative, while the responsiveness of the intermediary was being tested. So, too, the earlier verses were fragments.
A blighted bud may hold
A sweeter message than the loveliest flower.
For God hath kissed her wounded heart
And left a promise there.
A cloak of lies may clothe a golden truth.
The sunlight’s warmth may fade its glossy black
To whitening green and prove the fault
Of weak and shoddy dye.
Oh, why let sorrow steel thy heart?
Thy busom is but its foster mother,
The world its cradle, and the loving home
Its grave.
Weave sorrow on the loom of love
And warp the loom with faith.
Such fragments, however, were but steps leading to larger things. A little later on this came:
So thou hast trod among the tansey tuft
And murr and thyme, and gathered all the garden’s store,
And glutted on the lillie’s sensuous sweet,
And let thy shade to mar the sunny path,
And only paused to strike the slender humming bird,
Whose