Eve Royle Chisholm in 1906

Her garden in the 1970s

Why should I go
To a man made church
And listen to man made creeds
When out in my garden I can find
All that my soul most needs.

For I can hear God's voice
In every bird that sings
And every lovely flower face
Some message to me brings.

And as I wander down the path
Bordered with Flowers gay
Why do the clanging church bells
Try to call me away!

I would rather read Gods message
In the deep mysterious sky,
In the flower scented breezes
That go drifting gently by.

Than go to Church and listen
To a sermon I can't recall
And hear a preacher say things
That he does not believe at all.

The trusting pride of a little child
For the father who's only a crook;
The fear we have for the River of Death,
When the crossing is only a brook.

The mournful call of the old patient cow
For her baby that's just been sold
For a woman to lavish a love on a dog
When children are hungry and cold.

The saddest tears in the the world it's said
Are the tears that never are shed
When we have to appear with a smile on our face
While our hearts are as heavy as lead.

A sad sight in this world to see
Is the man growing old and grey,
Who has labored with love his long life thru
For the wife who divorced him today.

Snow birds eating a handout at her Patterson Creek house.

In my backyard right near the door
A bread line you may see
Of feathered friends full many a score
Are waiting there for me.

I go about among them,
And scatter crumbs and grain,
And though they get so full one day
The next they're back again.

There are robins from the swamp,
Sometimes called the mountain thrush
Their lovely plumage ruffled up
Like a feather brush.

There's the little English sparrow
So dear although a pest,
Destroying in the summer
Other small birds' eggs and nest.

Among them is the Junco
With his quick & perky ways,
In winter just as happy
As in summer golden days.

The saucy Blue Jay I will call
Though my cherries he will steal
When the summer comes again
He'll forget his evening meal.

When summer comes the cat bird
Will stay here as of yore,
And look to me to feed his young
As I have often done before.

Now does God care for the Sparrows?
Did He send them here to be fed?
Anyway my sleep will be sweeter,
At night when I go to bed.

Poor little English Sparrow
Nobody loves you I hear.
All the birds scatter at your approach,
Because you are naughty I fear.

They brought you out from England
Three and sixty years ago,
And now we do not want you
But where else can you go?

You leave the bugs alone
And eat the farmer's grain.
Perhaps that's just because
You hate to give bugs pain.

You chased away my swallows
From out their last year's nest,
And just for that bad deed alone
I consider you a pest.

I hear you steal the angle worms
From out the robin's beak,
That's because you are too lazy
The worms yourself to seek.

I hope the chickadees's cute nest
You never never see
Hung so very cunningly
In my prickly holly tree.

But Oh! Poor little sparrow
When you shivered in the snow
I could not help but feed you
Whether I should, or no.

Eve Royle Chisholm in her garden in about 1958.

I promised my old self today
I'd stay inside and work.
And do the many household tasks
That I am wont to shirk.

But I glanced outside the window
And my promise I did snap
For the wild birds they were singing
And the sun was shining bright
So I worked outdoors the whole day long
And my back was lame at night.

My Easter Lily blooms for me
When Winter's drawing nigh
I've found the roses on the bushes
When frost was in the sky,
My Christmas cactus blooms for me
In Spring & in the Fall
But my stubborn Amaryliss
Never blooms for me at all.

Eve & Alex
Chisholm
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