HER FINGER FATE
Reading edition
“A friend, a foe, a true love, a beau, a journey to go.”
The old superstition of naming the spots on the fingernails still survives in country places, where some old lady may say gravely: “You have an enemy; look at the spots on your finger nails,” and young girls count them for friend or lover. “I knew he would be a wanderer,” said one woman of an absent son, “there was always a journey on both his hands.”
Softly she whispered it over, Knee deep in the scented grass, Where I and the first wild roses Lingered to watch her pass. She kissed her hand to the swallows Skimming the pond below, And turned with a face all archness As she chanted ‘Friend or foe?’ “See, here is my life before me, All that I keep or fail;” And she counted the spots that glistened On each rose-leaf finger nail; Like baby pearls in the sunshine, Or wind-rocked, cloudy flecks; The little white dots that dappled Her nails with snowy specks. “A friend—but look, how many! A foe—” Not one, I said; “A true love”—Sweet, he is near you— She blushed as the roses red. He is waiting, dear, to claim you; Your truest love and beau— Ah! why did my eyes turn misty As she murmured “A journey to go”? The roses bloom in the meadow As they bloomed that other day, And I and the spring and the swallows Wander the old sweet way; We call but we cannot wake her, So still in the vale below; And my heart and the blossoms whisper, “A journey, a journey to go.”