Her Finger Fate

“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.”