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diff --git a/941-h/941-h.htm b/941-h/941-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..058b9a3 --- /dev/null +++ b/941-h/941-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6139 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Just Folks, by Edgar A. Guest + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Just Folks, by Edgar A. Guest + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Just Folks + +Author: Edgar A. Guest + +Release Date: July 26, 2008 [EBook #941] +Last Updated: February 4, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUST FOLKS *** + + + + +Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + JUST FOLKS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Edgar A. Guest + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h4> + To the Little Mother<br /> and the Memory of the Big Father,<br /> This + Simple Book Is Affectionately Dedicated + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> Just Folks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> As It Goes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> Hollyhocks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> Sacrifice </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Reward </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> See It Through </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> To the Humble </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> When Nellie's on the Job </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> The Old, Old Story </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Since Jessie Died </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Hard Luck </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Vacation Time </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> The Little Hurts </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> The Lanes of Memory </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> The Day of Days </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> A Fine Sight </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Manhood's Greeting </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Fishing Nooks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Show the Flag </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Constant Beauty </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> A Patriotic Creed </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Home </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> The Old-Time Family </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> The Job </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Toys </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> The Mother on the Sidewalk </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Memorial Day </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Memory </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> The Stick-Together Families </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> Childless </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> The Crucible of Life </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> Unimportant Differences </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> Grown Up </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> Departed Friends </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Laughter </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Scoffer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Pathway of the Living </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Lemon Pie </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> The Flag on the Farm </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> Heroes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> The Mother's Question </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> The Blue Flannel Shirt </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> Grandpa </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Pa Did It </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> The Real Successes </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> The Sorry Hostess </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> Yesterday </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> The Beauty Places </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> The Little Old Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> The Little Velvet Suit </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> The First Steps </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> Signs </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> The Family's Homely Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> When Mother Cooked With Wood </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> Midnight in the Pantry </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> The World Is Against Me </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> Bribed </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> The Home Builders </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> My Books and I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> Success </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> Questions </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> Sausage </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> Friends </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> A Boost for Modern Methods </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> The Man to Be </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> The Summer Children </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> October </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> On Quitting </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> The Price of Riches </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> The Other Fellow </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> The Open Fire </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> Improvement </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> Send Her a Valentine </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> Bud </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> The Front Seat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> There Are No Gods </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> The Auto </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> The Handy Man </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> The New Days </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> The Call </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> Songs of Rejoicing </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> Another Mouth to Feed </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> The Little Church </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> Sue's Got a Baby </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> The Lure That Failed </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> The Old-Fashioned Pair </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> At Pelletier's </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> At Christmas </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> The Little Army </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> Who Is Your Boss? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> The Truth About Envy </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> Living </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> On Being Broke </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> The Broken Drum </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> Mother's Excuses </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> As It Is </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> A Boy's Tribute </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> Up to the Ceiling </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> Thanksgiving </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> The Boy Soldier </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> My Land </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> Daddies </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> Loafing </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> When Father Played Baseball </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> About Boys </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> Curly Locks </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> Baby's Got a Tooth </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> Home and the Baby </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> The Fisherman </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> The March of Mortality </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> Growing Down </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> The Roads of Happiness </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> June </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> When Mother Sleeps </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> The Weaver </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> The Few </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> Real Swimming </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> The Love of the Game </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> Roses and Sunshine </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Just Folks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We're queer folks here. + We'll talk about the weather, + The good times we have had together, + The good times near, + The roses buddin', an' the bees + Once more upon their nectar sprees; + The scarlet fever scare, an' who + Came mighty near not pullin' through, + An' who had light attacks, an' all + The things that int'rest, big or small; + But here you'll never hear of sinnin' + Or any scandal that's beginnin'. + We've got too many other labors + To scatter tales that harm our neighbors. + + We're strange folks here. + We're tryin' to be cheerful, + An' keep this home from gettin' tearful. + We hold it dear + Too dear for pettiness an' meanness, + An' nasty tales of men's uncleanness. + Here you shall come to joyous smilin', + Secure from hate an' harsh revilin'; + Here, where the wood fire brightly blazes, + You'll hear from us our neighbor's praises. + Here, that they'll never grow to doubt us, + We keep our friends always about us; + An' here, though storms outside may pelter + Is refuge for our friends, an' shelter. + + We've one rule here, + An' that is to be pleasant. + The folks we know are always present, + Or very near. + An' though they dwell in many places, + We think we're talkin' to their faces; + An' that keeps us from only seein' + The faults in any human bein', + An' checks our tongues when they'd go trailin' + Into the mire of mortal failin'. + Flaws aren't so big when folks are near you; + You don't talk mean when they can hear you. + An' so no scandal here is started, + Because from friends we're never parted. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + As It Goes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the corner she's left the mechanical toy, + On the chair is her Teddy Bear fine; + The things that I thought she would really enjoy + Don't seem to be quite in her line. + There's the flaxen-haired doll that is lovely to see + And really expensively dressed, + Left alone, all uncared for, and strange though it be, + She likes her rag dolly the best. + + Oh, the money we spent and the plans that we laid + And the wonderful things that we bought! + There are toys that are cunningly, skillfully made, + But she seems not to give them a thought. + She was pleased when she woke and discovered them there, + But never a one of us guessed + That it isn't the splendor that makes a gift rare— + She likes her rag dolly the best. + + There's the flaxen-haired doll, with the real human hair, + There's the Teddy Bear left all alone, + There's the automobile at the foot of the stair, + And there is her toy telephone; + We thought they were fine, but a little child's eyes + Look deeper than ours to find charm, + And now she's in bed, and the rag dolly lies + Snuggled close on her little white arm. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Hollyhocks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Old-fashioned flowers! I love them all: + The morning-glories on the wall, + The pansies in their patch of shade, + The violets, stolen from a glade, + The bleeding hearts and columbine, + Have long been garden friends of mine; + But memory every summer flocks + About a clump of hollyhocks. + + The mother loved them years ago; + Beside the fence they used to grow, + And though the garden changed each year + And certain blooms would disappear + To give their places in the ground + To something new that mother found, + Some pretty bloom or rosebush rare— + The hollyhocks were always there. + + It seems but yesterday to me + She led me down the yard to see + The first tall spires, with bloom aflame, + And taught me to pronounce their name. + And year by year I watched them grow, + The first flowers I had come to know. + And with the mother dear I'd yearn + To see the hollyhocks return. + + The garden of my boyhood days + With hollyhocks was kept ablaze; + In all my recollections they + In friendly columns nod and sway; + And when to-day their blooms I see, + Always the mother smiles at me; + The mind's bright chambers, life unlocks + Each summer with the hollyhocks. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sacrifice + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When he has more than he can eat + To feed a stranger's not a feat. + + When he has more than he can spend + It isn't hard to give or lend. + + Who gives but what he'll never miss + Will never know what giving is. + + He'll win few praises from his Lord + Who does but what he can afford. + + The widow's mite to heaven went + Because real sacrifice it meant. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Reward + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Don't want medals on my breast, + Don't want all the glory, + I'm not worrying greatly lest + The world won't hear my story. + A chance to dream beside a stream + Where fish are biting free; + A day or two, 'neath skies of blue, + Is joy enough for me. + + I do not ask a hoard of gold, + Nor treasures rich and rare; + I don't want all the joys to hold; + I only want a share. + Just now and then, away from men + And all their haunts of pride, + If I can steal, with rod and reel, + I will be satisfied. + + I'll gladly work my way through life; + I would not always play; + I only ask to quit the strife + For an occasional day. + If I can sneak from toil a week + To chum with stream and tree, + I'll fish away and smiling say + That life's been good to me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + See It Through + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When you're up against a trouble, + Meet it squarely, face to face; + Lift your chin and set your shoulders, + Plant your feet and take a brace. + When it's vain to try to dodge it, + Do the best that you can do; + You may fail, but you may conquer, + See it through! + + Black may be the clouds about you + And your future may seem grim, + But don't let your nerve desert you; + Keep yourself in fighting trim. + If the worst is bound to happen, + Spite of all that you can do, + Running from it will not save you, + See it through! + + Even hope may seem but futile, + When with troubles you're beset, + But remember you are facing + Just what other men have met. + You may fail, but fall still fighting; + Don't give up, whate'er you do; + Eyes front, head high to the finish. + See it through! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + To the Humble + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If all the flowers were roses, + If never daisies grew, + If no old-fashioned posies + Drank in the morning dew, + Then man might have some reason + To whimper and complain, + And speak these words of treason, + That all our toil is vain. + + If all the stars were Saturns + That twinkle in the night, + Of equal size and patterns, + And equally as bright, + Then men in humble places, + With humble work to do, + With frowns upon their faces + Might trudge their journey through. + + But humble stars and posies + Still do their best, although + They're planets not, nor roses, + To cheer the world below. + And those old-fashioned daisies + Delight the soul of man; + They're here, and this their praise is: + They work the Master's plan. + + Though humble be your labor, + And modest be your sphere, + Come, envy not your neighbor + Whose light shines brighter here. + Does God forget the daisies + Because the roses bloom? + Shall you not win His praises + By toiling at your loom? + + Have you, the toiler humble, + Just reason to complain, + To shirk your task and grumble + And think that it is vain + Because you see a brother + With greater work to do? + No fame of his can smother + The merit that's in you. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Nellie's on the Job + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place, + Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face; + The week between the old girl's' reign and entry of the new + Is one that's filled with happiness and comfort through and through. + The charm of living's back again—a charm that servants rob— + I like the home, I like the meals, when Nellie's on the job. + + There's something in a servant's ways, however fine they be, + That has a cold and distant touch and frets the soul of me. + The old home never looks so well, as in that week or two + That we are servantless and Nell has all the work to do. + There is a sense of comfort then that makes my pulses throb + And home is as it ought to be when Nellie's on the job. + + Think not that I'd deny her help or grudge the servant's pay; + When one departs we try to get another right away; + I merely state the simple fact that no such joys I've known + As in those few brief days at home when we've been left alone. + There is a gentleness that seems to soothe this selfish elf + And, Oh, I like to eat those meals that Nellie gets herself! + + You cannot buy the gentle touch that mother gives the place; + No servant girl can do the work with just the proper grace. + And though you hired the queen of cooks to fashion your croquettes, + Her meals would not compare with those your loving comrade gets; + So, though the maid has quit again, and she is moved to sob, + The old home's at its finest now, for Nellie's on the job. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Old, Old Story + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have no wish to rail at fate, + And vow that I'm unfairly treated; + I do not give vent to my hate + Because at times I am defeated. + Life has its ups and downs, I know, + But tell me why should people say + Whenever after fish I go: + "You should have been here yesterday"? + + It is my luck always to strike + A day when there is nothing doing, + When neither perch, nor bass, nor pike + My baited hooks will come a-wooing. + Must I a day late always be? + When not a nibble comes my way + Must someone always say to me: + "We caught a bunch here yesterday"? + + I am not prone to discontent, + Nor over-zealous now to climb; + If victory is not yet meant + For me I'll calmly bide my time. + But I should like just once to go + Out fishing on some lake or bay + And not have someone mutter: "Oh, + You should have been here yesterday." + + The Pup + + He tore the curtains yesterday, + And scratched the paper on the wall; + Ma's rubbers, too, have gone astray— + She says she left them in the hall; + He tugged the table cloth and broke + A fancy saucer and a cup; + Though Bud and I think it a joke + Ma scolds a lot about the pup. + + The sofa pillows are a sight, + The rugs are looking somewhat frayed, + And there is ruin, left and right, + That little Boston bull has made. + He slept on Buddy's counterpane— + Ma found him there when she woke up. + I think it needless to explain + She scolds a lot about the pup. + + And yet he comes and licks her hand + And sometimes climbs into her lap + And there, Bud lets me understand, + He very often takes his nap. + And Bud and I have learned to know + She wouldn't give the rascal up: + She's really fond of him, although + She scolds a lot about the pup. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Since Jessie Died + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We understand a lot of things we never did before, + And it seems that to each other Ma and I are meaning more. + I don't know how to say it, but since little Jessie died + We have learned that to be happy we must travel side by side. + You can share your joys and pleasures, but you never come to know + The depth there is in loving, till you've got a common woe. + + We're past the hurt of fretting—we can talk about it now: + She slipped away so gently and the fever left her brow + So softly that we didn't know we'd lost her, but, instead, + We thought her only sleeping as we watched beside her bed. + Then the doctor, I remember, raised his head, as if to say + What his eyes had told already, and Ma fainted dead away. + + Up to then I thought that money was the thing I ought to get; + And I fancied, once I had it, I should never have to fret. + But I saw that I had wasted precious hours in seeking wealth; + I had made a tidy fortune, but I couldn't buy her health. + And I saw this truth much clearer than I'd ever seen before: + That the rich man and the poor man have to let death through the door. + + We're not half so keen for money as one time we used to be; + I am thinking more of mother and she's thinking more of me. + Now we spend more time together, and I know we're meaning more + To each other on life's journey, than we ever meant before. + It was hard to understand it! Oh, the dreary nights we've cried! + But we've found the depth of loving, since the day that Jessie died. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Hard Luck + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ain't no use as I can see + In sittin' underneath a tree + An' growlin' that your luck is bad, + An' that your life is extry sad; + Your life ain't sadder than your neighbor's + Nor any harder are your labors; + It rains on him the same as you, + An' he has work he hates to do; + An' he gits tired an' he gits cross, + An' he has trouble with the boss; + You take his whole life, through an' through, + Why, he's no better off than you. + + If whinin' brushed the clouds away + I wouldn't have a word to say; + If it made good friends out o' foes + I'd whine a bit, too, I suppose; + But when I look around an' see + A lot o' men resemblin' me, + An' see 'em sad, an' see 'em gay + With work t' do most every day, + Some full o' fun, some bent with care, + Some havin' troubles hard to bear, + I reckon, as I count my woes, + They're 'bout what everybody knows. + + The day I find a man who'll say + He's never known a rainy day, + Who'll raise his right hand up an' swear + In forty years he's had no care, + Has never had a single blow, + An' never known one touch o' woe, + Has never seen a loved one die, + Has never wept or heaved a sigh, + Has never had a plan go wrong, + But allus laughed his way along; + Then I'll sit down an' start to whine + That all the hard luck here is mine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Vacation Time + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Vacation time! How glad it seemed + When as a boy I sat and dreamed + Above my school books, of the fun + That I should claim when toil was done; + And, Oh, how oft my youthful eye + Went wandering with the patch of sky + That drifted by the window panes + O'er pleasant fields and dusty lanes, + Where I would race and romp and shout + The very moment school was out. + My artful little fingers then + Feigned labor with the ink and pen, + But heart and mind were far away, + Engaged in some glad bit of play. + The last two weeks dragged slowly by; + Time hadn't then learned how to fly. + It seemed the clock upon the wall + From hour to hour could only crawl, + And when the teacher called my name, + Unto my cheeks the crimson came, + For I could give no answer clear + To questions that I didn't hear. + "Wool gathering, were you?" oft she said + And smiled to see me blushing red. + Her voice had roused me from a dream + Where I was fishing in a stream, + And, if I now recall it right, + Just at the time I had a bite. + + And now my youngsters dream of play + In just the very selfsame way; + And they complain that time is slow + And that the term will never go. + Their little minds with plans are filled + For joyous hours they soon will build, + And it is vain for me to say, + That have grown old and wise and gray, + That time is swift, and joy is brief; + They'll put no faith in such belief. + To youthful hearts that long for play + Time is a laggard on the way. + 'Twas, Oh, so slow to me back then + Ere I had learned the ways of men! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little Hurts + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Every night she runs to me + With a bandaged arm or a bandaged knee, + A stone-bruised heel or a swollen brow, + And in sorrowful tones she tells me how + She fell and "hurted herse'f to-day" + While she was having the "bestest play." + + And I take her up in my arms and kiss + The new little wounds and whisper this: + "Oh, you must be careful, my little one, + You mustn't get hurt while your daddy's gone, + For every cut with its ache and smart + Leaves another bruise on your daddy's heart." + + Every night I must stoop to see + The fresh little cuts on her arm or knee; + The little hurts that have marred her play, + And brought the tears on a happy day; + For the path of childhood is oft beset + With care and trouble and things that fret. + + Oh, little girl, when you older grow, + Far greater hurts than these you'll know; + Greater bruises will bring your tears, + Around the bend of the lane of years, + But come to your daddy with them at night + And he'll do his best to make all things right. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Lanes of Memory + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the flowers of yesteryear, + And looking back we smile to see life's bright red roses reappear, + The little sprigs of mignonette that smiled upon us as we passed, + The pansy and the violet, too sweet, we thought those days, to last. + + The gentle mother by the door caresses still her lilac blooms, + And as we wander back once more we seem to smell the old perfumes, + We seem to live again the joys that once were ours so long ago + When we were little girls and boys, with all the charms we used to know. + + But living things grow old and fade; the dead in memory remain, + In all their splendid youth arrayed, exempt from suffering and pain; + The little babe God called away, so many, many years ago, + Is still a little babe to-day, and I am glad that this is so. + + Time has not changed the joys we knew; the summer rains or winter snows + Have failed to harm the wondrous hue of any dew-kissed bygone rose; + In memory 'tis still as fair as when we plucked it for our own, + And we can see it blooming there, if anything more lovely grown. + + Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the joys of yesteryear, + And God has given you and me the power to make them reappear; + For we can settle back at night and live again the joys we knew + And taste once more the old delight of days when all our skies were blue. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Day of Days + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A year is filled with glad events: + The best is Christmas day, + But every holiday presents + Its special round of play, + And looking back on boyhood now + And all the charms it knew, + One day, above the rest, somehow, + Seems brightest in review. + That day was finest, I believe; + Though many grown-ups scoff, + When mother said that we could leave + Our shoes and stockings off. + + Through all the pleasant days of spring + We begged to know once more + The joy of barefoot wandering + And quit the shoes we wore; + But always mother shook her head + And answered with a smile: + "It is too soon, too soon," she said. + "Wait just a little while." + Then came that glorious day at last + When mother let us know + That fear of taking cold was past + And we could barefoot go. + + Though Christmas day meant much to me, + And eagerly I'd try + The first boy on the street to be + The Fourth day of July, + I think: the summit of my joy + Was reached that happy day + Each year, when, as a barefoot boy, + I hastened out to play. + Could I return to childhood fair, + That day I think I'd choose + When mother said I needn't wear + My stockings and my shoes. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Fine Sight + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I reckon the finest sight of all + That a man can see in this world of ours + Ain't the works of art on the gallery wall, + Or the red an' white o' the fust spring flowers, + Or a hoard o' gold from the yellow mines; + But the' sight that'll make ye want t' yell + Is t' catch a glimpse o' the fust pink signs + In yer baby's cheek, that she's gittin' well. + + When ye see the pink jes' a-creepin' back + T' the pale, drawn cheek, an' ye note a smile, + Then th' cords o' yer heart that were tight, grow slack + An' ye jump fer joy every little while, + An' ye tiptoe back to her little bed + As though ye doubted yer eyes, or were + Afraid it was fever come back instead, + An' ye found that th' pink still blossomed there. + + Ye've watched fer that smile an' that bit o' bloom + With a heavy heart fer weeks an' weeks; + An' a castle o' joy becomes that room + When ye glimpse th' pink 'in yer baby's cheeks. + An' out o' yer breast flies a weight o' care, + An' ye're lifted up by some magic spell, + An' yer heart jes' naturally beats a prayer + O' joy to the Lord 'cause she's gittin' well. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Manhood's Greeting + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've' felt some little thrills of pride, I've inwardly rejoiced + Along the pleasant lanes of life to hear my praises voiced; + No great distinction have I claimed, but in a humble way + Some satisfactions sweet have come to brighten many a day; + But of the joyous thrills of life the finest that could be + Was mine upon that day when first a stranger "mistered" me. + + I had my first long trousers on, and wore a derby too, + But I was still a little boy to everyone I knew. + I dressed in manly fashion, and I tried to act the part, + But I felt that I was awkward and lacked the manly art. + And then that kindly stranger spoke my name and set me free; + I was sure I'd come to manhood on the day he "mistered" me. + + I never shall forget the joy that suddenly was mine, + The sweetness of the thrill that seemed to dance along my spine, + The pride that swelled within me, as he shook my youthful hand + And treated me as big enough with grown up men to stand. + I felt my body straighten and a stiffening at each knee, + And was gloriously happy, just because he'd "mistered" me. + + I cannot now recall his name, I only wish I could. + I've often wondered if that day he really understood + How much it meant unto a boy, still wearing boyhood's tan, + To find that others noticed that he'd grown to be a man. + Now I try to treat as equal every growing boy I see + In memory of that kindly man—the first to "mister" me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fishing Nooks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Men will grow weary," said the Lord, + "Of working for their bed and board. + They'll weary of the money chase + And want to find a resting place + Where hum of wheel is never heard + And no one speaks an angry word, + And selfishness and greed and pride + And petty motives don't abide. + They'll need a place where they can go + To wash their souls as white as snow. + They will be better men and true + If they can play a day or two." + + The Lord then made the brooks to flow + And fashioned rivers here below, + And many lakes; for water seems + Best suited for a mortal's dreams. + He placed about them willow trees + To catch the murmur of the breeze, + And sent the birds that sing the best + Among the foliage to nest. + He filled each pond and stream and lake + With fish for man to come and take; + Then stretched a velvet carpet deep + On which a weary soul could sleep. + + It seemed to me the Good Lord knew + That man would want something to do + When worn and wearied with the stress + Of battling hard for world success. + When sick at heart of all the strife + And pettiness of daily life, + He knew he'd need, from time to time, + To cleanse himself of city grime, + And he would want some place to be + Where hate and greed he'd never see. + And so on lakes and streams and brooks + The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Show the Flag + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Show the flag and let it wave + As a symbol of the brave + Let it float upon the breeze + As a sign for each who sees + That beneath it, where it rides, + Loyalty to-day abides. + + Show the flag and signify + That it wasn't born to die; + Let its colors speak for you + That you still are standing true, + True in sight of God and man + To the work that flag began. + + Show the flag that all may see + That you serve humanity. + Let it whisper to the breeze + That comes singing through the trees + That whatever storms descend + You'll be faithful to the end. + + Show the flag and let it fly, + Cheering every passer-by. + Men that may have stepped aside, + May have lost their old-time pride, + May behold it there, and then, + Consecrate themselves again. + + Show the flag! The day is gone + When men blindly hurry on + Serving only gods of gold; + Now the spirit that was cold + Warms again to courage fine. + Show the flag and fall in line! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Constant Beauty + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, + It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. + It's good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again, + For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold. + + The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the lilacs stranged a bit, + They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. + The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day, + And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man. + + But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again, + And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way; + And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again, + And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day. + + Oh, we have changed from what we were; we're not the carefree lot we were; + Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, + But it is good to see once more, the blooming lilac tree once more, + And find the constant roses here to comfort us again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Patriotic Creed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To serve my country day by day + At any humble post I may; + To honor and respect her flag, + To live the traits of which I brag; + To be American in deed + As well as in my printed creed. + + To stand for truth and honest toil, + To till my little patch of soil, + And keep in mind the debt I owe + To them who died that I might know + My country, prosperous and free, + And passed this heritage to me. + + I always must in trouble's hour + Be guided by the men in power; + For God and country I must live, + My best for God and country give; + No act of mine that men may scan + Must shame the name American. + + To do my best and play my part, + American in mind and heart; + To serve the flag and bravely stand + To guard the glory of my land; + To be American in deed: + God grant me strength to keep this creed! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Home + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The road to laughter beckons me, + The road to all that's best; + The home road where I nightly see + The castle of my rest; + The path where all is fine and fair, + And little children run, + For love and joy are waiting there + As soon as day is done. + + There is no rich reward of fame + That can compare with this: + At home I wear an honest name, + My lips are fit to kiss. + At home I'm always brave and strong, + And with the setting sun + They find no trace of shame or wrong + In anything I've done. + + There shine the eyes that only see + The good I've tried to do; + They think me what I'd like to be; + They know that I am true. + And whether I have lost my fight + Or whether I have won, + I find a faith that I've been right + As soon as day is done. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Old-Time Family + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It makes me smile to hear 'em tell each other nowadays + The burdens they are bearing, with a child or two to raise. + Of course the cost of living has gone soaring to the sky + And our kids are wearing garments that my parents couldn't buy. + Now my father wasn't wealthy, but I never heard him squeal + Because eight of us were sitting at the table every meal. + + People fancy they are martyrs if their children number three, + And four or five they reckon makes a large-sized family. + A dozen hungry youngsters at a table I have seen + And their daddy didn't grumble when they licked the platter clean. + Oh, I wonder how these mothers and these fathers up-to-date + Would like the job of buying little shoes for seven or eight. + + We were eight around the table in those happy days back them, + Eight that cleaned our plates of pot-pie and then passed them up again; + Eight that needed shoes and stockings, eight to wash and put to bed, + And with mighty little money in the purse, as I have said, + But with all the care we brought them, and through all the days of stress, + I never heard my father or my mother wish for less. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Job + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The job will not make you, my boy; + The job will not bring you to fame + Or riches or honor or joy + Or add any weight to your name. + You may fail or succeed where you are, + May honestly serve or may rob; + From the start to the end + Your success will depend + On just what you make of your job. + + Don't look on the job as the thing + That shall prove what you're able to do; + The job does no more than to bring + A chance for promotion to you. + Men have shirked in high places and won + Very justly the jeers of the mob; + And you'll find it is true + That it's all up to you + To say what shall come from the job. + + The job is an incident small; + The thing that's important is man. + The job will not help you at all + If you won't do the best that you can. + It is you that determines your fate, + You stand with your hand on the knob + Of fame's doorway to-day, + And life asks you to say + Just what you will make of your job. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Toys + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I can pass up the lure of a jewel to wear + With never the trace of a sigh, + The things on a shelf that I'd like for myself + I never regret I can't buy. + I can go through the town passing store after store + Showing things it would please me to own, + With never a trace of despair on my face, + But I can't let a toy shop alone. + + I can throttle the love of fine raiment to death + And I don't know the craving for rum, + But I do know the joy that is born of a toy, + And the pleasure that comes with a drum + I can reckon the value of money at times, + And govern my purse strings with sense, + But I fall for a toy for my girl or my boy + And never regard the expense. + + It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold + Or the power of a rich man to buy; + My courage is stout when the doing without + Is only my duty, but I + Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys + That my kiddies are eager to own, + And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing! + If their mother would let me alone. + + There isn't much fun spending coin on myself + For neckties and up-to-date lids, + But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold + I part with for things for the kids. + I can go through the town passing store after store + Showing things it would please me to own, + But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost + When I'm left in a toy shop alone. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mother on the Sidewalk + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by + Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky. + Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, + But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; + 'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray + For the brave and loyal mother of the boy who goes away. + + There are days of grief before her; there are hours that she will weep; + There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; + She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, + And has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best. + And no man shall ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray + The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away. + + You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, + But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, + And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave, + Who has given the flag a soldier—she's the bravest of the brave. + And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white, + Is a lasting holy tribute to all mothers' love of right. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Memorial Day + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The finest tribute we can pay + Unto our hero dead to-day, + Is not a rose wreath, white and red, + In memory of the blood they shed; + It is to stand beside each mound, + Each couch of consecrated ground, + And pledge ourselves as warriors true + Unto the work they died to do. + + Into God's valleys where they lie + At rest, beneath the open sky, + Triumphant now o'er every foe, + As living tributes let us go. + No wreath of rose or immortelles + Or spoken word or tolling bells + Will do to-day, unless we give + Our pledge that liberty shall live. + + Our hearts must be the roses red + We place above our hero dead; + To-day beside their graves we must + Renew allegiance to their trust; + Must bare our heads and humbly say + We hold the Flag as dear as they, + And stand, as once they stood, to die + To keep the Stars and Stripes on high. + + The finest tribute we can pay + Unto our hero dead to-day + Is not of speech or roses red, + But living, throbbing hearts instead, + That shall renew the pledge they sealed + With death upon the battlefield: + That freedom's flag shall bear no stain + And free men wear no tyrant's chain. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Memory + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I stood and watched him playing, + A little lad of three, + And back to me came straying + The years that used to be; + In him the boy was Maying + Who once belonged to me. + + The selfsame brown his eyes were + As those that once I knew; + As glad and gay his cries were, + He owned his laughter, too. + His features, form and size were + My baby's, through and through. + + His ears were those I'd sung to; + His chubby little hands + Were those that I had clung to; + His hair in golden strands + It seemed my heart was strung to + By love's unbroken bands. + + With him I lived the old days + That seem so far away; + The beautiful and bold days + When he was here to play; + The sunny and the gold days + Of that remembered May. + + I know not who he may be + Nor where his home may be, + But I shall every day be + In hope again to see + The image of the baby + Who once belonged to me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Stick-Together Families + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The stick-together families are happier by far + Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are. + The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make + A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break. + And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun + Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done. + + There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise, + And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties. + Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way, + Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play. + But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find, + For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind. + + There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam, + That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home. + That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray + they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away, + But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done, + Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun. + + It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth, + That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth; + It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give; + There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live. + And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win, + Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Childless + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If certain folks that I know well + Should come to me their woes to tell + I'd read the sorrow in their faces + And I could analyze their cases. + I watch some couples day by day + Go madly on their selfish way + Forever seeking happiness + And always finding something less. + If she whose face is fair to see, + Yet lacks one charm that there should be, + Should open wide her heart to-day + I think I know what she would say. + + She'd tell me that his love seems cold + And not the love she knew of old; + That for the home they've built to share + No longer does her husband care; + That he seems happier away + Than by her side, and every day + That passes leaves them more apart; + And then perhaps her tears would start + And in a softened voice she'd add: + "Sometimes I wonder, if we had + A baby now to love, if he + Would find so many faults in me?" + + And if he came to tell his woe + Just what he'd say to me, I know: + "There's something dismal in the place + That always stares me in the face. + I love her. She is good and sweet + But still my joy is incomplete. + And then it seems to me that she + Can only see the faults in me. + I wonder sometimes if we had + A little girl or little lad, + If life with all its fret and fuss + Would then seem so monotonous?" + + And what I'd say to them I know. + I'd bid them straightway forth to go + And find that child and take him in + And start the joy of life to win. + You foolish, hungry souls, I'd say, + You're living in a selfish way. + A baby's arms stretched out to you + Will give you something real to do. + And though God has not sent one down + To you, within this very town + Somewhere a little baby lies + That would bring gladness to your eyes. + + You cannot live this life for gold + Or selfish joys. As you grow old + You'll find that comfort only springs + From living for the living things. + And home must be a barren place + That never knows a baby's face. + Take in a child that needs your care, + Give him your name and let him share + Your happiness and you will own + More joy than you have ever known, + And, what is more, you'll come to feel + That you are doing something real. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Crucible of Life + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sunshine and shadow, blue sky and gray, + Laughter and tears as we tread on our way; + Hearts that are heavy, then hearts that are light, + Eyes that are misty and eyes that are bright; + Losses and gains in the heat of the strife, + Each in proportion to round out his life. + + Into the crucible, stirred by the years, + Go all our hopes and misgivings and fears; + Glad days and sad days, our pleasures and pains, + Worries and comforts, our losses and gains. + Out of the crucible shall there not come + Joy undefiled when we pour off the scum? + + Out of the sadness and anguish and woe, + Out of the travail and burdens we know, + Out of the shadow that darkens the way, + Out of the failure that tries us to-day, + Have you a doubt that contentment will come + When you've purified life and discarded the scum? + + Tinctured with sorrow and flavored with sighs, + Moistened with tears that have flowed from your eyes; + Perfumed with sweetness of loves that have died, + Leavened with failures, with grief sanctified, + Sacred and sweet is the joy that must come + From the furnace of life when you've poured off the scum. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Unimportant Differences + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If he is honest, kindly, true, + And glad to work from day to day; + If when his bit of toil is through + With children he will stoop to play; + If he does always what he can + To serve another's time of need, + Then I shall hail him as a man + And never ask him what's his creed. + + If he respects a woman's name + And guards her from all thoughtless jeers; + If he is glad to play life's game + And not risk all to get the cheers; + If he disdains to win by bluff + And scorns to gain by shady tricks, + I hold that he is good enough + Regardless of his politics. + + If he is glad his much to share + With them who little here possess, + If he will stand by what is fair + And not desert to claim success, + If he will leave a smile behind + As he proceeds from place to place, + He has the proper frame of mind, + And I won't stop to ask his race. + + For when at last life's battle ends + And all the troops are called on high + We shall discover many friends + That thoughtlessly we journeyed by. + And we shall learn that God above + Has judged His creatures by their deeds, + That millions there have won His love + Who spoke in different tongues and creeds. + + The Fishing Outfit + + You may talk of stylish raiment, + You may boast your broadcloth fine, + And the price you gave in payment + May be treble that of mine. + But there's one suit I'd not trade you + Though it's shabby and it's thin, + For the garb your tailor made you: + That's the tattered, + Mud-bespattered + Suit that I go fishing in. + + There's no king in silks and laces + And with jewels on his breast, + With whom I would alter places. + There's no man so richly dressed + Or so like a fashion panel + That, his luxuries to win, + I would swap my shirt of flannel + And the rusty, + Frayed and dusty + Suit that I go fishing in. + + 'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure; + It is freedom's raiment, too; + It's a garb that I shall treasure + Till my time of life is through. + Though perhaps it looks the saddest + Of all robes for mortal skin, + I am proudest and I'm gladdest + In that easy, + Old and greasy + Suit that I go fishing in. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Grown Up + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Last year he wanted building blocks, + And picture books and toys, + A saddle horse that gayly rocks, + And games for little boys. + But now he's big and all that stuff + His whim no longer suits; + He tells us that he's old enough + To ask for rubber boots. + + Last year whatever Santa brought + Delighted him to own; + He never gave his wants a thought + Nor made his wishes known. + But now he says he wants a gun, + The kind that really shoots, + And I'm confronted with a son + Demanding rubber boots. + + The baby that we used to know + Has somehow slipped away, + And when or where he chanced to go + Not one of us can say. + But here's a helter-skelter lad + That to me nightly scoots + And boldly wishes that he had + A pair of rubber boots. + + I'll bet old Santa Claus will sigh + When down our flue he comes, + And seeks the babe that used to lie + And suck his tiny thumbs, + And finds within that little bed + A grown up boy who hoots + At building blocks, and wants instead + A pair of rubber boots. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Departed Friends + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The dead friends live and always will; + Their presence hovers round us still. + It seems to me they come to share + Each joy or sorrow that we bear. + Among the living I can feel + The sweet departed spirits steal, + And whether it be weal or woe, + I walk with those I used to know. + I can recall them to my side + Whenever I am struggle-tried; + I've but to wish for them, and they + Come trooping gayly down the way, + And I can tell to them my grief + And from their presence find relief. + In sacred memories below + Still live the friends of long ago. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Laughter + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Laughter sort o' settles breakfast better than digestive pills; + Found it, somehow in my travels, cure for every sort of ills; + When the hired help have riled me with their slipshod, careless ways, + An' I'm bilin' mad an' cussin' an' my temper's all ablaze, + If the calf gets me to laughin' while they're teachin' him to feed + Pretty soon I'm feelin' better, 'cause I've found the cure I need. + + Like to start the day with laughter; when I've had a peaceful night, + An' can greet the sun all smilin', that day's goin' to be all right. + But there's nothing goes to suit me, when my system's full of bile; + Even horses quit their pullin' when the driver doesn't smile, + But they'll buckle to the traces when they hear a glad giddap, + Just as though they like to labor for a cheerful kind o' chap. + + Laughter keeps me strong an' healthy. You can bet I'm all run down, + Fit for doctor folks an' nurses when I cannot shake my frown. + Found in farmin' laughter's useful, good for sheep an' cows an' goats; + When I've laughed my way through summer, reap the biggest crop of oats. + Laughter's good for any business, leastwise so it seems to me + Never knew a smilin' feller but was busy as could be. + + Sometimes sit an' think about it, ponderin' on the ways of life, + Wonderin' why mortals gladly face the toil an care an' strife, + Then I come to this conclusion—take it now for what it's worth + It's the joy of laughter keeps us plodding on this stretch of earth. + Men the fun o' life are seeking—that's the reason for the calf + Spillin' mash upon his keeper—men are hungry for a laugh. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Scoffer + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If I had lived in Franklin's time I'm most afraid that I, + Beholding him out in the rain, a kite about to fly, + And noticing upon its tail the barn door's rusty key, + Would, with the scoffers on the street, have chortled in my glee; + And with a sneer upon my lips I would have said of Ben, + "His belfry must be full of bats. He's raving, boys, again!" + + I'm glad I didn't live on earth when Fulton had his dream, + And told his neighbors marvelous tales of what he'd do with steam, + For I'm not sure I'd not have been a member of the throng + That couldn't see how paddle-wheels could shove a boat along. + At "Fulton's Folly" I'd have sneered, as thousands did back then, + And called the Clermont's architect the craziest of men. + + Yet Franklin gave us wonders great and Fulton did the same, + And many "boobs" have left behind an everlasting fame. + And dead are all their scoffers now and all their sneers forgot + And scarce a nickel's worth of good was brought here by the lot. + I shudder when I stop to think, had I been living then, + I might have been a scoffer, too, and jeered at Bob and Ben. + + I am afraid to-day to sneer at any fellow's dream. + Time was I thought men couldn't fly or sail beneath the stream. + I never call a man a boob who toils throughout the night + On visions that I cannot see, because he may be right. + I always think of Franklin's trick, which brought the jeers of men. + And to myself I say, "Who knows but here's another Ben?" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Pathway of the Living + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The pathway of the living is our ever-present care. + Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair; + Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread, + And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead. + + The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace; + We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place. + But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said + For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead. + + The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs, + There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds, + There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said, + For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Lemon Pie + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The world is full of gladness, + There are joys of many kinds, + There's a cure for every sadness, + That each troubled mortal finds. + And my little cares grow lighter + And I cease to fret and sigh, + And my eyes with joy grow brighter + When she makes a lemon pie. + + When the bronze is on the filling + That's one mass of shining gold, + And its molten joy is spilling + On the plate, my heart grows bold + And the kids and I in chorus + Raise one glad exultant cry + And we cheer the treat before us + Which is mother's lemon pie. + + Then the little troubles vanish, + And the sorrows disappear, + Then we find the grit to banish + All the cares that hovered near, + And we smack our lips in pleasure + O'er a joy no coin can buy, + And we down the golden treasure + Which is known as lemon pie. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Flag on the Farm + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We've raised a flagpole on the farm + And flung Old Glory to the sky, + And it's another touch of charm + That seems to cheer the passer-by, + But more than that, no matter where + We're laboring in wood and field, + We turn and see it in the air, + Our promise of a greater yield. + It whispers to us all day long, + From dawn to dusk: "Be true, be strong; + Who falters now with plow or hoe + Gives comfort to his country's foe." + + It seems to me I've never tried + To do so much about the place, + Nor been so slow to come inside, + But since I've got the flag to face, + Each night when I come home to rest + I feel that I must look up there + And say: "Old Flag, I've done my best, + To-day I've tried to do my share." + And sometimes, just to catch the breeze, + I stop my work, and o'er the trees + Old Glory fairly shouts my way: + "You're shirking far too much to-day!" + + The help have caught the spirit, too; + The hired man takes off his cap + Before the old red, white and blue, + Then to the horses says: "giddap!" + And starting bravely to the field + He tells the milkmaid by the door: + "We're going to make these acres yield + More than they've ever done before." + She smiles to hear his gallant brag, + Then drops a curtsey to the flag. + And in her eyes there seems to shine + A patriotism that is fine. + + We've raised a flagpole on the farm + And flung Old Glory to the sky; + We're far removed from war's alarm, + But courage here is running high. + We're doing things we never dreamed + We'd ever find the time to do; + Deeds that impossible once seemed + Each morning now we hurry through. + The flag now waves above our toil + And sheds its glory on the soil, + And boy and man looks up to it + As if to say: "I'll do my bit!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Heroes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There are different kinds of heroes, there are some you hear about. + They get their pictures printed, and their names the newsboys shout; + There are heroes known to glory that were not afraid to die + In the service of their country and to keep the flag on high; + There are brave men in the trenches, there are brave men on the sea, + But the silent, quiet heroes also prove their bravery. + + I am thinking of a hero that was never known to fame, + Just a manly little fellow with a very common name; + He was freckle-faced and ruddy, but his head was nobly shaped, + And he one day took the whipping that his comrades all escaped. + And he never made a murmur, never whimpered in reply; + He would rather take the censure than to stand and tell a lie. + + And I'm thinking of another that had courage that was fine, + And I've often wished in moments that such strength of will were mine. + He stood against his comrades, and he left them then and there + When they wanted him to join them in a deed that wasn't fair. + He stood alone, undaunted, with his little head erect; + He would rather take the jeering than to lose his self-respect. + + And I know a lot of others that have grown to manhood now, + Who have yet to wear the laurel that adorns the victor's brow. + They have plodded on in honor through the dusty, dreary ways, + They have hungered for life's comforts and the joys of easy days, + But they've chosen to be toilers, and in this their splendor's told: + They would rather never have it than to do some things for gold. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mother's Question + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain, + Mother would always watch for me; + She used to stand by the window pane, + Worried and troubled as she could be. + And this was the question I used to hear, + The very minute that I drew near; + The words she used, I can't forget: + "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet." + + Worried about me was mother dear, + As healthy a lad as ever strolled + Over a turnpike, far or near, + 'Fraid to death that I'd take a cold. + Always stood by the window pane, + Watching for me in the pouring rain; + And her words in my ears are ringing yet: + "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet." + + Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire, + And slippers ready for me to wear; + Seemed that mother would never tire, + Giving her boy the best of care, + Thinking of him the long day through, + In the worried way that all mothers do; + Whenever it rained she'd start to fret, + Always fearing my feet were wet. + + And now, whenever it rains, I see + A vision of mother in days of yore, + Still waiting there to welcome me, + As she used to do by the open door. + And always I think as I enter there + Of a mother's love and a mother's care; + Her words in my ears are ringing yet: + "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Blue Flannel Shirt + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am eager once more to feel easy, + I'm weary of thinking of dress; + I'm heartily sick of stiff collars, + And trousers the tailor must press. + I'm eagerly waiting the glad days— + When fashion will cease to assert + What I must put on every morning— + The days of the blue flannel shirt. + + I want to get out in the country + And rest by the side of the lake; + To go a few days without shaving, + And give grim old custom the shake. + A week's growth of whiskers, I'm thinking, + At present my chin wouldn't hurt; + And I'm yearning to don those old trousers + And loaf in that blue flannel shirt. + + You can brag all you like of your fashions, + The style of your cutaway coat; + You can boast of your tailor-made raiment, + And the collar that strangles your throat; + But give me the old pair of trousers + That seem to improve with the dirt, + And let me get back to the comfort + That's born of a blue flannel shirt. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Grandpa + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My grandpa is the finest man + Excep' my pa. My grandpa can + Make kites an' carts an' lots of things + You pull along the ground with strings, + And he knows all the names of birds, + And how they call 'thout using words, + And where they live and what they eat, + And how they build their nests so neat. + He's lots of fun! Sometimes all day + He comes to visit me and play. + You see he's getting old, and so + To work he doesn't have to go, + And when it isn't raining, he + Drops in to have some fun with me. + + He takes my hand and we go out + And everything we talk about. + He tells me how God makes the trees, + And why it hurts to pick up bees. + Sometimes he stops and shows to me + The place where fairies used to be; + And then he tells me stories, too, + And I am sorry when he's through. + When I am asking him for more + He says: "Why there's a candy store! + Let's us go there and see if they + Have got the kind we like to-day." + Then when we get back home my ma + Says: "You are spoiling Buddy, Pa." + + My grandpa is my mother's pa, + I guess that's what all grandpas are. + And sometimes ma, all smiles, will say: + "You didn't always act that way. + When I was little, then you said + That children should be sent to bed + And not allowed to rule the place + And lead old folks a merry chase." + And grandpa laughs and says: "That's true, + That's what I used to say to you. + It is a father's place to show + The young the way that they should go, + But grandpas have a different task, + Which is to get them all they ask." + + When I get big and old and gray + I'm going to spend my time in play; + I'm going to be a grandpa, too, + And do as all the grandpas do. + I'll buy my daughter's children things + Like horns and drums and tops with strings, + And tell them all about the trees + And frogs and fish and birds and bees + And fairies in the shady glen + And tales of giants, too, and when + They beg of me for just one more, + I'll take them to the candy store; + I'll buy them everything they see + The way my grandpa does for me +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Pa Did It + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The train of cars that Santa brought is out of kilter now; + While pa was showing how they went he broke the spring somehow. + They used to run around a track—at least they did when he + Would let me take them in my hands an' wind 'em with a key. + I could 'a' had some fun with 'em, if only they would go, + But, gee! I never had a chance, for pa enjoyed em so. + + The automobile that I got that ran around the floor + Was lots of fun when it was new, but it won't go no more. + Pa wound it up for Uncle Jim to show him how it went, + And when those two got through with it the runnin' gear was bent, + An' now it doesn't go at all. I mustn't grumble though, + 'Cause while it was in shape to run my pa enjoyed it so. + + I've got my blocks as good as new, my mitts are perfect yet; + Although the snow is on the ground I haven't got em wet. + I've taken care of everything that Santa brought to me, + Except the toys that run about when wound up with a key. + But next year you can bet I won't make any such mistake; + I'm going to ask for toys an' things that my pa cannot break. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Real Successes + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You think that the failures are many, + You think the successes are few, + But you judge by the rule of the penny, + And not by the good that men do. + You judge men by standards of treasure + That merely obtain upon earth, + When the brother you're snubbing may measure + Full-length to God's standard of worth. + + The failures are not in the ditches, + The failures are not in the ranks, + They have missed the acquirement of riches, + Their fortunes are not in the banks. + Their virtues are never paraded, + Their worth is not always in view, + But they're fighting their battles unaided, + And fighting them honestly, too. + + There are failures to-day in high places + The failures aren't all in the low; + There are rich men with scorn in their faces + Whose homes are but castles of woe. + The homes that are happy are many, + And numberless fathers are true; + And this is the standard, if any, + By which we must judge what men do. + + Wherever loved ones are awaiting + The toiler to kiss and caress, + Though in Bradstreet's he hasn't a rating, + He still is a splendid success. + If the dear ones who gather about him + And know what he's striving to do + Have never a reason to doubt him, + Is he less successful than you? + + You think that the failures are many, + You judge by men's profits in gold; + You judge by the rule of the penny— + In this true success isn't told. + This falsely man's story is telling, + For wealth often brings on distress, + But wherever love brightens a dwelling, + There lives; rich or poor, a success. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Sorry Hostess + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She said she was sorry the weather was bad + The night that she asked us to dine; + And she really appeared inexpressibly sad + Because she had hoped 'twould be fine. + She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold, + And she almost shed tears over that, + And how sorry she was, she most feelingly told, + That the steam wasn't on in the flat. + + She was sorry she hadn't asked others to come, + She might just as well have had eight; + She said she was downcast and terribly glum + Because her dear husband was late. + She apologized then for the home she was in, + For the state of the rugs and the chairs, + For the children who made such a horrible din, + And then for the squeak in the stairs. + + When the dinner began she apologized twice + For the olives, because they were small; + She was certain the celery, too, wasn't nice, + And the soup didn't suit her at all. + She was sorry she couldn't get whitefish instead + Of the trout that the fishmonger sent, + But she hoped that we'd manage somehow to be fed, + Though her dinner was not what she meant. + + She spoke her regrets for the salad, and then + Explained she was really much hurt, + And begged both our pardons again and again + For serving a skimpy dessert. + She was sorry for this and sorry for that, + Though there really was nothing to blame. + But I thought to myself as I put on my hat, + Perhaps she is sorry we came. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Yesterday + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've trod the links with many a man, + And played him club for club; + 'Tis scarce a year since I began + And I am still a dub. + But this I've noticed as we strayed + Along the bunkered way, + No one with me has ever played + As he did yesterday. + + It makes no difference what the drive, + Together as we walk, + Till we up to the ball arrive, + I get the same old talk: + "To-day there's something wrong with me, + Just what I cannot say. + + "Would you believe I got a three + For this hole—yesterday?" + I see them top and slice a shot, + And fail to follow through, + And with their brassies plough the lot, + The very way I do. + To six and seven their figures run, + And then they sadly say: + "I neither dubbed, nor foozled one + When I played—yesterday." + + I have no yesterdays to count, + No good work to recall; + Each morning sees hope proudly mount, + Each evening sees it fall. + And in the locker room at night, + When men discuss their play, + I hear them and I wish I might + Have seen them—yesterday, + + Oh, dear old yesterday! What store + Of joys for men you hold! + I'm sure there is no day that's more + Remembered or extolled. + I'm off my task myself a bit, + My mind has run astray; + I think, perhaps, I should have writ + These verses—yesterday. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Beauty Places + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here she walked and romped about, + And here beneath this apple tree + Where all the grass is trampled out + The swing she loved so used to be. + This path is but a path to you, + Because my child you never knew. + + 'Twas here she used to stoop to smell + The first bright daffodil of spring; + 'Twas here she often tripped and fell + And here she heard the robins sing. + You'd call this but a common place, + But you have never seen her face. + + And it was here we used to meet. + How beautiful a spot is this, + To which she gayly raced to greet + Her daddy with his evening kiss! + You see here nothing grand or fine, + But, Oh, what memories are mine! + + The people pass from day to day + And never turn their heads to see + The many charms along the way + That mean so very much to me. + For all things here are speaking of + The babe that once was mine to love. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little Old Man + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The little old man with the curve in his back + And the eyes that are dim and the skin that is slack, + So slack that it wrinkles and rolls on his cheeks, + With a thin little voice that goes "crack!" when he speaks, + Never goes to the store but that right at his feet + Are all of the youngsters who live on the street. + + And the little old man in the suit that was black, + And once might have perfectly fitted his back, + Has a boy's chubby fist in his own wrinkled hand, + And together they trudge off to Light-Hearted Land; + Some splendid excursions he gives every day + To the boys and the girls in his funny old way. + + The little old man is as queer as can be; + He'd spend all his time with a child on his knee; + And the stories he tells I could never repeat, + But they're always of good boys and little girls sweet; + And the children come home at the end of the day + To tell what the little old man had to say. + + Once the little old man didn't trudge to the store, + And the tap of his cane wasn't heard any more; + The children looked eagerly for him each day + And wondered why he didn't come out to play + Till some of them saw Doctor Brown ring his bell, + And they wept when they heard that he might not get well. + + But after awhile he got out with his cane, + And called all the children around him again; + And I think as I see him go trudging along + In the center, once more, of his light-hearted throng, + That earth has no glory that's greater than this: + The little old man whom the children would miss. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little Velvet Suit + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Last night I got to thinkin' of the pleasant long ago, + When I still had on knee breeches, an' I wore a flowing bow, + An' my Sunday suit was velvet. Ma an' Pa thought it was fine, + But I know I didn't like it—either velvet or design; + It was far too girlish for me, for I wanted something rough + Like what other boys were wearing, but Ma wouldn't buy such stuff. + + Ma answered all my protests in her sweet an kindly way; + She said it didn't matter what I wore to run an' play, + But on Sundays when all people went to church an wore their best, + Her boy must look as stylish an' as well kept as the rest. + So she dressed me up in velvet, an' she tied the flowing bow, + An' she straightened out my stockings, so that not a crease would show. + + An' then I chuckled softly to myself while dreaming there + An' I saw her standing o'er me combing out my tangled hair. + I could feel again the tugging, an' I heard the yell I gave + When she struck a snarl, an' softly I could hear her say: "Be brave. + 'Twill be over in a minute, and a little man like you + Shouldn't whimper at a little bit of pain the way you do." + + Oh, I wouldn't mind the tugging at my scalp lock, and I know + That I'd gladly wear to please her that old flowing girlish bow; + And I think I'd even try to don once more that velvet suit, + And blush the same old blushes, as the women called me cute, + Could the dear old mother only take me by the hand again, + And be as proud of me right now as she was always then. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The First Steps + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Last night I held my arms to you + And you held yours to mine + And started out to march to me + As any soldier fine. + You lifted up our little feet + And laughingly advanced; + And I stood there and gazed upon + Your first wee steps, entranced. + + You gooed and gurgled as you came + Without a sign of fear; + As though you knew, your journey o'er, + I'd greet you with a cheer. + And, what is more, you seemed to know, + Although you are so small, + That I was there, with eager arms, + To save you from a fall. + + Three tiny steps you took, and then, + Disaster and dismay! + Your over-confidence had led + Your little feet astray. + You did not see what we could see + Nor fear what us alarms; + You stumbled, but ere you could fall + I caught you in my arms. + + You little tyke, in days to come + You'll bravely walk alone, + And you may have to wander paths + Where dangers lurk unknown. + And, Oh, I pray that then, as now, + When accidents befall + You'll still remember that I'm near + To save you from a fall. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Signs + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It's "be a good boy, Willie," + And it's "run away and play, + For Santa Claus is coming + With his reindeer and his sleigh." + It's "mind what mother tells you," + And it's "put away your toys, + For Santa Claus is coming + To the good girls and the boys." + Ho, Santa Claus is coming, there is Christmas in the air, + And little girls and little boys are good now everywhere. + + World-wide the little fellows + Now are sweetly saying "please," + And "thank you," and "excuse me," + And those little pleasantries + That good children are supposed to + When there's company to hear; + And it's just as plain as can be + That the Christmas time is near. + Ho, it's just as plain as can be that old Santa's on his way, + For there are no little children that are really bad to-day. + + And when evening shadows lengthen, + Every little curly head + Now is ready, aye, and willing + To be tucked away in bed; + Not one begs to stay up longer, + Not one even sheds a tear; + Ho, the goodness of the children + Is a sign that Santa's near. + It's wonderful, the goodness of the little tots to-day, + When they know that good old Santa has begun to pack his sleigh. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Family's Homely Man + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There never was a family without its homely man, + With legs a little longer than the ordinary plan, + An' a shock of hair that brush an' comb can't ever straighten out, + An' hands that somehow never seem to know what they're about; + The one with freckled features and a nose that looks as though + It was fashioned by the youngsters from a chunk of mother's dough. + You know the man I'm thinking of, the homely one an' plain, + That fairly oozes kindness like a rosebush dripping rain. + His face is never much to see, but back of it there lies + A heap of love and tenderness and judgment, sound and wise. + + And so I sing the homely man that's sittin' in his chair, + And pray that every family will always have him there. + For looks don't count for much on earth; it's hearts that wear the gold; + An' only that is ugly which is selfish, cruel, cold. + The family needs him, Oh, so much; more, maybe, than they know; + Folks seldom guess a man's real worth until he has to go, + But they will miss a heap of love an' tenderness the day + God beckons to their homely man, an' he must go away. + + He's found in every family, it doesn't matter where + They live or be they rich or poor, the homely man is there. + You'll find him sitting quiet-like and sort of drawn apart, + As though he felt he shouldn't be where folks are fine an' smart. + He likes to hide himself away, a watcher of the fun, + An' seldom takes a leading part when any game's begun. + But when there's any task to do, like need for extra chairs, + I've noticed it's the homely man that always climbs the stairs. + + And always it's the homely man that happens in to mend + The little toys the youngsters break, for he's the children's friend. + And he's the one that sits all night to watch beside the dead, + And sends the worn-out sorrowers and broken hearts to bed. + The family wouldn't be complete without him night or day, + To smooth the little troubles out and drive the cares away. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Mother Cooked With Wood + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I do not quarrel with the gas, + Our modern range is fine, + The ancient stove was doomed to pass + From Time's grim firing line, + Yet now and then there comes to me + The thought of dinners good + And pies and cake that used to be + When mother cooked with wood. + + The axe has vanished from the yard, + The chopping block is gone, + There is no pile of cordwood hard + For boys to work upon; + There is no box that must be filled + Each morning to the hood; + Time in its ruthlessness has willed + The passing of the wood. + + And yet those days were fragrant days + And spicy days and rare; + The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze + And friendliness was there. + And every appetite was keen + For breakfasts that were good + When I had scarcely turned thirteen + And mother cooked with wood. + + I used to dread my daily chore, + I used to think it tough + When mother at the kitchen door + Said I'd not chopped enough. + And on her baking days, I know, + I shirked whene'er I could + In that now happy long ago + When mother cooked with wood. + + I never thought I'd wish to see + That pile of wood again; + Back then it only seemed to me + A source of care and pain. + But now I'd gladly give my all + To stand where once I stood, + If those rare days I could recall + When mother cooked with wood. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Midnight in the Pantry + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks, + Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks; + And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine, + But that can't compare, I'm certain, to the joy that's always mine + When I reach my little dwelling—source, of all sincere delight— + And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night. + + When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late, + And it's midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate, + Though I'm weary with my toiling I don't hustle up to bed, + For the inner man is hungry and he's anxious to be fed; + Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feet + As I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat. + + Oft I hear a call above me: "Goodness gracious, come to bed!" + And I know that I've disturbed her by my overeager tread, + But I've found a glass of jelly and some bread and butter, too, + And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: "When I'm through!" + Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appetite + Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night. + + You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers, + And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers; + You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array, + But it doesn't charm yours truly when I'm on my homeward way; + For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite— + Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The World Is Against Me + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The world is against me," he said with a sigh. + "Somebody stops every scheme that I try. + The world has me down and it's keeping me there; + I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair! + When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show; + The world is determined to keep him down low." + + "What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say + That he was much richer than you are to-day? + He hadn't your chance of making his mark, + And his outlook was often exceedingly dark; + Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim + And he got to the top. Was the world against him?" + + "What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said + That many a time he went hungry to bed. + He started with nothing but courage to climb, + But patiently struggled and waited his time. + He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb, + Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him? + + "I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess, + Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success; + All boys who were down and who struggled alone, + Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known; + Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn, + And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bribed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know that what I did was wrong; + I should have sent you far away. + You tempted me, and I'm not strong; + I tried but couldn't answer nay. + I should have packed you off to bed; + Instead I let you stay awhile, + And mother scolded when I said + That you had bribed me with your smile. + + And yesterday I gave to you + Another piece of chocolate cake, + Some red-ripe watermelon, too, + And that gave you the stomach ache. + And that was after I'd been told + You'd had enough, you saucy miss; + You tempted me, you five-year-old, + And bribed me with a hug and kiss. + + And mother said I mustn't get + You roller skates, yet here they are; + I haven't dared to tell her yet; + Some time, she says, I'll go too far. + I gave my word I wouldn't buy + These things, for accidents she fears; + Now I must tell, when questioned why, + Just how you bribed me with your tears. + + I've tried so hard to do the right, + Yet I have broken every vow. + I let you do, most every night, + The things your mother won't allow. + I know that I am doing wrong, + Yet all my sense of honor flies, + The moment that you come along + And bribe me with those wondrous eyes. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Home Builders + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed, + It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed. + You can read it in their faces; they are dreaming of the day + When they'll come to fame and fortune and put all their cares away. + And I think as I behold them, though it's far indeed they roam, + They will never find contentment save they seek for it at home. + + I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men, + Spurred to speed by grim ambition, and I know they're dreaming then. + They are weary, sick and footsore, but their goal seems far away, + And it's little they've accomplished at the ending of the day. + It is rest they're vainly seeking, love and laughter in the gloam, + But they'll never come to claim it, save they claim it here at home. + + For the peace that is the sweetest isn't born of minted gold, + And the joy that lasts the longest and still lingers when we're old + Is no dim and distant pleasure—it is not to-morrow's prize, + It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs. + It' is every day within us—all the rest is hippodrome— + And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds a home. + + They are fools who build for glory! They are fools who pin their hopes + On the come and go of battles or some vessel's slender ropes. + They shall sicken and shall wither and shall never peace attain + Who believe that real contentment only men victorious gain. + For the only happy toilers under earth's majestic dome + Are the ones who find their glories in the little spot called home. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Books and I + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My books and I are good old pals: + My laughing books are gay, + Just suited for my merry moods + When I am wont to play. + Bill Nye comes down to joke with me + And, Oh, the joy he spreads. + Just like two fools we sit and laugh + And shake our merry heads. + + When I am in a thoughtful mood, + With Stevenson I sit, + Who seems to know I've had enough + Of Bill Nye and his wit. + And so, more thoughtful than I am, + He talks of lofty things, + And thus an evening hour we spend + Sedate and grave as kings. + + And should my soul be torn with grief + Upon my shelf I find + A little volume, torn and thumbled, + For comfort just designed. + I take my little Bible down + And read its pages o'er, + And when I part from it I find + I'm stronger than before. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Success + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I hold no dream of fortune vast, + Nor seek undying fame. + I do not ask when life is past + That many know my name. + + I may not own the skill to rise + To glory's topmost height, + Nor win a place among the wise, + But I can keep the right. + + And I can live my life on earth + Contented to the end, + If but a few shall know my worth + And proudly call me friend. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Questions + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Would you sell your boy for a stack of gold? + Would you miss that hand that is yours to hold? + Would you take a fortune and never see + The man, in a few brief years, he'll be? + Suppose that his body were racked with pain, + How much would you pay for his health again? + + Is there money enough in the world to-day + To buy your boy? Could a monarch pay + You silver and gold in so large a sum + That you'd have him blinded or stricken dumb? + How much would you take, if you had the choice, + Never to hear, in this world, his voice? + + How much would you take in exchange for all + The joy that is wrapped in that youngster small? + Are there diamonds enough in the mines of earth + To equal your dreams of that youngster's worth? + Would you give up the hours that he's on your knee + The richest man in the world to be? + + You may prate of gold, but your fortune lies, + And you know it well, in your boy's bright eyes. + And there's nothing that money can buy or do + That means so much as that boy to you. + Well, which does the most of your time employ, + The chase for gold—or that splendid boy? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sausage + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may brag about your breakfast foods you eat at break of day, + Your crisp, delightful shavings and your stack of last year's hay, + Your toasted flakes of rye and corn that fairly swim in cream, + Or rave about a sawdust mash, an epicurean dream. + But none of these appeals to me, though all of them I've tried— + The breakfast that I liked the best was sausage mother fried. + + Old country sausage was its name; the kind, of course, you know, + The little links that seemed to be almost as white as snow, + But turned unto a ruddy brown, while sizzling in the pan; + Oh, they were made both to appease and charm the inner man. + All these new-fangled dishes make me blush and turn aside, + When I think about the sausage that for breakfast mother fried. + + When they roused me from my slumbers and I left to do the chores, + It wasn't long before I breathed a fragrance out of doors + That seemed to grip my spirit, and to thrill my body through, + For the spice of hunger tingled, and 'twas then I plainly knew + That the gnawing at my stomach would be quickly satisfied + By a plate of country sausage that my dear old mother fried. + + There upon the kitchen table, with its cloth of turkey red, + Was a platter heaped with sausage and a plate of home-made bread, + And a cup of coffee waiting—not a puny demitasse + That can scarcely hold a mouthful, but a cup of greater class; + And I fell to eating largely, for I could not be denied— + Oh, I'm sure a king would relish the sausage mother fried. + + Times have changed and so have breakfasts; now each morning when I see + A dish of shredded something or of flakes passed up to me, + All my thoughts go back to boyhood, to the days of long ago, + When the morning meal meant something more than vain and idle show. + And I hunger, Oh, I hunger, in a way I cannot hide, + For a plate of steaming sausage like the kind my mother fried. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Friends + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ain't it fine when things are going + Topsy-turvy and askew + To discover someone showing + Good old-fashioned faith in you? + + Ain't it good when life seems dreary + And your hopes about to end, + Just to feel the handclasp cheery + Of a fine old loyal friend? + + Gosh! one fellow to another + Means a lot from day to day, + Seems we're living for each other + In a friendly sort of way. + + When a smile or cheerful greetin' + Means so much to fellows sore, + Seems we ought to keep repeatin' + Smiles an' praises more an' more. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Boost for Modern Methods + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In some respects the old days were perhaps ahead of these, + Before we got to wanting wealth and costly luxuries; + Perhaps the world was happier then, I'm not the one to say, + But when it's zero weather I am glad I live to-day. + + Old-fashioned winters I recall—the winters of my youth— + I have no great desire for them to-day, I say in truth; + The frost upon the window panes was beautiful to see, + But the chill upon that bedroom floor was not a joy to me. + + I do not now recall that it was fun in those days when + I woke to learn the water pipes were frozen tight "again." + To win once more the old-time joys, I don't believe I'd care + To have to sleep, for comfort's sake, dressed in my underwear. + + Old-fashioned winters had their charms, a fact I can't deny, + But after all I'm really glad that they have wandered by; + We used to tumble out of bed, like firemen, I declare, + And grab our clothes and hike down stairs and finish dressing there. + + Yes, brag about those days of old, boast of them as you will, + I sing the modern methods that have robbed them of their chill; + I sing the cheery steam pipe and the upstairs snug and warm + And a spine that's free from shivers as I robe my manly form. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Man to Be + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Some day the world will need a man of courage in a time of doubt, + And somewhere, as a little boy, that future hero plays about. + Within some humble home, no doubt, that instrument of greater things + Now climbs upon his father's knee or to his mother's garments clings. + And when shall come that call for him to render service that is fine, + He that shall do God's mission here may be your little boy or mine. + + Long years of preparation mark the pathway for the splendid souls, + And generations live and die and seem no nearer to their goals, + And yet the purpose of it all, the fleeting pleasure and the woe, + The laughter and the grief of life that all who come to earth must know + May be to pave the way for one—one man to serve the Will Divine + And it is possible that he may be your little boy or mine. + + Some day the world will need a man! I stand beside his cot at night + And wonder if I'm teaching him, as best I can, to know the right. + I am the father of a boy—his life is mine to make or mar— + And he no better can become than what my daily teachings are; + There will be need for someone great—I dare not falter from the line— + The man that is to serve the world may be that little boy of mine. + + Perhaps your boy and mine may not ascend the lofty heights of fame; + The orders for their births are hid. We know not why to earth they came. + Yet in some little bed to-night the great man of to-morrow sleeps + And only He who sent him here, the secret of his purpose keeps. + As fathers then our care is this—to keep in mind the Great Design. + The man the world shall need some day may be your little boy or mine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Summer Children + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I like 'em, in the winter when their cheeks are slightly pale, + I like 'em in the spring time when the March winds blow a gale; + But when summer suns have tanned 'em and they're racing to and fro, + I somehow think the children make the finest sort of show. + + When they're brown as little berries and they're bare of foot and head, + And they're on the go each minute where the velvet lawns are spread, + Then their health is at its finest and they never stop to rest, + Oh, it's then I think the children look and are their very best. + + We've got to know the winter and we've got to know the spring, + But for children, could I do it, unto summer I would cling; + For I'm happiest when I see 'em, as a wild and merry band + Of healthy, lusty youngsters that the summer sun has tanned. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + October + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Days are gettin' shorter an' the air a keener snap; + Apples now are droppin' into Mother Nature's lap; + The mist at dusk is risin' over valley, marsh an' fen + An' it's just as plain as sunshine, winter's comin' on again. + + The turkeys now are struttin' round the old farmhouse once more; + They are done with all their nestin', and their hatchin' days are o'er; + Now the farmer's cuttin' fodder for the silo towerin' high + An' he's frettin' an' complainin' 'cause the corn's a bit too dry. + + But the air is mighty peaceful an' the scene is good to see, + An' there's somethin' in October that stirs deep inside o' me; + An' I just can't help believin' in a God above us, when + Everything is ripe for harvest an the frost is back again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On Quitting + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How much grit do you think you've got? + Can you quit a thing that you like a lot? + You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word, + And where'er you go it is often heard; + But can you tell to a jot or guess + Just how much courage you now possess? + + You may stand to trouble and keep your grin, + But have you tackled self-discipline? + Have you ever issued commands to you + To quit the things that you like to do, + And then, when tempted and sorely swayed, + Those rigid orders have you obeyed? + + Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out, + Nor prate to men of your courage stout, + For it's easy enough to retain a grin + In the face of a fight there's a chance to win, + But the sort of grit that is good to own + Is the stuff you need when you're all alone. + + How much grit do you think you've got? + Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? + Have you ever tested yourself to know + How far with yourself your will can go? + If you want to know if you have grit, + Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit. + + It's bully sport and it's open fight; + It will keep you busy both day and night; + For the toughest kind of a game you'll find + Is to make your body obey your mind. + And you never will know what is meant by grit + Unless there's something you've tried to quit. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Price of Riches + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nobody stops at the rich man's door to pass the time of day. + Nobody shouts a "hello!" to him in the good old-fashioned way. + Nobody comes to his porch at night and sits in that extra chair + And talks till it's time to go to bed. He's all by himself up there. + + Nobody just happens in to call on the long, cold winter nights. + Nobody feels that he's welcome now, though the house is ablaze with lights. + And never an unexpected guest will tap at his massive door + And stay to tea as he used to do, for his neighborly days are o'er. + + It's a distant life that the rich man leads and many an hour is glum, + For never the neighbors call on him save when they are asked to come. + At heart he is just as he used to be and he longs for his friends of old, + But they never will venture unbidden there. They're afraid of his wall of gold. + + For silver and gold in a large amount there's a price that all men must pay, + And who will dwell in a rich man's house must live in a lonely way. + For once you have builded a fortune vast you will sigh for the friends you knew + But never they'll tap at your door again in the way that they used to do. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Other Fellow + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Whose luck is better far than ours? + The other fellow's. + Whose road seems always lined with flowers? + The other fellow's. + Who is the man who seems to get + Most joy in life, with least regret, + Who always seems to win his bet? + The other fellow. + + Who fills the place we think we'd like? + The other fellow. + Whom does good fortune always strike? + The other fellow. + Whom do we envy, day by day? + Who has more time than we to play? + Who is it, when we mourn, seems gay? + The other fellow. + + Who seems to miss the thorns we find? + The other fellow. + Who seems to leave us all behind? + The other fellow. + Who never seems to feel the woe, + The anguish and the pain we know? + Who gets the best seats at the show? + The other fellow. + + And yet, my friend, who envies you? + The other fellow. + Who thinks he gathers only rue? + The other fellow. + Who sighs because he thinks that he + Would infinitely happier he, + If he could be like you or me? + The other fellow. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Open Fire + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There in the flame of the open grate, + All that is good in the past I see: + Red-lipped youth on the swinging gate, + Bright-eyed youth with its minstrelsy; + Girls and boys that I used to know, + Back in the days of Long Ago, + Troop before in the smoke and flame, + Chatter and sing, as the wild birds do. + Everyone I can call by name, + For the fire builds all of my youth anew. + + Outside, people go stamping by, + Squeak of wheel on the evening air, + Stars and planets race through the sky, + Here are darkness and silence rare; + Only the flames in the open grate + Crackle and flare as they burn up hate, + Malice and envy and greed for gold, + Dancing, laughing my cares away; + I've forgotten that I am old, + Once again I'm a boy at play. + + There in the flame of the open grate + Bright the pictures come and go; + Lovers swing on the garden gate, + Lovers kiss 'neath the mistletoe. + I've forgotten that I am old, + I've forgotten my story's told; + Whistling boy down the lane I stroll, + All untouched by the blows of fate, + Time turns back and I'm young of soul, + Dreaming there by the open grate. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Improvement + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The joy of life is living it, or so it seems to me; + In finding shackles on your wrists, then struggling till you're free; + In seeing wrongs and righting them, in dreaming splendid dreams, + Then toiling till the vision is as real as moving streams. + The happiest mortal on the earth is he who ends his day + By leaving better than he found to bloom along the way. + + Were all things perfect here there would be naught for man to do; + If what is old were good enough we'd never need the new. + The only happy time of rest is that which follows strife + And sees some contribution made unto the joy of life. + And he who has oppression felt and conquered it is he + Who really knows the happiness and peace of being free. + + The miseries of earth are here and with them all must cope. + Who seeks for joy, through hedges thick of care and pain must grope. + Through disappointment man must go to value pleasure's thrill; + To really know the joy of health a man must first be ill. + The wrongs are here for man to right, and happiness is had + By striving to supplant with good the evil and the bad. + + The joy of life is living it and doing things of worth, + In making bright and fruitful all the barren spots of earth. + In facing odds and mastering them and rising from defeat, + And making true what once was false, and what was bitter, sweet. + For only he knows perfect joy whose little bit of soil + Is richer ground than what it was when he began to toil. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Send Her a Valentine + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Send her a valentine to say + You love her in the same old way. + Just drop the long familiar ways + And live again the old-time days + When love was new and youth was bright + And all was laughter and delight, + And treat her as you would if she + Were still the girl that used to be. + + Pretend that all the years have passed + Without one cold and wintry blast; + That you are coming still to woo + Your sweetheart as you used to do; + Forget that you have walked along + The paths of life where right and wrong + And joy and grief in battle are, + And play the heart without a scar. + + Be what you were when youth was fine + And send to her a valentine; + Forget the burdens and the woe + That have been given you to know + And to the wife, so fond and true, + The pledges of the past renew + 'Twill cure her life of every ill + To find that you're her sweetheart still. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bud + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who is it lives to the full every minute, + Gets all the joy and the fun that is in it? + Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race, + Fit for a battle and fit for a chase, + Heedless of buttons on blouses and pants, + Laughing at danger and taking a chance, + Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud, + Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud! + + Who is it wakes with a shout of delight, + And comes to our room with a smile that is bright? + Who is it springs into bed with a leap + And thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep? + Who answers his growling with laughter and tries + His patience by lifting the lids of his eyes? + Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thud + On his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud! + + Who is it thinks life is but laughter and play + And doesn't know care is a part of the day? + Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes? + Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise? + Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees, + And scrapes all the skin off his shins and his knees? + Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with blood + That was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud. + + Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while? + Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile? + Who is prince to his mother and king to his dad + And makes us forget that we ever were sad? + Who is center of all that we dream of and plan, + Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man? + It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud, + That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Front Seat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride, + No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side. + The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack, + And I maneuvered to avoid the cushions in the back. + We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat, + And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat. + Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I race + With other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place. + + The auto with its cushions fine and big and easy springs + Has altered in our daily lives innumerable things, + But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be, + When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me, + For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boy + Still hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy, + And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it did + In those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid. + + I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place, + And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face. + I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile, + But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while. + I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead, + To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spread + Before me as we spin along, for there I miss the fear + That seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear. + + And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a car + And three glad youngsters madly strive to share the "seat with Pa." + And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see, + Maneuver in their artful ways to sit in front with me; + Though all the cushions in the world were piled up in the rear, + The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer. + And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride, + No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + There Are No Gods + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There are no gods that bring to youth + The rich rewards that stalwarts claim; + The god of fortune is in truth + A vision and an empty name. + The toiler who through doubt and care + Unto his goal and victory plods, + With no one need his glory share: + He is himself his favoring gods. + + There are no gods that will bestow + Earth's joys and blessings on a man. + Each one must choose the path he'll go, + Then win from it what joy he can. + And he that battles with the odds + Shall know success, but he who waits + The favors of the mystic gods, + Shall never come to glory's gates. + + No man is greater than his will; + No gods to him will lend a hand! + Upon his courage and his skill + The record of his life must stand. + What honors shall befall to him, + What he shall claim of fame or pelf, + Depend not on the favoring whim + Of fortune's god, but on himself. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Auto + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An auto is a helpful thing; + I love the way the motor hums, + I love each cushion and each spring, + The way it goes, the way it comes; + It saves me many a dreary mile, + It brings me quickly to the smile + Of those at home, and every day + It adds unto my time for play. + + It keeps me with my friends in touch; + No journey now appears too much + To make with meetings at the end: + It gives me time to be a friend. + It laughs at distance, and has power + To lengthen every fleeting hour. + It bears me into country new + That otherwise I'd never view. + + It's swift and sturdy and it strives + To fill with happiness our lives; + When for the doctor we've a need + It brings him to our door with speed. + It saves us hours of anxious care + And heavy heartache and despair. + It has its faults, but still I sing: + The auto is a helpful thing. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Handy Man + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The handy man about the house + Is old and bent and gray; + Each morning in the yard he toils, + Where all the children play; + Some new task every day he finds, + Some task he loves to do, + The handy man about the house, + Whose work is never through. + + The children stand to see him toil, + And watch him mend a chair; + They bring their broken toys to him + He keeps them in repair. + No idle moment Grandpa spends, + But finds some work to do, + And hums a snatch of some old song, + That in his youth he knew. + + He builds with wood most wondrous things: + A table for the den, + A music rack to please the girls, + A gun case for the men. + And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles, + And seems as young and gay + As any of the little ones + Who round him run in play. + + I stopped to speak with him awhile; + "Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray," + I said, "why do you work so hard + Throughout the livelong day? + Your hair is gray, your back is bent, + With weight of years oppressed; + This is the evening of your life— + Why don't you sit and rest?" + + "Ah, no," the old man answered me, + "Although I'm old and gray, + I like to work out here where I + Can watch the children play. + The old have tasks that they must do; + The greatest of my joys + Is working on this shaded porch, + And mending children's toys." + + And as I wandered on, I thought, + Oh, shall I lonely be + When time has powdered white my hair, + And left his mark on me? + Will little children round me play, + Shall I have work to do? + Or shall I be, when age is mine, + Lonely and useless too? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The New Days + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing, + The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring, + The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true, + And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue + The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest, + The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best + But I—I sing the new days, the days that lie before, + The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore. + + The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are; + The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening star + Shines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land, + And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned. + The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true, + And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do, + Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast; + It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest. + + The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing, + The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring; + The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new + The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew; + We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old; + The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold; + There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do, + And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Call + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Joy stands on the hilltops, + Beckoning to me, + Urging me to journey + Up where I can see + Blue skies ever smiling, + Cool green fields below, + Hear the songs of children + Still untouched by woe. + + Joy stands on the hilltops, + Urging me to stay, + Spite of toil and trouble, + To life's rugged way, + Holding out a promise + Of a life serene + When the steeps I've mastered + Lying now between. + + Joy stands on the hilltops, + Smiling down at me, + Urging me to clamber + Up where I can see + Over toil and trouble + Far beyond despair, + And I answer smiling: + Some day I'll be there. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Songs of Rejoicing + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Songs of rejoicin', + Of love and of cheer, + Are the songs that I'm yearnin' for + Year after year. + The songs about children + Who laugh in their glee + Are the songs worth the singin', + The bright songs for me. + + Songs of rejoicin', + Of kisses and love, + Of faith in the Father, + Who sends from above + The sunbeams to scatter + The gloom and the fear; + These songs worth the singin', + The songs of good cheer. + + Songs of rejoicin', + Oh, sing them again, + The brave songs of courage + Appealing to men. + Of hope in the future + Of heaven the goal; + The songs of rejoicin' + That strengthen the soul. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Another Mouth to Feed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We've got another mouth to feed, + From out our little store; + To satisfy another's need + Is now my daily chore. + A growing family is ours, + Beyond the slightest doubt; + It takes all my financial powers + To keep them looking stout. + With us another makes his bow + To breakfast, dine and sup; + Our little circle's larger now, + For Buddy's got a pup. + + If I am frayed about the heels + And both my elbows shine + And if my overcoat reveals + The poverty that's mine, + 'Tis not because I squander gold + In folly's reckless way; + The cost of foodstuffs, be it told, + Takes all my weekly pay. + 'Tis putting food on empty plates + That eats my wages up; + And now another mouth awaits, + For Buddy's got a pup. + + And yet I gladly stand the strain, + And count the task worth while, + Nor will I dismally complain + While Buddy wears a smile. + What's one mouth more at any board + Though costly be the fare? + The poorest of us can afford + His frugal meal to share. + And so bring on the extra plate, + He will not need a cup, + And gladly will I pay the freight + Now Buddy's got a pup. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little Church + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat + With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat— + How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then, + The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the men + Dressed stiffly in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout, + Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about— + That little church of Long Ago, it wasn't grand to see, + But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me. + + The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again; + I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it when + The deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I see + The people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could be + To drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once more + With my two pennies in my fist that mother gave before + We left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to try + To drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by. + + It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while + The minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style; + And though I couldn't understand it all somehow I know + The Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago; + He didn't preach on politics, but used the word of God, + And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod, + As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say, + And then I see them thanking him before they go away. + + The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge, + It had no hired singers or no other subterfuge + To get the people to attend, 'twas just a simple place + Where every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace; + No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift; + The only worldly thing it had—a mortgage hard to lift. + And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could know + The joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Sue's Got a Baby + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sue's got a baby now, an' she + Is like her mother used to be; + Her face seems prettier, an' her ways + More settled-like. In these few days + She's changed completely, an' her smile + Has taken on the mother-style. + Her voice is sweeter, an' her words + Are clear as is the song of birds. + She still is Sue, but not the same— + She's different since the baby came. + + There is a calm upon her face + That marks the change that's taken place; + It seems as though her eyes now see + The wonder things that are to be, + An' that her gentle hands now own + A gentleness before unknown. + Her laughter has a clearer ring + Than all the bubbling of a spring, + An' in her cheeks love's tender flame + Glows brighter since the baby came. + + I look at her an' I can see + Her mother as she used to be. + How sweet she was, an' yet how much + She sweetened by the magic touch + That made her mother! In her face + It seemed the angels left a trace + Of Heavenly beauty to remain + Where once had been the lines of pain + An' with the baby in her arms + Enriched her with a thousand charms. + + Sue's got a baby now an' she + Is prettier than she used to be. + A wondrous change has taken place, + A softer beauty marks her face + An' in the warmth of her caress + There seems the touch of holiness, + An' all the charms her mother knew + Have blossomed once again in Sue. + I sit an' watch her an' I claim + My lost joys since her baby came. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Lure That Failed + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know a wonderful land, I said, + Where the skies are always blue, + Where on chocolate drops are the children fed, + And cocoanut cookies, too; + Where puppy dogs romp at the children's feet, + And the liveliest kittens play, + And little tin soldiers guard the street + To frighten the bears away. + + This land is reached by a wonderful ship + That sails on a golden tide; + But never a grown-up makes the trip— + It is only a children's ride. + And never a cross-patch journeys there, + And never a pouting face, + For it is the Land of Smiling, where + A frown is a big disgrace. + + Oh, you board the ship when the sun goes down, + And over a gentle sea + You slip away from the noisy town + To the land of the chocolate tree. + And there, till the sun comes over the hill, + You frolic and romp and play, + And of candy and cake you eat your fill, + With no one to tell you "Nay!" + + So come! It is time for the ship to go + To this wonderful land so fair, + And gently the summer breezes blow + To carry you safely there. + So come! Set sail on this golden sea, + To the land that is free from dread! + "I know what you mean," she said to me, + "An' I don't wanna go to bed." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell + Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; + But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know + A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago, + When all the family gathered round a table richly spread, + With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head, + The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile, + With mother running in and out and laughing all the while. + + It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day + We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; + Each little family grows up with fashions of its own; + It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone. + It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends; + There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends, + Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way, + Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day. + + I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad + To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad; + The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin, + And whether living far or near they all came trooping in + With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place + And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face + Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all, + Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small. + + Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told; + From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old; + All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, + The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through; + We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly— + It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye. + Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew + When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Old-Fashioned Pair + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs, + And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs; + In the yard is a group of geraniums red, + And a glorious old-fashioned peony bed. + Petunias and pansies and larkspurs are there + Proclaiming their love for the old-fashioned pair. + + Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place! + Never lovelier smile lit a fair woman's face + Than the smile of the little old lady who sits + On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits. + And a courtlier manner no prince ever had + Than the little old man that she speaks of as "dad." + + In that little old house there is nothing of hate; + There are old-fashioned things by an old-fashioned grate; + On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men + And beautiful ladies to look at, and then + Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there + The pictures of grandchildren, radiantly fair. + + Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy, + Save the trinkets that speak of a lost little boy. + Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain, + And his glorious memories only remain: + The laughter of children the old walls have known, + And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown. + + I am fond of that house and that old-fashioned pair + And the glorious calm that is hovering there. + The riches of life are not silver and gold + But fine sons and daughters when we are grown old, + And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair + We shall know the delights of that old-fashioned pair. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + At Pelletier's + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We've been out to Pelletier's + Brushing off the stain of years, + Quitting all the moods of men + And been boys and girls again. + We have romped through orchards blazing, + Petted ponies gently grazing, + Hidden in the hayloft's spaces, + And the queerest sort of places + That are lost (and it's a pity!) + To the youngsters in the city. + And the hired men have let us + Drive their teams, and stopped to get us + Apples from the trees, and lingered + While a cow's cool nose we fingered; + And they told us all about her + And her grandpa who was stouter. + + We've been out to Pelletier's + Watching horses raise their ears, + And their joyous whinnies hearing + When the man with oats was nearing. + We've been climbing trees an' fences + Never minding consequences. + And we helped the man to curry + The fat ponies' sides so furry. + And we saw a squirrel taking + Walnuts to the nest he's making, + Storing them for winter, when he + Can't get out to hunt for any. + And we watched the turkeys, growing + Big and fat and never knowing + That the reason they were living + Is to die for our Thanksgiving. + + We've been out to Pelletier's, + Brushing off the stain of years. + We were kids set free from shamming + And the city's awful cramming, + And the clamor and the bustle + And the fearful rush and hustle— + Out of doors with room to race in + And broad acres soft to chase in. + We just stretched our souls and let them + Drop the petty cares that fret them, + Left our narrow thoughts behind us, + Loosed the selfish traits that bind us + And were wholesomer and plainer + Simpler, kinder folks and saner, + And at night said: "It's a pity + Mortals ever built a city." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + At Christmas + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; + He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here; + Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before, + And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for. + He is less a selfish creature than at any other time; + When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime. + + When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part; + He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart. + All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile + And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile. + Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me + That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be. + + If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait + Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate. + I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf, + On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself. + I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed, + But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's shining at his best. + + Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood; + There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good, + But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside + And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide. + Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me + That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little Army + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Little women, little men, + Childhood never comes again. + Live it gayly while you may; + Give your baby souls to play; + March to sound of stick and pan, + In your paper hats, and tramp + just as bravely as you can + To your pleasant little camp. + Wooden sword and wooden gun + Make a battle splendid fun. + Fine the victories you win + Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin. + + Little women, little men, + Hearts are light when years are ten; + Eyes are bright and cheeks are red + When life's cares lie all ahead. + Drums make merry music when + They are leading children out; + Trumpet calls are cheerful then, + Glorious is the battle shout. + Little soldiers, single file, + Uniformed in grin and smile, + Conquer every foe they meet + Up and down the gentle street. + + Little women, little men, + Would that youth could come again! + Would that I might fall in line + As a little boy of nine, + But with broomstick for a gun, + And with paper hat that I + Bravely wore back there for fun, + Never more may I defy + Foes that deep in ambush kneel— + Now my warfare's grim and real. + I that once was brave and bold, + Now am battered, bruised and old. + + Little women, little men, + Planning to attack my den, + Little do you know the joy + That you give a worn-out boy + As he hears your gentle feet + Pitter-patting in the hall; + Gladly does he wait to meet + Conquest by a troop so small. + Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin, + You have but to smile to win. + Come and take him where he stays + Dreaming of his by-gone days. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Who Is Your Boss? + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I work for someone else," he said; + "I have no chance to get ahead. + At night I leave the job behind; + At morn I face the same old grind. + And everything I do by day + Just brings to me the same old pay. + While I am here I cannot see + The semblance of a chance for me." + + I asked another how he viewed + The occupation he pursued. + "It's dull and dreary toil," said he, + "And brings but small reward to me. + My boss gets all the profits fine + That I believe are rightly mine. + My life's monotonously grim + Because I'm forced to work for him." + + I stopped a third young man to ask + His attitude towards his task. + A cheerful smile lit up his face; + "I shan't be always in this place," + He said, "because some distant day + A better job will come my way." + "Your boss?" I asked, and answered he: + "I'm going to make him notice me. + + "He pays me wages and in turn + That money I am here to earn, + But I don't work for him alone; + Allegiance to myself I own. + I do not do my best because + It gets me favors or applause— + I work for him, but I can see + That actually I work for me. + + "It looks like business good to me + The best clerk on the staff to be. + If customers approve my style + And like my manner and my smile + I help the firm to get the pelf, + But what is more I help myself. + From one big thought I'm never free: + That every day I work for me." + + Oh, youth, thought I, you're bound to climb + The ladder of success in time. + Too many self-impose the cross + Of daily working for a boss, + Forgetting that in failing him + It is their own stars that they dim. + And when real service they refuse + They are the ones who really lose. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Truth About Envy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I like to see the flowers grow, + To see the pansies in a row; + I think a well-kept garden's fine, + And wish that such a one were mine; + But one can't have a stock of flowers + Unless he digs and digs for hours. + + My ground is always bleak and bare; + The roses do not flourish there. + And where I once sowed poppy seeds + Is now a tangled mass of weeds.' + I'm fond of flowers, but admit, + For digging I don't care a bit. + + I envy men whose yards are gay, + But never work as hard as they; + I also envy men who own + More wealth than I have ever known. + I'm like a lot of men who yearn + For joys that they refuse to earn. + + You cannot have the joys of work + And take the comfort of a shirk. + I find the man I envy most + Is he who's longest at his post. + I could have gold and roses, too, + If I would work like those who do. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Living + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If through the years we're not to do + Much finer deeds than we have done; + If we must merely wander through + Time's garden, idling in the sun; + If there is nothing big ahead, + Why do we fear to join the dead? + + Unless to-morrow means that we + Shall do some needed service here; + That tasks are waiting you and me + That will be lost, save we appear; + Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow + That we may never see to-morrow? + + If all our finest deeds are done, + And all our splendor's in the past; + If there's no battle to be won, + What matter if to-day's our last? + Is life so sweet that we would live + Though nothing back to life we give? + + It is not greatness to have clung + To life through eighty fruitless years; + The man who dies in action, young, + Deserves our praises and our cheers, + Who ventures all for one great deed + And gives his life to serve life's need. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On Being Broke + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Don't mind being broke at all, + When I can say that what I had + Was spent for toys for kiddies small + And that the spending made 'em glad. + I don't regret the money gone, + If happiness it left behind. + An empty purse I'll look upon + Contented, if its record's kind. + There's no disgrace in being broke, + Unless it's due to flying high; + Though poverty is not a joke, + The only thing that counts is "why?" + + The dollars come to me and go; + To-day I've eight or ten to spend; + To-morrow I'll be sailing low, + And have to lean upon a friend. + But if that little bunch of mine + Is richer by some toy or frill, + I'll face the world and never whine + Because I lack a dollar bill. + I'm satisfied, if I can see + One smile that hadn't bloomed before. + The only thing that counts with me + Is what I've spent my money for. + + I might regret my sorry plight, + If selfishness brought it about; + If for the fun I had last night, + Some joy they'd have to go without. + But if I've swapped my bit of gold, + For laughter and a happier pack + Of youngsters in my little fold + I'll never wish those dollars back. + If I have traded coin for things + They needed and have left them glad, + Then being broke no sorrow brings— + I've done my best with what I had. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Broken Drum + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is sorrow in the household; + There's a grief too hard to bear; + There's a little cheek that's tear-stained + There's a sobbing baby there. + And try how we will to comfort, + Still the tiny teardrops come; + For, to solve a vexing problem, + Curly Locks has wrecked his drum. + + It had puzzled him and worried, + How the drum created sound; + For he couldn't understand it + It was not enough to pound + With his tiny hands and drumsticks, + And at last the day has come, + When another hope is shattered; + Now in ruins lies his drum. + + With his metal bank he broke it, + Tore the tightened skin aside, + Gazed on vacant space bewildered, + Then he broke right down and cried. + For the broken bubble shocked him + And the baby tears must come; + Now a joy has gone forever: + Curly Locks has wrecked his drum. + + While his mother tries to soothe him, + I am sitting here alone; + In the life that lies behind me; + Many shocks like that I've known. + And the boy who's upstairs weeping, + In the years that are to come + Will learn that many pleasures + Are as empty as his drum. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mother's Excuses + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mother for me made excuses + When I was a little tad; + Found some reason for my conduct + When it had been very bad. + Blamed it on a recent illness + Or my nervousness and told + Father to be easy with me + Every time he had to scold. + + And I knew, as well as any + Roguish, healthy lad of ten, + Mother really wasn't telling + Truthful things to father then. + I knew I deserved the whipping, + Knew that I'd been very bad, + Knew that mother knew it also + When she intervened with dad. + + I knew that my recent illness + Hadn't anything to do + With the mischief I'd been up to, + And I knew that mother knew. + But remembering my fever + And my nervous temperament, + Father put away the shingle + And postponed the sad event. + + Now his mother, when I threaten + Punishment for this and that, + Calls to mind the dreary night hours + When beside his bed we sat. + Comes and tells me that he's nervous, + That's the reason he was bad, + And the boy and doting mother + Put it over on the dad. + + Some day when he's grown as I am, + With a boy on mischief bent, + He will hear the timeworn story + Of the nervous temperament. + And remembering the shingle + That aside I always threw, + All I hope is that he'll let them + Put it over on him, too. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + As It Is + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I might wish the world were better, + I might sit around and sigh + For a water that is wetter + And a bluer sort of sky. + There are times I think the weather + Could be much improved upon, + But when taken altogether + It's a good old world we're on. + I might tell how I would make it, + But when I have had my say + It is still my job to take it + As it is, from day to day. + + I might wish that men were kinder, + And less eager after gold; + I might wish that they were blinder + To the faults they now behold. + And I'd try to make them gentle, + And more tolerant in strife + And a bit more sentimental + O'er the finer things of life. + But I am not here to make them, + Or to work in human clay; + It is just my work to take them + As they are from day to day. + + Here's a world that suffers sorrow, + Here are bitterness and pain, + And the joy we plan to-morrow + May be ruined by the rain. + Here are hate and greed and badness, + Here are love and friendship, too, + But the most of it is gladness + When at last we've run it through. + Could we only understand it + As we shall some distant day + We should see that He who planned it + Knew our needs along the way. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Boy's Tribute + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Prettiest girl I've ever seen + Is Ma. + Lovelier than any queen + Is Ma. + Girls with curls go walking by, + Dainty, graceful, bold an' shy, + But the one that takes my eye + Is Ma. + + Every girl made into one + Is Ma. + Sweetest girl to look upon + Is Ma. + Seen 'em short and seen 'em tall, + Seen 'em big and seen 'em small, + But the finest one of all + Is Ma. + + Best of all the girls on earth + Is Ma. + One that all the rest is worth + Is Ma. + Some have beauty, some have grace, + Some look nice in silk and lace, + But the one that takes first place + Is Ma. + + Sweetest singer in the land + is Ma. + She that has the softest hand + Is Ma. + Tenderest, gentlest nurse is she, + Full of fun as she can be, + An' the only girl for me + Is Ma. + + Bet if there's an angel here + It's Ma.' + if God has a sweetheart dear, + It's Ma. + Take the girls that artists draw, + An' all the girls I ever saw, + The only one without a flaw + Is Ma. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Up to the Ceiling + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Up to the ceiling + And down to the floor, + Hear him now squealing + And calling for more. + Laughing and shouting, + "Away up!" he cries. + Who could be doubting + The love in his eyes. + Heigho! my baby! + And heigho! my son! + Up to the ceiling + Is wonderful fun. + + Bigger than daddy + And bigger than mother; + Only a laddie, + But bigger than brother. + Laughing and crowing + And squirming and wriggling, + Cheeks fairly glowing, + Now cooing and giggling! + Down to the cellar, + Then quick as a dart + Up to the ceiling + Brings joy to the heart. + + Gone is the hurry, + The anguish and sting, + The heartache and worry + That business cares bring; + Gone is the hustle, + The clamor for gold, + The rush and the bustle + The day's affairs hold. + Peace comes to the battered + Old heart of his dad, + When "up to the ceiling" + He plays with his lad. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Thanksgiving + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, + An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice; + An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they + Are growin more beautiful day after day; + Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men, + Buildin' the old family circle again; + Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer, + Just for awhile at the end of the year. + + Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door + And under the old roof we gather once more + Just as we did when the youngsters were small; + Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all. + Father's a little bit older, but still + Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will. + Here we are back at the table again + Tellin' our stories as women an men. + + Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; + Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there. + Home from the east land an' home from the west, + Home with the folks that are dearest an' best. + Out of the sham of the cities afar + We've come for a time to be just what we are. + Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, + Forgettin' position an' station an' rank. + + Give me the end of the year an' its fun + When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; + Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, + Let me sit down with the ones I love best, + Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, + See the old faces unblemished by wrong, + See the old table with all of its chairs + An I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Boy Soldier + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Each evening on my lap there climbs + A little boy of three, + And with his dimpled, chubby fists + He pounds me shamefully. + He gives my beard a vicious tug, + He bravely pulls my nose; + And then he tussles with my hair + And then explores my clothes. + + He throws my pencils on the floor + My watch is his delight; + He never seems to think that I + Have any private right. + And though he breaks my good cigars, + With all his cunning art, + He works a greater ruin, far, + Deep down within my heart. + + This roguish little tyke who sits + Each night upon my knee, + And hammers at his poor old dad, + Is bound to conquer me. + He little knows that long ago, + He forced the gates apart, + And marched triumphantly into + The city of my heart. + + Some day perhaps, in years to come, + When he is older grown, + He, too, will be assailed as I, + By youngsters of his own. + And when at last a little lad + Gives battle on his knee, + I know that he'll be captured, too, + Just as he captured me. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Land + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My land is where the kind folks are, + And where the friends are true, + Where comrades brave will travel far + Some kindly deed to do. + My land is where the smiles are bright + And where the speech is sweet, + And where men cling to what is right + Regardless of defeat. + + My land is where the starry flag + Gleams brightly in the sun; + The land of rugged mountain crag, + The land where rivers run, + Where cheeks are tanned and hearts are bold + And women fair to see, + And all is not a strife for gold— + That land is home to me. + + My land is where the children play, + And where the roses bloom, + And where to break the peaceful day + No flaming cannons boom. + My land's the land of honest toil, + Of laughter, dance and song, + Where harvests crown the fertile soil + And thoughtful are the strong. + + My land's the land of many creeds + And tolerance for all + It is the land of 'splendid deeds + Where men are seldom small. + And though the world should bid me roam, + Its distant scenes to see, + My land would keep my heart at home + And there I'd always be. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Daddies + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I would rather be the daddy + Of a romping, roguish crew, + Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie + And a little girl or two, + Than the monarch of a nation + In his high and lofty seat + Taking empty adoration + From the subjects at his feet. + + I would rather own their kisses + As at night to me they run, + Than to be the king who misses + All the simpler forms of fun. + When his dreary day is ending + He is dismally alone, + But when my sun is descending + There are joys for me to own. + + He may ride to horns and drumming; + I must walk a quiet street, + But when once they see me coming + Then on joyous, flying feet + They come racing to me madly + And I catch them with a swing + And I say it proudly, gladly, + That I'm happier than a king. + + You may talk of lofty places, + You may boast of pomp and power, + Men may turn their eager faces + To the glory of an hour, + But give me the humble station + With its joys that long survive, + For the daddies of the nation + Are the happiest men alive. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Loafing + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Under the shade of trees, + Flat on my back at ease, + Lulled by the hum of bees, + There's where I rest; + Breathing the scented air, + Lazily loafing there, + Never a thought of care, + Peace in my breast. + + There where the waters run, + Laughing along in fun, + I go when work is done, + There's where I stray; + Couch of a downy green, + Restful and sweet and clean, + Set in a fairy scene, + Wondrously gay. + + Worn out with toil and strife, + Sick of the din of life, + With pain and sorrow rife, + There's where I go; + Soothing and sweet I find, + Comforts that ease the mind, + Leaving dull care behind, + Rest there I know. + + Flat on my back I lie, + Watching the ships go by, + Under the fleecy sky, + Day dreaming there; + From grief I find surcease, + From worry gain release, + Resting in perfect peace, + Free from all care. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Father Played Baseball + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The smell of arnica is strong, + And mother's time is spent + In rubbing father's arms and back + With burning liniment. + The house is like a druggist's shop; + Strong odors fill the hall, + And day and night we hear him groan, + Since father played baseball. + + He's forty past, but he declared + That he was young as ever; + And in his youth, he said, he was + A baseball player clever. + So when the business men arranged + A game, they came to call + On dad and asked him if he thought + That he could play baseball. + + "I haven't played in fifteen years," + Said father, "but I know + That I can stop the grounders hot, + And I can make the throw. + I used to play a corking game; + The curves, I know them all; + And you can count on me, you bet, + To join your game of ball." + + On Saturday the game was played, + And all of us were there; + Dad borrowed an old uniform, + That Casey used to wear. + He paid three dollars for a glove, + Wore spikes to save a fall + He had the make-up on all right, + When father played baseball. + + At second base they stationed him; + A liner came his way; + Dad tried to stop it with his knee, + And missed a double play. + He threw into the bleachers twice, + He let a pop fly fall; + Oh, we were all ashamed of him, + When father played baseball. + + He tried to run, but tripped and fell, + He tried to take a throw; + It put three fingers out of joint, + And father let it go. + He stopped a grounder with his face; + Was spiked, nor was that all; + It looked to us like suicide, + When father played baseball. + + At last he limped away, and now + He suffers in disgrace; + His arms are bathed in liniment; + Court plaster hides his face. + He says his back is breaking, and + His legs won't move at all; + It made a wreck of father when + He tried to play baseball. + + The smell of arnica abounds; + He hobbles with a cane; + A row of blisters mar his hands; + He is in constant pain. + But lame and weak as father is, + He swears he'll lick us all + If we dare even speak about + The day he played baseball. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + About Boys + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Show me the boy who never threw + A stone at someone's cat; + Or never hurled a snowball swift + At someone's high silk hat. + Who never ran away from school, + To seek the swimming hole; + Or slyly from a neighbor's yard + Green apples never stole. + Show me the boy who never broke + A pane of window glass; + Who never disobeyed the sign + That says: "Keep off the grass." + Who never did a thousand things, + That grieve us sore to tell; + And I'll show you a little boy + Who must be far from well. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Curly Locks + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Curly locks, what do you know of the world, + And what do your brown eyes see? + Has your baby mind been able to find + One thread of the mystery? + Do you know of the sorrow and pain that lie + In the realms that you've never seen? + Have you even guessed of the great unrest + In the world where you've never been? + + Curly locks, what do you know of the world + And what do you see in the skies? + When you solemnly stare at the world out there + Can you see where the future lies? + What wonderful thoughts are you thinking now? + Can it be that you really know + That beyond your youth there are joy and ruth, + On the way that you soon must go? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Baby's Got a Tooth + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The telephone rang in my office to-day, + as it often has tinkled before. + I turned in my chair in a half-grouchy way, + for a telephone call is a bore; + And I thought, "It is somebody wanting to know + the distance from here to Pekin." + In a tone that was gruff I shouted "Hello," + a sign for the talk to begin. + "What is it?" I asked in a terrible way. + I was huffy, to tell you the truth, + Then over the wire I heard my wife say: + "The baby, my dear, has a tooth!" + + I have seen a man jump when the horse that he + backed finished first in a well-driven race. + I have heard the man cheer, as a matter of fact, + and I've seen the blood rush to his face; + I've been on the spot when good news has come + in and I've witnessed expressions of glee + That range from a yell to a tilt of the chin; and + some things have happened to me + That have thrilled me with joy from my toes to + my head, but never from earliest youth + Have I jumped with delight as I did when she + said, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth." + + I have answered the telephone thousands of times + for messages both good and bad; + I've received the reports of most horrible crimes, + and news that was cheerful or sad; + I've been telephoned this and been telephoned + that, a joke, or an errand to run; + I've been called to the phone for the idlest of chat, + when there was much work to be done; + But never before have I realized quite the thrill + of a message, forsooth, + Till over the wire came these words that I write, + "The baby, my dear, has a tooth." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Home and the Baby + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Home was never home before, + Till the baby came. + Love no golden jewels wore, + Till the baby came. + There was joy, but now it seems + Dreams were not the rosy dreams, + Sunbeams not such golden beams— + Till the baby came. + + Home was never really gay, + Till the baby came. + I'd forgotten how to play, + Till the baby came. + Smiles were never half so bright, + Troubles never half so light, + Worry never took to flight, + Till the baby came. + + Home was never half so blest, + Till the baby came. + Lacking something that was best, + Till the baby came. + Kisses were not half so sweet, + Love not really so complete, + Joy had never found our street + Till the baby came. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Fisherman + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Along a stream that raced and ran + Through tangled trees and over stones, + That long had heard the pipes o' Pan + And shared the joys that nature owns, + I met a fellow fisherman, + Who greeted me in cheerful tones. + + The lines of care were on his face. + I guessed that he had buried dead; + Had run for gold full many a race, + And kept great problems in his head, + But in that gentle resting place + No word of wealth or fame he said. + + He showed me trout that he had caught + And praised the larger ones of mine; + Told me how that big beauty fought + And almost broke his silken line; + Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought + Them proof of life and power divine. + + There man to man we talked of trees + And birds, as people talk of men; + Discussed the busy ways of bees + Wondered what lies beyond our ken; + Where is the land no mortal sees, + And shall we come this way again. + + "Out here," he told me, with a smile, + "Away from all the city's sham, + The strife for splendor and for style, + The ticker and the telegram + I come for just a little while + To be exactly as I am." + + Foes think the bad in him they've guessed + And prate about the wrong they scan; + Friends that have seen him at his best + Believe they know his every plan; + I know him better than the rest, + I know him as a fisherman. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The March of Mortality + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over the hills of time to the valley of endless years; + Over the roads of woe to the land that is free from tears + Up from the haunts of men to the place where the angels are, + This is the march of mortality to a wonderful goal afar. + + Troopers we are in life, warring at times with wrong, + But promised ever unbroken rest at last in a land of song; + And whether we serve or rule, and whether we fall or rise, + We shall come, in time, to that golden vale where never the spirit dies. + + Back of the strife for gain, and under the toil for fame, + The dreams of men in this mortal march have ever remained the same. + They have lived through their days and years for the great rewards to be, + When earth's dusty garb shall be laid aside for the robes of eternity. + + This is the march of mortality, whatever man's race or creed, + And whether he's one of the savage tribe or one of a higher breed, + He is conscious dimly of better things that were promised him long ago, + And he keeps his place in the line with men for + the joys that his soul shall know. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Growing Down + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Time was I thought of growing up, + But that was ere the babies came; + I'd dream and plan to be a man + And win my share of wealth and fame, + For age held all the splendors then + And wisdom seemed lifes brightest crown + For mortal brow. It's different now. + Each evening finds me growing down. + + I'm not so keen for growing up + To wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue, + And sluggish blood; with little Bud + I long to be a comrade young. + His sports are joys I want to share, + His games are games I want to play, + An old man grim's no chum for him + And so I'm growing down to-day. + + I'm back to marbles and to tops, + To flying kites and one-ol'-cat; + "Fan acres!" I now loudly cry; + I also take my turn at bat; + I've had my fling at growing up + And want no old man's fair renown. + To be a boy is finer joy, + And so I've started growing down. + + Once more I'm learning games I knew + When I was four and five and six, + I'm going back along life's track + To find the same old-fashioned tricks, + And happy are the hours we spend + Together, without sigh or frown. + To be a boy is Age's joy, + And so to him I'm growing down. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Roads of Happiness + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The roads of happiness are not + The selfish roads of pleasure seeking, + Where cheeks are flushed with haste and hot + And none has time for kindly speaking. + But they're the roads where lovers stray, + Where wives and husbands walk together + And children romp along the way + Whenever it is pleasant weather. + + The roads of happiness are trod + By simple folks and tender-hearted, + By gentle folks that worship God + And want to live their days unparted. + There kindly people stop and talk, + Regardless of the chase for money, + There, arm in arm, the grown-ups walk + And every eye you see is sunny. + + The roads of happiness are lined, + Not with the friends of royal splendor, + But with the loyal friends and kind + That do the gentle deeds and tender. + There fame has never brought unrest + Nor glory set men's hearts to aching; + There unabandoned is life's best + For selfish love and money making. + + The roads of happiness are those + That do not lead to pomp and glory + But wind among the joys and woes + That make the humble toiler's story. + The roads that oft we used to tread + In early days when first we mated, + When hearts were light and cheeks were red, + And days were not with burdens freighted. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + June + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees, + Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees, + Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush, + Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush. + + June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red, + Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread; + Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon; + Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June. + + Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song, + Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along; + Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet, + And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + When Mother Sleeps + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When mother sleeps, a slamming door + Disturbs her not at all; + A man might walk across the floor + Or wander through the hall + A pistol shot outside would not + Drive slumber from her eyes— + But she is always on the spot + The moment baby cries. + + The thunder crash she would not hear, + Nor shouting in the street; + A barking dog, however near, + Of sleep can never cheat + Dear mother, but I've noticed this + To my profound surprise: + That always wide-awake she is + The moment baby cries. + + However weary she may be, + Though wrapped in slumber deep, + Somehow it always seems to me + Her vigil she will keep. + Sound sleeper that she is, I take + It in her heart there lies + A love that causes her to wake + The moment baby cries. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Weaver + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The patter of rain on the roof, + The glint of the sun on the rose; + Of life, these the warp and the woof, + The weaving that everyone knows. + Now grief with its consequent tear, + Now joy with its luminous smile; + The days are the threads of the year— + Is what I am weaving worth while? + + What pattern have I on my loom? + Shall my bit of tapestry please? + Am I working with gray threads of gloom? + Is there faith in the figures I seize? + When my fingers are lifeless and cold, + And the threads I no longer can weave + Shall there be there for men to behold + One sign of the things I believe? + + God sends me the gray days and rare, + The threads from his bountiful skein, + And many, as sunshine, are fair. + And some are as dark as the rain. + And I think as I toil to express + My life through the days slipping by, + Shall my tapestry prove a success? + What sort of a weaver am I? + + Am I making the most of the red + And the bright strands of luminous gold? + Or blotting them out with the thread + By which all men's failure is told? + Am I picturing life as despair, + As a thing men shall shudder to see, + Or weaving a bit that is fair + That shall stand as the record of me? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Few + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The easy roads are crowded + And the level roads are jammed; + The pleasant little rivers + With the drifting folks are crammed. + But off yonder where it's rocky, + Where you get a better view, + You will find the ranks are thinning + And the travelers are few. + + Where the going's smooth and pleasant + You will always find the throng, + For the many, more's the pity, + Seem to like to drift along. + But the steeps that call for courage, + And the task that's hard to do + In the end result in glory + For the never-wavering few. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Real Swimming + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw him in the distance, as the train went speeding by, + A shivery little fellow standing in the sun to dry. + And a little pile of clothing very near him I could see: + He was owner of a gladness that had once belonged to me. + I have shivered as he shivered, I have dried the way he dried, + I've stood naked in God's sunshine with my garments at my side; + And I thought as I beheld him, of the many weary men + Who would like to go in swimming as a little boy again. + + I saw him scarce a moment, yet I knew his lips were blue + And I knew his teeth were chattering just as mine were wont to do; + And I knew his merry playmates in the pond were splashing still; + I could tell how much he envied all the boys that never chill; + And throughout that lonesome journey, I kept living o'er and o'er + The joys of going swimming when no bathing suits we wore; + I was with that little fellow, standing chattering in the sun; + I was sharing in his shivers and a partner of his fun. + + Back to me there came the pictures that I never shall forget + When I dared not travel homewards if my shock of hair was wet, + When I did my brief undressing under fine and friendly trees + In the days before convention rigged us up in b.v.d's. + And I dived for stones and metal on the mill pond's muddy floor, + Then stood naked in the sunshine till my blood grew warm once more. + I was back again, a youngster, in those golden days of old, + When my teeth were wont to chatter and my lips were blue with cold. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Love of the Game + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There is too much of sighing, and weaving + Of pitiful tales of despair. + There is too much of wailing and grieving, + And too much of railing at care. + There is far too much glorification + Of money and pleasure and fame; + But I sing the joy of my station, + And I sing the love of my game. + + There is too much of tremble-lip telling + Of hurts that have come with the fight. + There is too much of pitiful dwelling + On plans that have failed to go right. + There is too much of envious pining + For luxuries others may claim. + Too much thought of wining and dining, + But I sing the love of my game. + + There is too much of grim magnifying + The troubles that come with the day, + There is too much indifferent trying + To travel a care-beset way. + Too much do men think of gold-getting, + Too much have they underwrit shame, + Which accounts for the frowning and fretting, + But I sing the joy of my game. + + Let's get back to the work we are doing; + Let us reckon its joys and its pain; + Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing, + To sum up the cost of each gain. + Let us give up our whining and wailing + Because of the bruises that maim, + And battle the chances of failing + As being a part of the game. + + Let us care more for serving than winning, + Let us look at our woes as they are; + It is time now that we were beginning + To be less afraid of a scar. + Let us cease in our glorification + Of money and pleasure and fame, + And find, whatsoe'er be our station, + Our joy in the love of the game. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Roses and Sunshine + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Rough is the road I am journeying now, + Heavy the burden I'm bearing to-day; + But I'm humming a song, as I wander along, + And I smile at the roses that nod by the way. + Red roses sweet, + Blooming there at my feet, + Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer; + What a weakling I'd be + If I tried not to see + The joy and the comfort you bring to us here. + + Just tramping along o'er the highway of life, + Knowing not what's ahead but still doing my best; + And I sing as I go, for my soul seems to know + In the end I shall come to the valley of rest. + With the sun in my face + And the roses to grace + The roads that I travel, what have I to fear? + What a coward I'd be + If I tried not to see + The roses of hope and the sunshine of cheer. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Just Folks, by Edgar A. 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