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Guest + + + + +To the Little Mother and +the Memory of the Big +Father, This Simple Book +Is Affectionately Dedicated + + + + +Just Folks + +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. + +As It Goes + +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. + +Hollyhocks + +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. + +Sacrifice + +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. + +Reward + +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. + +See It Through + +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! + +To the Humble + +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. + +When Nellie's on the Job + +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. + +The Old, Old Story + +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. + +Since Jessie Died + +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. + +Hard Luck + +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. + +Vacation Time + +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! + +The Little Hurts + +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. + +The Lanes of Memory + +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. + +The Day of Days + +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. + +A Fine Sight + +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. + +Manhood's Greeting + +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. + +Fishing Nooks + +"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. + +Show the Flag + +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! + +Constant Beauty + +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. + +A Patriotic Creed + +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! + +Home + +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. + +The Old-Time Family + +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. + +The Job + +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. + +Toys + +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. + +The Mother on the Sidewalk + +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. + +Memorial Day + +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. + +Memory + +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. + +The Stick-Together Families + +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. + +Childless + +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. + +The Crucible of Life + +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. + +Unimportant Differences + +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. + +Grown Up + +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. + +Departed Friends + +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. + +Laughter + +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. + +The Scoffer + +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?" + +The Pathway of the Living + +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. + +Lemon Pie + +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. + +The Flag on the Farm + +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!" + +Heroes + +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. + +The Mother's Question + +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." + +The Blue Flannel Shirt + +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. + +Grandpa + +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 + +Pa Did It + +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. + +The Real Successes + +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. + +The Sorry Hostess + +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. + +Yesterday + +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. + +The Beauty Places + +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. + +The Little Old Man + +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. + +The Little Velvet Suit + +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. + +The First Steps + +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. + +Signs + +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. + +The Family's Homely Man + +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. + +When Mother Cooked With Wood + +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. + +Midnight in the Pantry + +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. + +The World Is Against Me + +"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?" + +Bribed + +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. + +The Home Builders + +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. + +My Books and I + +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. + +Success + +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. + +Questions + +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? + +Sausage + +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. + +Friends + +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. + +A Boost for Modern Methods + +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. + +The Man to Be + +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. + +The Summer Children + +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. + +October + +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. + +On Quitting + +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. + +The Price of Riches + +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. + +The Other Fellow + +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. + +The Open Fire + +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. + +Improvement + +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. + +Send Her a Valentine + +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. + +Bud + +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! + +The Front Seat + +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. + +There Are No Gods + +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. + +The Auto + +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. + +The Handy Man + +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? + +The New Days + +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. + +The Call + +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. + +Songs of Rejoicing + +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. + +Another Mouth to Feed + +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. + +The Little Church + +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. + +Sue's Got a Baby + +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 fiame +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. + +The Lure That Failed + +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." + +The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving + +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. + +The Old-Fashioned Pair + +'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. + +At Pelletier's + +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." + +At Christmas + +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. + +The Little Army + +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. + +Who Is Your Boss? + +"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. + +The Truth About Envy + +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. + +Living + +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. + +On Being Broke + +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. + +The Broken Drum + +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. + +Mother's Excuses + +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. + +As It Is + +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. + +A Boy's Tribute + +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. + +Up to the Ceiling + +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. + +Thanksgiving + +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. + +The Boy Soldier + +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. + +My Land + +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. + +Daddies + +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. + +Loafing + +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. + +When Father Played Baseball + +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. + +About Boys + +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. + +Curly Locks + +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? + +Baby's Got a Tooth + +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." + +Home and the Baby + +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. + +The Fisherman + +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. + +The March of Mortality + +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. + + +Growing Down + +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. + +The Roads of Happiness + +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. + +June + +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. + +When Mother Sleeps + +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. + +The Weaver + +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? + +The Few + +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. + +Real Swimming + +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. + +The Love of the Game + +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. + +Roses and Sunshine + +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. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Just Folks, by Edgar A. Guest + |