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A Heap O' Livin', by Edgar A. Guest

September, 1995 [Etext #328]

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A Heap o' Livin'
by
Edgar A. Guest

To
Marjorie and Buddy
this little book of verse
is affectionately
dedicated
by their Daddy

WHEN YOU KNOW A FELLOW

When you get to know a fellow, know his joys and know his cares,
When you've come to understand him and the burdens that he bears,
When you've learned the fight he's making and the troubles in his way,
Then you find that he is different than you thought him yesterday.
You find his faults are trivial and there's not so much to blame
In the brother that you jeered at when you only knew his name.

You are quick to see the blemish in the distant neighbor's style,
You can point to all his errors and may sneer at him the while,
And your prejudices fatten and your hates more violent grow
As you talk about the failures of the man you do not know,
But when drawn a little closer, and your hands and shoulders touch,
You find the traits you hated really don't amount to much.

When you get to know a fellow, know his every mood and whim,
You begin to find the texture of the splendid side of him;
You begin to understand him, and you cease to scoff and sneer,
For with understanding always prejudices disappear.

You begin to find his virtues and his faults you cease to tell,
For you seldom hate a fellow when you know him very well.

When next you start in sneering and your phrases turn to blame,
Know more of him you censure than his business and his name;
For it's likely that acquaintance would your prejudice dispel
And you'd really come to like him if you knew him very well.
When you get to know a fellow and you understand his ways,
Then his faults won't really matter, for you'll find a lot to praise.

THE ROUGH LITTLE RASCAL

A smudge on his nose and a smear on his cheek And knees that might not have been washed in a week;
A bump on his forehead, a scar on his lip, A relic of many a tumble and trip:
A rough little, tough little rascal, but sweet, Is he that each evening I'm eager to meet.

A brow that is beady with jewels of sweat; A face that's as black as a visage can get; A suit that at noon was a garment of white, Now one that his mother declares is a fright: A fun-loving, sun-loving rascal, and fine, Is he that comes placing his black fist in mine.

A crop of brown hair that is tousled and tossed; A waist from which two of the buttons are lost; A smile that shines out through the dirt and the grime,
And eyes that are flashing delight all the time: All these are the joys that I'm eager to meet And look for the moment I get to my street.

IT ISN'T COSTLY

Does the grouch get richer quicker than the

friendly sort of man?
Can the grumbler labor better than the cheerful

fellow can?
Is the mean and churlish neighbor any cleverer

than the one
Who shouts a glad "good morning," and then

smiling passes on?

Just stop and think about it. Have you ever

known or seen
A mean man who succeeded, just because he

was so mean?
When you find a grouch with honors and with

money in his pouch,
You can bet he didn't win them just because

he was a grouch.

Oh, you'll not be any poorer if you smile along

your way,
And your lot will not be harder for the kindly

things you say.
Don't imagine you are wasting time for others

that you spend:
You can rise to wealth and glory and still pause

to be a friend.

MY CREED

To live as gently as I can;
To be, no matter where, a man;
To take what comes of good or ill
And cling to faith and honor still;
To do my best, and let that stand
The record of my brain and hand;
And then, should failure come to me,
Still work and hope for victory.

To have no secret place wherein
I stoop unseen to shame or sin;
To be the same when I'm alone
As when my every deed is known;
To live undaunted, unafraid
Of any step that I have made;
To be without pretense or sham
Exactly what men think I am.

To leave some simple mark behind
To keep my having lived in mind;
If enmity to aught I show,
To be an honest, generous foe,
To play my little part, nor whine
That greater honors are not mine.
This, I believe, is all I need
For my philosophy and creed.

A WISH

I'd like to be a boy again, a care-free prince of

joy again,
I'd like to tread the hills and dales the way I used to do;
I'd like the tattered shirt again, the knickers

thick with dirt again,
The ugly, dusty feet again that long ago I knew.
I'd like to play first base again, and Sliver's

curves to face again,
I'd like to climb, the way I did, a friendly apple tree;
For, knowing what I do to-day, could I but

wander back and play,
I'd get full measure of the joy that boyhood gave to me.

I'd like to be a lad again, a youngster, wild and

glad again,
I'd like to sleep and eat again the way I used to do;
I'd like to race and run again, and drain from

life its fun again,
And start another round of joy the moment one was through.
But care and strife have come to me, and often

days are glum to me,
And sleep is not the thing it was and food is not the same;
And I have sighed, and known that I must

journey on again to sigh,
And I have stood at envy's point and heard the voice of shame.

I've learned that joys are fleeting things; that

parting pain each meeting brings;
That gain and loss are partners here, and so are smiles and tears;
That only boys from day to day can drain and

fill the cup of play;
That age must mourn for what is lost
throughout the coming years.
But boys cannot appreciate their priceless joy

until too late
And those who own the charms I had will soon be changed to men;
And then, they too will sit, as I, and backward

turn to look and sigh
And share my longing, vain, to be a carefree boy again.

WHAT A BABY COSTS

"How much do babies cost?" said he
The other night upon my knee;
And then I said: "They cost a lot;
A lot of watching by a cot,
A lot of sleepless hours and care,
A lot of heart-ache and despair,
A lot of fear and trying dread,
And sometimes many tears are shed
In payment for our babies small,
But every one is worth it all.

"For babies people have to pay
A heavy price from day to day --
There is no way to get one cheap.
Why, sometimes when they're fast asleep You have to get up in the night
And go and see that they're all right.
But what they cost in constant care
And worry, does not half compare
With what they bring of joy and bliss -- You'd pay much more for just a kiss.

"Who buys a baby has to pay
A portion of the bill each day;
He has to give his time and thought
Unto the little one he's bought.
He has to stand a lot of pain
Inside his heart and not complain;
And pay with lonely days and sad
For all the happy hours he's had.
His smile is worth it all, you bet."

MOTHER

Never a sigh for the cares that she bore for me Never a thought of the joys that flew by; Her one regret that she couldn't do more for me, Thoughtless and selfish, her Master was I.

Oh, the long nights that she came at my call to

me!
Oh, the soft touch of her hands on my brow! Oh, the long years that she gave up her all to

me!
Oh, how I yearn for her gentleness now!

Slave to her baby! Yes, that was the way of

her,
Counting her greatest of services small; Words cannot tell what this old heart would

say of her,
Mother -- the sweetest and fairest of all.

SELFISH

I am selfish in my wishin' every sort o' joy for

you;
I am selfish when I tell you that I'm wishin'

skies o' blue
Bending o'er you every minute, and a pocketful

of gold,
An' as much of love an' gladness as a human

heart can hold.
Coz I know beyond all question that if such a

thing could be
As you cornerin' life's riches you would share

'em all with me.

I am selfish in my wishin' every sorrow from

your way,
With no trouble thoughts to fret you at the

closin' o' the day;
An' it's selfishness that bids me wish you comforts

by the score,
An' all the joys you long for, an' on top o'

them, some more;
Coz I know, old tried an' faithful, that if such

a thing could be
As you cornerin' life's riches you would share

'em all with me.

RICH

Who has a troop of romping youth
About his parlor floor,
Who nightly hears a round of cheers,
When he is at the door,
Who is attacked on every side
By eager little hands
That reach to tug his grizzled mug,
The wealth of earth commands.

Who knows the joys of girls and boys,
His lads and lassies, too,
Who's pounced upon and bounced upon
When his day's work is through,
Whose trousers know the gentle tug
Of some glad little tot,
The baby of his crew of love,
Is wealthier than a lot.

Oh, be he poor and sore distressed
And weary with the fight,
If with a whoop his healthy troop
Run, welcoming at night,
And kisses greet him at the end
Of all his toiling grim,
With what is best in life he's blest
And rich men envy him.

MA AND THE AUTO

Before we take an auto ride Pa says to Ma:

"My dear,
Now just remember I don't need suggestions

from the rear.
If you will just sit still back there and hold

in check your fright,
I'll take you where you want to go and get

you back all right.
Remember that my hearing's good and also I'm

not blind,
And I can drive this car without suggestions

from behind."

Ma promises that she'll keep still, then off we

gayly start,
But soon she notices ahead a peddler and his

cart.
"You'd better toot your horn," says she, "to let

him know we're near;
He might turn out!" and Pa replies: "Just

shriek at him, my dear."
And then he adds: "Some day, some guy will

make a lot of dough
By putting horns on tonneau seats for womenfolks

to blow!"

A little farther on Ma cries: "He signaled for

a turn!"
And Pa says: "Did he?" in a tone that's hot

enough to burn.
"Oh, there's a boy on roller skates!" cries Ma.

"Now do go slow.
I'm sure he doesn't see our car." And Pa says:

"I dunno,
I think I don't need glasses yet, but really it

may be
That I am blind and cannot see what's right

in front of me."

If Pa should speed the car a bit some rigs to

hurry past
Ma whispers: "Do be careful now. You're

driving much too fast."
And all the time she's pointing out the dangers

of the street
And keeps him posted on the roads where

trolley cars he'll meet.
Last night when we got safely home, Pa sighed

and said: "My dear,
I'm sure we've all enjoyed the drive you gave

us from the rear!"

ON GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant

chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd

surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that

filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read

his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful

and dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought

he couldn't come.

He little knew the gladness that his presence

would have made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never

would have stayed.
He didn't know how hungry had the little

mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him

for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning of his visit

Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he

couldn't get away.

He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that

once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't

stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next

Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother

dear to see.
He didn't think about it -- I'll not say he didn't

care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely

have been there.

Are you going home for Christmas? Have you

written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show

her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to

make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time

you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter -- it will make

their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness -- if you'll tell

them that you'll come.

AT SUGAR CAMP

At Sugar Camp the cook is kind
And laughs the laugh we knew as boys; And there we slip away and find
Awaiting us the old-time joys.
The catbird calls the selfsame way
She used to in the long ago,
And there's a chorus all the day
Of songsters it is good to know.

The killdeer in the distance cries;
The thrasher, in her garb of brown,
From tree to tree in gladness flies.
Forgotten is the world's renown,
Forgotten are the years we've known;
At Sugar Camp there are no men;
We've ceased to strive for things to own; We're in the woods as boys again.

Our pride is in the strength of trees,
Our pomp the pomp of living things;
Our ears are tuned to melodies
That every feathered songster sings.
At Sugar Camp our noonday meal
Is eaten in the open air,
Where through the leaves the sunbeams steal And simple is our bill of fare.

At Sugar Camp in peace we dwell
And none is boastful of himself;
None plots to gain with shot and shell
His neighbor's bit of land or pelf.
The roar of cannon isn't heard,
There stilled is money's tempting voice; Someone detects a new-come bird
And at her presence all rejoice.

At Sugar Camp the cook is kind;
His steak is broiling o'er the coals
And in its sputtering we find
Sweet harmony for tired souls.
There, sheltered by the friendly trees, As boys we sit to eat our meal,
And, brothers to the birds and bees,
We hold communion with the real.

HOME

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it

home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes

have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef'

behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus

on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get

t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great

yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a

king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round

everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up

in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'

in it;
Within the walls there's got t' be some babies

born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women

good, an' men;
And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye

wouldn't part
With anything they ever used -- they've grown

into yer heart:
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the

little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks

on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t'

sit an' sigh
An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know

that Death is nigh;
An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's

angel come,
An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave

her sweet voice dumb.
Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'

when yer tears are dried,
Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an'

sanctified;
An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant

memories
O' her that was an' is no more -- ye can't escape

from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got

t' romp an' play,
An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em

each day;
Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom

year by year
Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin'

someone dear
Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em

jes t' run
The way they do, so's they would get the early

mornin' sun;
Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from

cellar up t' dome:
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it

home.

THE PATH THAT LEADS TO HOME

The little path that leads to home,
That is the road for me,
I know no finer path to roam,
With finer sights to see.
With thoroughfares the world is lined
That lead to wonders new,
But he who treads them leaves behind
The tender things and true.

Oh, north and south and east and west
The crowded roadways go,
And sweating brow and weary breast
Are all they seem to know.
And mad for pleasure some are bent,
And some are seeking fame,
And some are sick with discontent,
And some are bruised and lame.

Across the world the gleaming steel
Holds out its lure for men,
But no one finds his comfort real
Till he comes home again.
And charted lanes now line the sea
For weary hearts to roam,
But, Oh, the finest path to me
Is that which leads to home.

'Tis there I come to laughing eyes
And find a welcome true;
'Tis there all care behind me lies
And joy is ever new.
And, Oh, when every day is done
Upon that little street,
A pair of rosy youngsters run
To me with flying feet.

The world with myriad paths is lined
But one alone for me,
One little road where I may find
The charms I want to see.
Though thoroughfares majestic call
The multitude to roam,
I would not leave, to know them all,
The path that leads to home.

A FRIEND'S GREETING

I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have

been to me;
I'd like to be the help that you've been always

glad to be;
I'd like to mean as much to you each minute

of the day
As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me

along the way.

I'd like to do the big things and the splendid

things for you,
To brush the gray from out your skies and

leave them only blue;
I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft

have heard,
And feel that I could rouse your soul the way

that mine you've stirred.

I'd like to give you back the joy that you have

given me,
Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will

never be;
I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who

travel on
Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to

lean upon.

I'm wishing at this Christmas time that I could

but repay
A portion of the gladness that you've strewn

along my way;
And could I have one wish this year, this only

would it be:
I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have

been to me.

A SONG

None knows the day that friends must part None knows how near is sorrow;
If there be laughter in your heart,
Don't hold it for to-morrow.
Smile all the smiles you can to-day;
Grief waits for all along the way.

To-day is ours for joy and mirth;
We may be sad to-morrow;
Then let us sing for all we've worth,
Nor give a thought to sorrow.
None knows what lies along the way;
Let's smile what smiles we can to-day.

OLD FRIENDS

I do not say new friends are not considerate and

true,
Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm

tellin' you
That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin'

with the pain,
And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks

like summer rain,
Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than

he can bear,
Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really

seem to care.
The friends who've stuck through thick an'

thin, who've known you, good an' bad, Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the struggles

you have had,
When they come to you gentle-like an' take

your hand an' say:
"Cheer up! we're with you still," it counts, for

that's the old friends' way.

The new friends may be fond of you for what

you are to-day;
They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only

seen you gay;
You can't tell what's attracted them; your

station may appeal;
Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin'

something real;
But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also

seen you win,
Who've loved you either up or down, stuck

to you, thick or thin,
Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched

you start to climb,
Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours

an' constant all the time,
When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I

don't care what you say,
They are the friends you'll turn to, for you

want the old friends' way.

The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish,

too, but when
Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun

won't shine again,
It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's

not their style,
It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the

old friend's smile,
The old hand that has helped before, stretched

out once more to you,
The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an',

Oh, so true!
The tenderness of folks who know just what

your sorrow means,
These are the things on which, somehow, your

spirit always leans.
When grief is poundin' at your breast -- the

new friends disappear
An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for

aid an' cheer.

FOLKS

We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks, An' we come to this conclusion,
That wherever they be, on land or sea,
They warm to a home allusion;
That under the skin an' under the hide
There's a spark that starts a-glowin' Whenever they look at a scene or book
That something of home is showin'.

They may differ in creeds an' politics, They may argue an' even quarrel,
But their throats grip tight, if they catch a

sight
Of their favorite elm or laurel.
An' the winding lane that they used to tread With never a care to fret 'em,
Or the pasture gate where they used to wait, Right under the skin will get 'em.

Now folks is folks on their different ways, With their different griefs an' pleasures, But the home they knew, when their years were

few,
Is the dearest of all their treasures. An' the richest man to the poorest waif Right under the skin is brother
When they stand an' sigh, with a tear-dimmed

eye,
At a thought of the dear old mother.

It makes no difference where it may be, Nor the fortunes that years may alter, Be they simple or wise, the old home ties Make all of 'em often falter.
Time may robe 'em in sackcloth coarse
Or garb 'em in gorgeous splendor,
But whatever their lot, they keep one spot Down deep that is sweet an' tender.

We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks, An' we come to this conclusion,
That one an' all, be they great or small, Will warm to a home allusion;
That under the skin an' the beaten hide They're kin in a real affection
For the joys they knew, when their years were

few,
An' the home of their recollection.

LITTLE MASTER MISCHIEVOUS

Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for

you;
There's no better title that describes the things

you do:
Into something all the while where you

shouldn't be,
Prying into matters that are not for you to see; Little Master Mischievous, order's overthrown If your mother leaves you for a minute all

alone.

Little Master Mischievous, opening every door, Spilling books and papers round about the parlor

floor,
Scratching all the tables and marring all the

chairs,
Climbing where you shouldn't climb and tumbling

down the stairs.
How'd you get the ink well? We can never

guess.
Now the rug is ruined; so's your little dress.

Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar, Who has ever told you where the cookies are? Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains

white;
You have finger-printed everything in sight. There's no use in scolding; when you smile that

way
You can rob of terror every word we say.

Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for

you;
There's no better title that describes the things

you do:
Prying into corners, peering into nooks, Tugging table covers, tearing costly books. Little Master Mischievous, have your roguish

way;
Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some

day.

OPPORTUNITY

So long as men shall be on earth
There will be tasks for them to do,
Some way for them to show their worth;
Each day shall bring its problems new.

And men shall dream of mightier deeds
Than ever have been done before:
There always shall be human needs
For men to work and struggle for.

THE SORROW TUGS

There's a lot of joy in the smiling world,

there's plenty of morning sun,
And laughter and songs and dances, too, whenever

the day's work's done;
Full many an hour is a shining one, when

viewed by itself apart,
But the golden threads in the warp of life are

the sorrow tugs at your heart.

Oh, the fun is froth and it blows away, and

many a joy's forgot,
And the pleasures come and the pleasures go,

and memory holds them not;
But treasured ever you keep the pain that causes

your tears to start,
For the sweetest hours are the ones that bring

the sorrow tugs at your heart.

The lump in your throat and the little sigh when

your baby trudged away
The very first time to the big red school -- how

long will their memory stay?
The fever days and the long black nights you

watched as she troubled, slept,
And the joy you felt when she smiled once

more -- how long will that all be kept?

The glad hours live in a feeble way, but the sad

ones never die.
His first long trousers caused a pang and you

saw them with a sigh.
And the big still house when the boy and girl,

unto youth and beauty grown,
To college went; will you e'er forget that first

grim hour alone?

It seems as you look back over things, that all

that you treasure dear
Is somehow blent in a wondrous way with a

heart pang and a tear.
Though many a day is a joyous one when

viewed by itself apart,
The golden threads in the warp of life are the

sorrow tugs at your heart.

ONLY A DAD

Only a dad with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame
To show how well he has played the game; But glad in his heart that his own rejoice To see him come and to hear his voice.

Only a dad with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life, With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd,
Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad but he gives his all,
To smooth the way for his children small, Doing with courage stern and grim
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen:
Only a dad, but the best of men.

HARD KNOCKS

I'm not the man to say that failure's sweet, Nor tell a chap to laugh when things go wrong;
I know it hurts to have to take defeat
An' no one likes to lose before a throng; It isn't very pleasant not to win
When you have done the very best you could; But if you're down, get up an' buckle in -- A lickin' often does a fellow good.

I've seen some chaps who never knew their

power
Until somebody knocked 'em to the floor; I've known men who discovered in an hour A courage they had never shown before. I've seen 'em rise from failure to the top By doin' things they hadn't understood Before the day disaster made 'em drop -- A lickin' often does a fellow good.

Success is not the teacher, wise an' true, That gruff old failure is, remember that; She's much too apt to make a fool of you, Which isn't true of blows that knock you flat. Hard knocks are painful things an' hard to bear, An' most of us would dodge 'em if we could; There's something mighty broadening in care -- A lickin' often does a fellow good.

SPRING IN THE TRENCHES

It's coming time for planting in that little patch

of ground,
Where the lad and I made merry as he followed

me around;
Now the sun is getting higher, and the skies

above are blue,
And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the

war was through.
But it's tramp, tramp, tramp,
And it's never look behind,
And when you see a stranger's kids
Pretend that you are blind.

The spring is coming back again, the birds

begin to mate;
The skies are full of kindness, but the world is

full of hate.
And it's I that should be bending now in peace

above the soil
With laughing eyes and little hands about to

bless the toil.
But it's fight, fight, fight,
And it's charge at double-quick;
A soldier thinking thoughts of home Is one more soldier sick.

Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and

saw the roses bud;
This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of

it is blood.
Last year the mother in the door was glad as

she could be;
To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is

hurting me.
But it's shoot, shoot, shoot,
And when the bullets hiss,
Don't let the tears fill up your eyes, For weeping soldiers miss.

Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will

sow the seeds?
And who will do the heavy work the little

garden needs?
And who will tell the lad of mine the things

he wants to know,
And take his hand and lead him round the

paths we used to go?
For it's charge, charge, charge,
And it's face the foe once more;
Forget the things you love the most And keep your mind on gore.

FATHER

Used to wonder just why father
Never had much time for play,
Used to wonder why he'd rather
Work each minute of the day.
Used to wonder why he never
Loafed along the road an' shirked;
Can't recall a time whenever
Father played while others worked.

Father didn't dress in fashion,
Sort of hated clothing new;
Style with him was not a passion;
He had other things in view.
Boys are blind to much that's going
On about 'em day by day,
And I had no way of knowing
What became of father's pay.

All I knew was when I needed
Shoes I got 'em on the spot;
Everything for which I pleaded,
Somehow, father always got.
Wondered, season after season,
Why he never took a rest,
And that _I_ might be the reason
Then I never even guessed.

Father set a store on knowledge;
If he'd lived to have his way
He'd have sent me off to college
And the bills been glad to pay.
That, I know, was his ambition:
Now and then he used to say
He'd have done his earthly mission
On my graduation day.

Saw his cheeks were getting paler,
Didn't understand just why;
Saw his body growing frailer,
Then at last I saw him die.
Rest had come! His tasks were ended,
Calm was written on his brow;
Father's life was big and splendid,
And I understand it now.

LADDIES

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.

THE LIVING BEAUTIES

I never knew, until they went,
How much their laughter really meant
I never knew how much the place
Depended on each little face;
How barren home could be and drear
Without its living beauties here.

I never knew that chairs and books
Could wear such sad and solemn looks!
That rooms and halls could be at night
So still and drained of all delight.
This home is now but brick and board
Where bits of furniture are stored.

I used to think I loved each shelf
And room for what it was itself.
And once I thought each picture fine
Because I proudly called it mine.
But now I know they mean no more
Than art works hanging in a store.

Until they went away to roam
I never knew what made it home.
But I have learned that all is base,
However wonderful the place
And decked with costly treasures, rare, Unless the living joys are there.

AT BREAKFAST TIME

My Pa he eats his breakfast in a funny sort of

way:
We hardly ever see him at the first meal of the

day.
Ma puts his food before him and he settles in

his place
An' then he props the paper up and we can't

see his face;
We hear him blow his coffee and we hear him

chew his toast,
But it's for the morning paper that he seems

to care the most.

Ma says that little children mighty grateful

ought to be
To the folks that fixed the evening as the proper

time for tea.
She says if meals were only served to people

once a day,
An' that was in the morning just before Pa goes

away,
We'd never know how father looked when he

was in his place,
Coz he'd always have the morning paper stuck

before his face.

He drinks his coffee steamin' hot, an' passes

Ma his cup
To have it filled a second time, an' never once

looks up.
He never has a word to say, but just sits there

an' reads,
An' when she sees his hand stuck out Ma gives

him what he needs.
She guesses what it is he wants, coz it's no use

to ask:
Pa's got to read his paper an' sometimes that's

quite a task.

One morning we had breakfast an' his features

we could see,
But his face was long an' solemn an' he didn't

speak to me,
An' we couldn't get him laughin' an' we couldn't

make him smile,
An' he said the toast was soggy an' the coffee

simply vile.
Then Ma said: "What's the matter? Why are

you so cross an' glum?"
An' Pa 'most took her head off coz the paper

didn't come.

CAN'T

_Can't_ is the worst word that's written or

spoken;
Doing more harm here than slander and lies; On it is many a strong spirit broken,
And with it many a good purpose dies. It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each

morning
And robs us of courage we need through the day:
It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

_Can't_ is the father of feeble endeavor, The parent of terror and half-hearted work; It weakens the efforts of artisans clever, And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk. It poisons the soul of the man with a vision, It stifles in infancy many a plan;
It greets honest toiling with open derision And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

_Can't_ is a word none should speak without

blushing;
To utter it should be a symbol of shame; Ambition and courage it daily is crushing; It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim.
Despise it with all of your hatred of error; Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain; Arm against it as a creature of terror, And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.

_Can't_ is the word that is foe to ambition, An enemy ambushed to shatter your will; Its prey is forever the man with a mission And bows but to courage and patience and skill.
Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying, For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man;
Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying And answer this demon by saying: "I _can_."

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

_Written July 22, 1916, when the
world lost its "Poet of Childhood."_

There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden

Shore to-day,
An' the big an' little angels must be feelin'

mighty gay:
Could we look beyond the curtain now I fancy

we should see
Old Aunt Mary waitin', smilin', for the coming

that's to be,
An' Little Orphant Annie an' the whole excited

pack
Dancin' up an' down an' shoutin': "Mr. Riley's

comin' back!"

There's a heap o' real sadness in this good old

world to-day;
There are lumpy throats this morning now that

Riley's gone away;
There's a voice now stilled forever that in

sweetness only spoke
An' whispered words of courage with a faith that

never broke.
There is much of joy and laughter that we

mortals here will lack,
But the angels must be happy now that Riley's

comin' back.

The world was gettin' dreary, there was too

much sigh an' frown
In this vale o' mortal strivin', so God sent Jim

Riley down,
An' He said: "Go there an' cheer 'em in your

good old-fashioned way,
With your songs of tender sweetness, but don't

make your plans to stay,
Coz you're needed up in Heaven. I am lendin'

you to men
Just to help 'em with your music, but I'll want

you back again."

An' Riley came, an' mortals heard the music of

his voice
An' they caught his songs o' beauty an' they

started to rejoice;
An' they leaned on him in sorrow, an' they

shared with him their joys,
An' they walked with him the pathways that

they knew when they were boys.
But the heavenly angels missed him, missed his

tender, gentle knack
Of makin' people happy, an' they wanted Riley

back.

There must be great rejoicin' on the streets of

Heaven to-day
An' all the angel children must be troopin'

down the way,
Singin' heavenly songs of welcome an' preparin'

now to greet
The soul that God had tinctured with an everlasting

sweet;
The world is robed in sadness an' is draped in

sombre black;
But joy must reign in Heaven now that Riley's

comin' back.

RESULTS AND ROSES

The man who wants a garden fair,
Or small or very big,
With flowers growing here and there,
Must bend his back and dig.

The things are mighty few on earth
That wishes can attain.
Whate'er we want of any worth
We've got to work to gain.

It matters not what goal you seek
Its secret here reposes:
You've got to dig from week to week
To get Results or Roses.

THE OTHER FELLOW

Are you fond of your wife and your children

fair?
So is the other fellow.
Do you crave pleasures for them to share? So does the other fellow.
Does your heart rejoice when your own are

glad?
And are you troubled when they are sad? Well, it's that way, too, in this life, my lad, That way with the other fellow.

Do you want the best for your own to know? So does the other fellow.
Do you stoop to kiss them before you go? So does the other fellow.
When your baby lies on a fevered bed,
Does your heart run cold with a silent dread? Well, it's that way, too, where all mortals tread -- That way with the other fellow.

Does it hurt when they want what you cannot

buy?
It does with the other fellow.
Do you for their comfort yourself deny? So does the other fellow.
Would you wail aloud if your babe should die For the lack of care you could not supply? Well, it's that way, too, as he travels by, That way with the other fellow.

OUR DUTY TO OUR FLAG

Less hate and greed
Is what we need
And more of service true;
More men to love
The flag above
And keep it first in view.

Less boast and brag
About the flag,
More faith in what it means;
More heads erect,
More self-respect,
Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight
To keep it bright
Is not along the way,
Nor 'cross the foam,
But here at home
Within ourselves -- to-day.

'Tis we must love
That flag above
With all our might and main;
For from our hands,
Not distant lands,
Shall come dishonor's stain.

If that flag be
Dishonored, we
Have done it, not the foe;
If it shall fall
We first of all
Shall be to strike a blow.

THE HUNTER

Cheek that is tanned to the wind of the north. Body that jests at the bite of the cold, Limbs that are eager and strong to go forth Into the wilds and the ways of the bold; Red blood that pulses and throbs in the veins, Ears that love silences better than noise; Strength of the forest and health of the plains; These the rewards that the hunter enjoys.

Forests were ever the cradles of men;
Manhood is born of a kinship with trees. Whence shall come brave hearts and stout

muscles, when
Woods have made way for our cities of ease? Oh, do you wonder that stalwarts return Yearly to hark to the whispering oaks? 'Tis for the brave days of old that they yearn: These are the splendors the hunter invokes.

IT'S SEPTEMBER

It's September, and the orchards are afire with

red and gold,
And the nights with dew are heavy, and the

morning's sharp with cold;
Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia

blazing red
And the good old-fashioned asters laughing

at us from their bed;
Once again in shoes and stockings are the children'

s little feet,
And the dog now does his snoozing on the

bright side of the street.

It's September, and the cornstalks are as high

as they will go,
And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere

begin to show;
Now the supper's scarcely over ere the darkness

settles down
And the moon looms big and yellow at the

edges of the town;
Oh, it's good to see the children, when their

little prayers are said,
Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they

tumble into bed.

It's September, and a calmness and a sweetness

seem to fall
Over everything that's living, just as though it

hears the call
Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack

of ice and snow,
In the distance over yonder, and it somehow

seems as though
Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very

best
When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops

away to rest.

It's September! It's the fullness and the ripeness

of the year;
All the work of earth is finished, or the final

tasks are near,
But there is no doleful wailing; every living

thing that grows,
For the end that is approaching wears the

finest garb it knows.
And I pray that I may proudly hold my head

up high and smile
When I come to my September in the golden

afterwhile.

HOW DO YOU TACKLE YOUR WORK?

How do you tackle your work each day?
Are you scared of the job you find?
Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind?
Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it?
Do you start to toil with a sense of dread Or feel that you're going to do it?

You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more;
If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store.
For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it,
And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it.

Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck!
The world will furnish the work to do,
But you must provide the pluck.
You can do whatever you think you can,
It's all in the way you view it.
It's all in the start that you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it.

How do you tackle your work each day?
With confidence clear, or dread?
What to yourself do you stop and say
When a new task lies ahead?
What is the thought that is in your mind? Is fear ever running through it?
If so, just tackle the next you find
By thinking you're going to do it.

LIFE

Life is a gift to be used every day,
Not to be smothered and hidden away;
It isn't a thing to be stored in the chest Where you gather your keepsakes and treasure your best;
It isn't a joy to be sipped now and then And promptly put back in a dark place again.

Life is a gift that the humblest may boast of And one that the humblest may well make the most of.
Get out and live it each hour of the day, Wear it and use it as much as you may;
Don't keep it in niches and corners and grooves, You'll find that in service its beauty improves.

STORY TELLING

Most every night when they're in bed,
And both their little prayers have said, They shout for me to come upstairs
And tell them tales of gypsies bold,
And eagles with the claws that hold
A baby's weight, and fairy sprites
That roam the woods on starry nights.

And I must illustrate these tales,
Must imitate the northern gales
That toss the Indian's canoe,
And show the way he paddles, too.
If in the story comes a bear,
I have to pause and sniff the air
And show the way he climbs the trees
To steal the honey from the bees.

And then I buzz like angry bees
And sting him on his nose and knees
And howl in pain, till mother cries:
"That pair will never shut their eyes,
While all that noise up there you make; You're simply keeping them awake."
And then they whisper: "Just one more," And once again I'm forced to roar.

New stories every night they ask.
And that is not an easy task;
I have to be so many things,
The frog that croaks, the lark that sings, The cunning fox, the frightened hen;
But just last night they stumped me, when They wanted me to twist and squirm
And imitate an angle worm.

At last they tumble off to sleep,
And softly from their room I creep
And brush and comb the shock of hair
I tossed about to be a bear.
Then mother says: "Well, I should say
You're just as much a child as they."
But you can bet I'll not resign
That story telling job of mine.

CANNING TIME

There's a wondrous smell of spices

In the kitchen,
Most bewitchin';
There are fruits cut into slices
That just set the palate itchin';
There's the sound of spoon on platter
And the rattle and the clatter;
And a bunch of kids are hastin'
To the splendid joy of tastin':
It's the frangrant time of year
When fruit-cannin' days are here.

There's a good wife gayly smilin'

And perspirin'
Some, and tirin';
And while jar on jar she's pilin'
And the necks o' them she's wirin'
I'm a-sittin' here an' dreamin'
Of the kettles that are steamin',
And the cares that have been troublin'
All have vanished in the bubblin'.
I am happy that I'm here
At the cannin' time of year.

Lord, I'm sorry for the feller

That is missin'
All the hissin'
Of the juices, red and yeller,
And can never sit and listen
To the rattle and the clatter
Of the sound of spoon on platter.
I am sorry for the single,
For they miss the thrill and tingle
Of the splendid time of year
When the cannin' days are here.

THE DULL ROAD

It's the dull road that leads to the gay road; The practice that leads to success;
The work road that leads to the play road; It is trouble that breeds happiness.

It's the hard work and merciless grinding That purchases glory and fame;
It's repeatedly doing, nor minding
The drudgery drear of the game.

It's the passing up glamor or pleasure
For the sake of the skill we may gain, And in giving up comfort or leisure
For the joy that we hope to attain.

It's the hard road of trying and learning, Of toiling, uncheered and alone,
That wins us the prizes worth earning,
And leads us to goals we would own.

THE APPLE TREE

When an apple tree is ready for the world to come and eat,
There isn't any structure in the land that's "got it beat."
There's nothing man has builded with the beauty or the charm
That can touch the simple grandeur of the monarch of the farm.
There's never any picture from a human
being's brush
That has ever caught the redness of a single apple's blush.

When an apple tree's in blossom it is glorious to see,
But that's just a hint, at springtime, of the better things to be;
That is just a fairy promise from the Great Magician's wand
Of the wonders and the splendors that are waiting just beyond
The distant edge of summer; just a forecast of the treat
When the apple tree is ready for the world to come and eat.

Architects of splendid vision long have labored on the earth,
And have raised their dreams in marble and

we've marveled at their worth;
Long the spires of costly churches have looked

upward at the sky;
Rich in promise and in the beauty, they have

cheered the passer-by.
But I'm sure there's nothing finer for the eye

of man to meet
Than an apple tree that's ready for the world

to come and eat.

There's the promise of the apples, red and

gleaming in the sun,
Like the medals worn by mortals as rewards

for labors done;
And the big arms stretched wide open, with a

welcome warm and true
In a way that sets you thinking it's intended

just for you.
There is nothing with a beauty so entrancing,

so complete,
As an apple tree that's ready for the world to

come and eat.

THE HOME-TOWN

Some folks leave home for money
And some leave home for fame,
Some seek skies always sunny,
And some depart in shame.
I care not what the reason
Men travel east and west,
Or what the month or season --
The home-town is the best.

The home-town is the glad town
Where something real abides;
'Tis not the money-mad town
That all its spirit hides.
Though strangers scoff and flout it
And even jeer its name,
It has a charm about it
No other town can claim.

The home-town skies seem bluer
Than skies that stretch away,
The home-town friends seem truer
And kinder through the day;
And whether glum or cheery
Light-hearted or depressed,
Or struggle-fit or weary,
I like the home-town best.

Let him who will, go wander
To distant towns to live,
Of some things I am fonder
Than all they have to give.
The gold of distant places
Could not repay me quite
For those familiar faces
That keep the home-town bright.

TAKE HOME A SMILE

Take home a smile; forget the petty cares, The dull, grim grind of all the day's affairs; The day is done, come be yourself awhile: To-night, to those who wait, take home a smile.

Take home a smile; don't scatter grief and gloom Where laughter and light hearts should always bloom;
What though you've traveled many a dusty mile, Footsore and weary, still take home a smile.

Take home a smile -- it is not much to do, But much it means to them who wait for you; You can be brave for such a little while; The day of doubt is done -- take home a smile.

COURAGE

Courage isn't a brilliant dash,
A daring deed in a moment's flash;
It isn't an instantaneous thing
Born of despair with a sudden spring
It isn't a creature of flickered hope
Or the final tug at a slipping rope;
But it's something deep in the soul of man That is working always to serve some plan.

Courage isn't the last resort
In the work of life or the game of sport; It isn't a thing that a man can call
At some future time when he's apt to fall; If he hasn't it now, he will have it not When the strain is great and the pace is hot. For who would strive for a distant goal Must always have courage within his soul.

Courage isn't a dazzling light
That flashes and passes away from sight; It's a slow, unwavering, ingrained trait With the patience to work and the strength to

wait.
It's part of a man when his skies are blue, It's part of him when he has work to do. The brave man never is freed of it.
He has it when there is no need of it.

Courage was never designed for show;
It isn't a thing that can come and go;
It's written in victory and defeat
And every trial a man may meet.
It's part of his hours, his days and his years, Back of his smiles and behind his tears. Courage is more than a daring deed:
It's the breath of life and a strong man's creed.

GREATNESS

We can be great by helping one another; We can be loved for very simple deeds; Who has the grateful mention of a brother Has really all the honor that he needs.

We can be famous for our works of kindness -- Fame is not born alone of strength or skill; It sometimes comes from deafness and from

blindness
To petty words and faults, and loving still.

We can be rich in gentle smiles and sunny: A jeweled soul exceeds a royal crown. The richest men sometimes have little money, And Croesus oft's the poorest man in town.

THE EPICURE

I've sipped a rich man's sparkling wine, His silverware I've handled.
I've placed these battered legs of mine 'Neath tables gayly candled.
I dine on rare and costly fare
Whene'er good fortune lets me,
But there's no meal that can compare
With those the missus gets me.

I've had your steaks three inches thick With all your Sam Ward trimming,
I've had the breast of milk-fed chick
In luscious gravy swimming.
To dine in swell cafe or club
But irritates and frets me;
Give me the plain and wholesome grub -- The grub the missus gets me.

Two kiddies smiling at the board,
The cook right at the table,
The four of us, a hungry horde,
To beat that none is able.
A big meat pie, with flaky crust!
'Tis then that joy besets me;
Oh, I could eat until I "bust,"
Those meals the missus gets me.

THE GENTLE GARDENER

I'd like to leave but daffodills to mark my little

way,
To leave but tulips red and white behind me as

I stray;
I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd

left behind
But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come

to find.

I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the

flowers of earth,
To leave a path where those who come should

find but gentle mirth;
And when at last I'm called upon to join the

heavenly throng
I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign

of wrong.

And yet the cares are many and the hours of

toil are few;
There is not time enough on earth for all I'd

like to do;
But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the

world to find
Some little touch of beauty that my soul had

left behind.

THE FINEST AGE

When he was only nine months old,
And plump and round and pink of cheek, A joy to tickle and to hold,
Before he'd even learned to speak,
His gentle mother used to say:
"It is too bad that he must grow.
If I could only have my way
His baby ways we'd always know."

And then the year was turned, and he
Began to toddle round the floor
And name the things that he could see
And soil the dresses that he wore.
Then many a night she whispered low:
"Our baby now is such a joy
I hate to think that he must grow
To be a wild and heedless boy."

But on he went and sweeter grew,
And then his mother, I recall,
Wished she could keep him always two,
For that's the finest age of all.
She thought the selfsame thing at three, And now that he is four, she sighs
To think he cannot always be
The youngster with the laughing eyes.

Oh, little boy, my wish is not
Always to keep you four years old.
Each night I stand beside your cot
And think of what the years may hold; And looking down on you I pray
That when we've lost our baby small,
The mother of our man will say
"This is the finest age of all."

SUCCESS AND FAILURE

I do not think all failure's undeserved, And all success is merely someone's luck; Some men are down because they were unnerved, And some are up because they kept their pluck. Some men are down because they chose to shirk; Some men are high because they did their work.

I do not think that all the poor are good, That riches are the uniform of shame; The beggar might have conquered if he would, And that he begs, the world is not to blame. Misfortune is not all that comes to mar; Most men, themselves, have shaped the things they are.

CARE-FREE YOUTH

The skies are blue and the sun is out and the

grass is green and soft
And the old charm's back in the apple tree

and it calls a boy aloft;
And the same low voice that the old don't hear,

but the care-free youngsters do,
Is calling them to the fields and streams and

the joys that once I knew.
And if youth be wild desire for play and care

is the mark of men,
Beneath the skin that Time has tanned I'm a

madcap youngster then.

Far richer than king with his crown of gold and

his heavy weight of care
Is the sunburned boy with his stone-bruised feet

and his tousled shock of hair;
For the king can hear but the cry of hate or the

sickly sound of praise,
And lost to him are the voices sweet that called

in his boyhood days.
Far better than ruler, with pomp and power

and riches, is it to be
The urchin gay in his tattered clothes that is

climbing the apple tree.

Oh, once I heard all the calls that come to the

quick, glad ears of boys,
And a certain spot on the river bank told me of

its many joys,
And certain fields and certain trees were loyal

friends to me,
And I knew the birds, and I owned a dog, and

we both could hear and see.
Oh, never from tongues of men have dropped

such messages wholly glad
As the things that live in the great outdoors

once told to a little lad.

And I'm sorry for him who cannot hear what

the tall trees have to say,
Who is deaf to the call of a running stream

and the lanes that lead to play.
The boy that shins up the faithful elm or

sprawls on a river bank
Is more richly blessed with the joys of life than

any old man of rank.
For youth is the golden time of life, and this

battered old heart of mine
Beats fast to the march of its old-time joys,

when the sun begins to shine.

MY PAW SAID SO

Foxes can talk if you know how to listen,

My Paw said so.
Owls have big eyes that sparkle an' glisten,

My Paw said so.
Bears can turn flip-flaps an' climb ellum trees, An' steal all the honey away from the bees, An' they never mind winter becoz they don't

freeze;
My Paw said so.

Girls is a-scared of a snake, but boys ain't,

My Paw said so.
They holler an' run; an' sometimes they faint,

My Paw said so.
But boys would be 'shamed to be frightened

that way
When all that the snake wants to do is to play; You've got to believe every word that I say,

My Paw said so.

Wolves ain't so bad if you treat 'em all right,

My Paw said so.
They're as fond of a game as they are of a fight,

My Paw said so.
An' all of the animals found in the wood Ain't always ferocious. Most times they are

good.

The trouble is mostly they're misunderstood,

My Paw said so.
You can think what you like, but I stick to it

when
My Paw said so.
An' I'll keep right on sayin', again an' again,

My Paw said so.
Maybe foxes don't talk to such people as you, An' bears never show you the tricks they can do, But I know that the stories I'm tellin' are true,

My Paw said so.

LIFE'S TESTS

If never a sorrow came to us, and never a care

we knew;
If every hope were realized, and every dream

came true;
If only joy were found on earth, and no one

ever sighed,
And never a friend proved false to us, and never

a loved one died,
And never a burden bore us down, soul-sick and

weary, too,
We'd yearn for tests to prove our worth and

tasks for us to do.

THE PEACEFUL WARRIORS

Let others sing their songs of war
And chant their hymns of splendid death, Let others praise the soldiers' ways
And hail the cannon's flaming breath. Let others sing of Glory's fields
Where blood for Victory is paid,
I choose to sing some simple thing
To those who wield not gun or blade -- The peaceful warriors of trade.

Let others choose the deeds of war
For symbols of our nation's skill,
The blood-red coat, the rattling throat, The regiment that charged the hill,
The boy who died to serve the flag,
Who heard the order and obeyed,
But leave to me the gallantry
Of those who labor unafraid --
The peaceful warriors of trade.

Aye, let me sing the splendid deeds
Of those who toil to serve mankind,
The men who break old ways and make
New paths for those who come behind.
And face their problems, unafraid,
Who think and plan to lift for man
The burden that on him is laid --
The splendid warriors of trade.

I sing of battles with disease
And victories o'er death and pain,
Of ships that fly the summer sky,
And glorious deeds of strength and brain. The call for help that rings through space By which a vessel's course is stayed, Thrills me far more than fields of gore, Or heroes decked in golden braid --
I sing the warriors of trade.

FAILURES

'Tis better to have tried in vain,
Sincerely striving for a goal,
Than to have lived upon the plain
An idle and a timid soul.

'Tis better to have fought and spent
Your courage, missing all applause,
Than to have lived in smug content
And never ventured for a cause.

For he who tries and fails may be
The founder of a better day;
Though never his the victory,
From him shall others learn the way.

RAISIN PIE

There's a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow

bantam corn,
And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch

at morn;
Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o'

things to eat
An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend

to cut the sweet,
But I run the whole list over, an' it seems

somehow that I
Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk

o' raisin pie.

There are pies that start the water circulatin' in

the mouth;
There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm

an' sunny south;
Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite

An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o'

real delight;
But for downright solid goodness that comes

drippin' from the sky
There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o'

raisin pie.

I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin'

up myself
As the judge an' final critic of the good things

on the shelf.
I'm sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on

earth,
Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an'

worth,
An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my

time to die,
That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk

o' raisin pie.

PREPAREDNESS

Right must not live in idleness,
Nor dwell in smug content;
It must be strong, against the throng
Of foes, on evil bent.

Justice must not a weakling be
But it must guard its own,
And live each day, that none can say
Justice is overthrown.

Peace, the sweet glory of the world,
Faces a duty, too;
Death is her fate, leaves she one gate
For war to enter through.

THE READY ARTISTS

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in

the sky,
And all of Nature's artists have their colors

handy by;
With a few days bright with sunshine and a

few nights free from frost
They will start to splash their colors quite

regardless of the cost.
There's an artist waiting ready at each bleak

and dismal spot
To paint the flashing tulip or the meek forgetme

-not.

May is lurking in the distance and her lap is

filled with flowers,
And the choicest of her blossoms very shortly

will be ours.
There is not a lane so dreary or a field so dark

with gloom
But that soon will be resplendent with its little

touch of bloom.
There's an artist keen and eager to make beautiful

each scene
And remove with colors gorgeous every trace of

of what has been.

Oh, the world is now in mourning; round about

us all are spread
The ruins and the symbols of the winter that

is dead.
But the bleak and barren picture very shortly

now will pass,
For the halls of life are ready for their velvet

rugs of grass;
And the painters now are waiting with their

magic to replace
This dullness with a beauty that no mortal hand

can trace.

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in

the sky;
The chill of death is passing, life will shortly

greet the eye.
We shall revel soon in colors only Nature's

artists make
And the humblest plant that's sleeping unto

beauty shall awake.
For there's not a leaf forgotten, not a twig

neglected there,
And the tiniest of pansies shall the royal purple

wear.

THE HAPPIEST DAYS

You do not know it, little man,
In your summer coat of tan
And your legs bereft of hose
And your peeling, sunburned nose,
With a stone bruise on your toe,
Almost limping as you go
Running on your way to play
Through another summer day,
Friend of birds and streams and trees,
That your happiest days are these.

Little do you think to-day,
As you hurry to your play,
That a lot of us, grown old
In the chase for fame and gold,
Watch you as you pass along
Gayly whistling bits of song,
And in envy sit and dream
Of a long-neglected stream,
Where long buried are the joys
We possessed when we were boys.

Little chap, you cannot guess
All your sum of happiness;
Little value do you place
On your sunburned freckled face;
And if some shrewd fairy came
Offering sums of gold and fame
For your summer days of play,
You would barter them away
And believe that you had made
There and then a clever trade.

Time was we were boys like you,
Bare of foot and sunburned, too,
And, like you, we never guessed
All the riches we possessed;
We'd have traded them back then
For the hollow joys of men;
We'd have given them all to be
Rich and wise and forty-three.
For life never teaches boys
Just how precious are their joys.

Youth has fled and we are old.
Some of us have fame and gold;
Some of us are sorely scarred,
For the way of age is hard;
And we envy, little man,
You your splendid coat of tan,
Envy you your treasures rare,
Hours of joy beyond compare;
For we know, by teaching stern,
All that some day you must learn.

THE REAL BAIT

To gentle ways I am inclined;
I have no wish to kill.
To creatures dumb I would be kind;
I like them all, but still
Right now I think I'd like to be
Beside some rippling brook,
And grab a worm I'd brought with me
And slip him on a hook.

I'd like to put my hand once more
Into a rusty can
And turn those squirmy creatures o'er
Like nuggets in a pan;
And for a big one, once again,
With eager eyes I'd look,
As did a boy I knew, and then
Impale it on a hook.

I've had my share of fishing joy,
I've fished with patent bait,
With chub and minnow, but the boy
Is lord of sport's estate.
And no such pleasure comes to man
So rare as when he took
A worm from a tomato can
And slipped it on a hook.

I'd like to gaze with glowing eyes
Upon that precious bait,
To view each fat worm as a prize
To be accounted great.
And though I've passed from boyhood's term, And opened age's book,
I still would like to put a worm
That wriggled on a hook.

TRUE NOBILITY

Who does his task from day to day
And meets whatever comes his way,
Believing God has willed it so,
Has found real greatness here below.

Who guards his post, no matter where,
Believing God must need him there,
Although but lowly toil it be,
Has risen to nobility.

For great and low there's but one test: 'Tis that each man shall do his best.
Who works with all the strength he can
Shall never die in debt to man.

THE SULKERS

The world's too busy now to pause
To listen to a whiner's cause;
It has no time to stop and pet
The sulker in a peevish fret,
Who wails he'll neither work nor play
Because things haven't gone his way.

The world keeps plodding right along
And gives its favors right or wrong
To all who have the grit to work
Regardless of the fool or shirk.
The world says this to every man:
"Go out and do the best you can."

The world's too busy to implore
The beaten one to try once more;
'Twill help him if he wants to rise,
And boost him if he bravely tries,
And shows determination grim;
But it won't stop to baby him.

The world is occupied with men
Who fall but quickly rise again;
But those who whine because they're hit And step aside to sulk a bit
Are doomed some day to wake and find
The world has left them far behind.

PURPOSE

Not for the sake of the gold,
Not for the sake of the fame,
Not for the prize would I hold
Any ambition or aim:
I would be brave and be true
Just for the good I can do.

I would be useful on earth,
Serving some purpose or cause,
Doing some labor of worth,
Giving no thought to applause.
Thinking less of the gold or the fame
Than the joy and the thrill of the game.

Medals their brightness may lose,
Fame be forgotten or fade,
Any reward we may choose
Leaves the account still unpaid.
But little real happiness lies
In fighting alone for a prize.

Give me the thrill of the task,
The joy of the battle and strife,
Of being of use, and I'll ask
No greater reward from this life.
Better than fame or applause
Is striving to further a cause.

MOTHER'S GLASSES

I've told about the times that Ma can't find

her pocketbook,
And how we have to hustle round for it to help

her look,
But there's another care we know that often

comes our way,
I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day. It starts when first the postman through the

door a letter passes,
And Ma says: "Goodness gracious me! Wherever

are my glasses?"

We hunt 'em on the mantelpiece an' by the

kitchen sink,
Until Ma says: "Now, children, stop, an' give

me time to think
Just when it was I used 'em last an' just

exactly where.
Yes, now I know -- the dining room. I'm sure

you'll find 'em there."
We even look behind the clock, we busy boys

an' lasses,
Until somebody runs across Ma's missing pair of

glasses.

We've found 'em in the Bible, an' we've found

'em in the flour,
We've found 'em in the sugar bowl, an' once

we looked an hour
Before we came across 'em in the padding of

her chair;
An' many a time we've found 'em in the topknot

of her hair.
It's a search that ruins order an' the home completely

wrecks,
For there's no place where you may not find

poor Ma's elusive specs.

But we're mighty glad, I tell you, that the

duty's ours to do,
An' we hope to hunt those glasses till our time

of life is through;
It's a little bit of service that is joyous in its

thrill,
It's a task that calls us daily an' we hope it

always will.
Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the

joyless masses
Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose

her reading glasses.

THE PRINCESS PAT'S

_Written when the Canadian regiment
known as the "Princess Pat's,"
left for the front._

A touch of the plain and the prairie,
A bit of the Motherland, too;
A strain of the fur-trapper wary,
A blend of the old and the new;
A bit of the pioneer splendor
That opened the wilderness' flats,
A touch of the home-lover, tender,
You'll find in the boys they call Pat's.

The glory and grace of the maple,
The strength that is born of the wheat, The pride of a stock that is staple,
The bronze of a midsummer heat;
A blending of wisdom and daring,
The best of a new land, and that's
The regiment gallantly bearing
The neat little title of Pat's.

A bit of the man who has neighbored
With mountains and forests and streams, A touch of the man who has labored
To model and fashion his dreams;
The strength of an age of clean living, Of right-minded fatherly chats,
The best that a land could be giving
Is there in the breasts of the Pat's.

BE A FRIEND

Be a friend. You don't need money;
Just a disposition sunny;
Just the wish to help another
Get along some way or other;
Just a kindly hand extended
Out to one who's unbefriended;
Just the will to give or lend,
This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend. You don't need glory.
Friendship is a simple story.
Pass by trifling errors blindly,
Gaze on honest effort kindly,
Cheer the youth who's bravely trying,
Pity him who's sadly sighing;
Just a little labor spend
On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger
(Though not written by a figure)
Than is earned by people clever
In what's merely self-endeavor.
You'll have friends instead of neighbors For the profits of your labors;
You'll be richer in the end
Than a prince, if you're a friend.

THANKSGIVING

Thankful for the glory of the old Red, White

and Blue,
For the spirit of America that still is staunch

and true,
For the laughter of our children and the sunlight

in their eyes,
And the joy of radiant mothers and their evening

lullabies;
And thankful that our harvests wear no taint

of blood to-day,
But were sown and reaped by toilers who were

light of heart and gay.

Thankful for the riches that are ours to claim

and keep,
The joy of honest labor and the boon of happy

sleep,
For each little family circle where there is no

empty chair
Save where God has sent the sorrow for the

loving hearts to bear;
And thankful for the loyal souls and brave

hearts of the past
Who builded that contentment should be with

us to the last.

Thankful for the plenty that our peaceful land

has blessed,
For the rising sun that beckons every man to

do his best,
For the goal that lies before him and the promise

when he sows
That his hand shall reap the harvest, undisturbed

by cruel foes;
For the flaming torch of justice, symbolizing

as it burns:
Here none may rob the toiler of the prize he

fairly earns.

To-day our thanks we're giving for the riches

that are ours,
For the red fruits of the orchards and the perfume

of the flowers,
For our homes with laughter ringing and our

hearthfires blazing bright,
For our land of peace and plenty and our land

of truth and right;
And we're thankful for the glory of the old

Red, White and Blue,
For the spirit of our fathers and a manhood

that is true.

MA AND HER CHECK BOOK

Ma has a dandy little book that's full of narrow slips,
An' when she wants to pay a bill a page from it she rips;
She just writes in the dollars and the cents and signs her name
An' that's as good as money, though it doesn't look the same.
When she wants another bonnet or some
feathers for her neck,
She promptly goes an' gets 'em, an' she writes another check.
I don't just understand it, but I know she sputters when
Pa says to her at supper: "Well! You're overdrawn again!"

Ma's not a business woman, she is much too kind of heart
To squabble over pennies or to play a selfish part,
An' when someone asks for money, she's not one to stop an' think
Of a little piece of paper an' the cost of pen an' ink.
She just tells him very sweetly if he'll only wait a bit
An' be seated in the parlor, she will write a check for it.
She can write one out for twenty just as easily as ten,
An' forgets that Pa may grumble: "Well, you're overdrawn again!"

Pa says it looks as though he'll have to start in workin' nights
To gather in the money for the checks that mother writes.
He says that every morning when he's summoned to the phone,
He's afraid the bank is calling to make mother's shortage known.
He tells his friends if ever anything our fortune wrecks
They can trace it to the moment mother started writing checks.
He's got so that he trembles when he sees her fountain pen
An' he mutters: "Do be careful! You'll be overdrawn again!"

THE FISHING CURE

There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul Like a day on a stream,
Back on the banks of the old fishing hole Where a fellow can dream.
There's nothing so good for a man as to flee From the city and lie
Full length in the shade of a whispering tree And gaze at the sky.

Out there where the strife and the greed are

forgot
And the struggle for pelf,
A man can get rid of each taint and each spot And clean up himself;
He can be what he wanted to be when a boy, If only in dreams;
And revel once more in the depths of a joy That's as real as it seems.

The things that he hates never follow him

there --
The jar of the street,
The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair -- For the open is sweet.
In purity's realm he can rest and be clean, Be he humble or great,
And as peaceful his soul may become as the

scene
That his eyes contemplate.

It is good for the world that men hunger to go To the banks of a stream,
And weary of sham and of pomp and of show They have somewhere to dream.
For this life would be dreary and sordid and base Did they not now and then
Seek refreshment and calm in God's wide, open

space
And come back to be men.

THE HAPPY SLOW THINKER

Full many a time a thought has come
That had a bitter meaning in it.
And in the conversation's hum
I lost it ere I could begin it.

I've had it on my tongue to spring
Some poisoned quip that I thought clever; Then something happened and the sting
Unuttered went, and died forever.

A lot of bitter thoughts I've had
To silence fellows and to flay 'em,
But next day always I've been glad
I wasn't quick enough to say 'em.

OUT-OF-DOORS

The kids are out-of-doors once more;
The heavy leggins that they wore,
The winter caps that covered ears
Are put away, and no more tears
Are shed because they cannot go
Until they're bundled up just so.
No more she wonders when they're gone
If they have put their rubbers on;
No longer are they hourly told
To guard themselves against a cold;
Bareheaded now they romp and run
Warmed only by the kindly sun.

She's put their heavy clothes away
And turned the children out to play,
And all the morning long they race
Like madcaps round about the place.
The robins on the fences sing
A gayer song of welcoming,
And seems as though they had a share
In all the fun they're having there.
The wrens and sparrows twitter, too,
A louder and a noisier crew,
As though it pleased them all to see
The youngsters out of doors and free.

Outdoors they scamper to their play
With merry din the livelong day,
And hungrily they jostle in
The favor of the maid to win;
Then, armed with cookies or with cake,
Their way into the yard they make,
And every feathered playmate comes
To gather up his share of crumbs.
The finest garden that I know
Is one where little children grow,
Where cheeks turn brown and eyes are bright, And all is laughter and delight.

Oh, you may brag of gardens fine,
But let the children race in mine;
And let the roses, white and red,
Make gay the ground whereon they tread. And who for bloom perfection seeks,
Should mark the color on their cheeks;
No music that the robin spouts
Is equal to their merry shouts;
There is no foliage to compare
With youngsters' sun-kissed, tousled hair: Spring's greatest joy beyond a doubt
Is when it brings the children out.

REAL SINGING

You can talk about your music, and your operatic airs,
And your phonographic record that Caruso's tenor bears;
But there isn't any music that such wondrous joy can bring
Like the concert when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.

When the supper time is over, then the mother starts to play
Some simple little ditty, and our concert's under way.
And I'm happier and richer than a millionaire or king
When I listen to the kiddies and their mother as they sing.

There's a sweetness most appealing in the trilling of their notes:
It is innocence that's pouring from their little baby throats;
And I gaze at them enraptured, for my joy's a real thing
Every evening when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.

THE BUMPS AND BRUISES DOCTOR

I'm the bumps and bruises doctor;
I'm the expert that they seek
When their rough and tumble playing
Leaves a scar on leg or cheek.
I'm the rapid, certain curer
For the wounds of every fall;
I'm the pain eradicator;
I can always heal them all.

Bumps on little people's foreheads
I can quickly smooth away;
I take splinters out of fingers
Without very much delay.
Little sorrows I can banish
With the magic of my touch;
I can fix a bruise that's dreadful
So it isn't hurting much.

I'm the bumps and bruises doctor,
And I answer every call,
And my fee is very simple,
Just a kiss, and that is all.
And I'm sitting here and wishing
In the years that are to be,
When they face life's real troubles
That they'll bring them all to me.

WHEN PA COUNTS

Pa's not so very big or brave; he can't lift

weights like Uncle Jim;
His hands are soft like little girls'; most anyone

could wallop him.
Ma weighs a whole lot more than Pa. When

they go swimming, she could stay
Out in the river all day long, but Pa gets frozen

right away.
But when the thunder starts to roll, an' lightnin'

spits, Ma says, "Oh, dear,
I'm sure we'll all of us be killed. I only wish

your Pa was here."

Pa's cheeks are thin an' kinder pale; he couldn't

rough it worth a cent.
He couldn't stand the hike we had the day the

Boy Scouts camping went.
He has to hire a man to dig the garden, coz his

back gets lame,
An' he'd be crippled for a week, if he should

play a baseball game.
But when a thunder storm comes up, Ma sits an'

shivers in the gloam
An' every time the thunder rolls, she says: "I

wish your Pa was home."

I don't know just what Pa could do if he were

home, he seems so frail,
But every time the skies grow black I notice Ma

gets rather pale.
An' when she's called us children in, an' locked

the windows an' the doors,
She jumps at every lightnin' flash an' trembles

when the thunder roars.
An' when the baby starts to cry, she wrings her

hands an' says: "Oh, dear,
It's terrible! It's terrible! I only wish your

Pa was here."

PEACE

A man must earn his hour of peace,
Must pay for it with hours of strife and care, Must win by toil the evening's sweet release, The rest that may be portioned for his share; The idler never knows it, never can.
Peace is the glory ever of a man.

A man must win contentment for his soul, Must battle for it bravely day by day; The peace he seeks is not a near-by goal; To claim it he must tread a rugged way. The shirker never knows a tranquil breast; Peace but rewards the man who does his best.

NO PLACE TO GO

The happiest nights
I ever know
Are those when I've
No place to go,
And the missus says
When the day is through:
"To-night we haven't
A thing to do."

Oh, the joy of it,
And the peace untold
Of sitting 'round
In my slippers old,
With my pipe and book
In my easy chair,
Knowing I needn't
Go anywhere.

Needn't hurry
My evening meal
Nor force the smiles
That I do not feel,
But can grab a book
From a near-by shelf,
And drop all sham
And be myself.

Oh, the charm of it
And the comfort rare;
Nothing on earth
With it can compare;
And I'm sorry for him
Who doesn't know
The joy of having
No place to go.

DEFEAT

No one is beat till he quits,
No one is through till he stops,
No matter how hard Failure hits,
No matter how often he drops,
A fellow's not down till he lies
In the dust and refuses to rise.

Fate can slam him and bang him around,
And batter his frame till he's sore,
But she never can say that he's downed
While he bobs up serenely for more.
A fellow's not dead till he dies,
Nor beat till no longer he tries.

A PATRIOTIC WISH

I'd like to be the sort of man the flag could

boast about;
I'd like to be the sort of man it cannot live

without;
I'd like to be the type of man
That really is American:
The head-erect and shoulders-square,
Clean-minded fellow, just and fair,
That all men picture when they see
The glorious banner of the free.

I'd like to be the sort of man the flag now

typifies,
The kind of man we really want the flag to

symbolize;
The loyal brother to a trust,
The big, unselfish soul and just,
The friend of every man oppressed,
The strong support of all that's best,
The sturdy chap the banner's meant,
Where'er it flies, to represent.

I'd like to be the sort of man the flag's supposed

to mean,
The man that all in fancy see wherever it is

seen,
The chap that's ready for a fight
Whenever there's a wrong to right,
The friend in every time of need,
The doer of the daring deed,
The clean and generous handed man
That is a real American.

THE PRICE OF JOY

You don't begrudge the labor when the roses start to bloom;
You don't recall the dreary days that won you their perfume;
You don't recall a single care
You spent upon the garden there;
And all the toil
Of tilling soil
Is quite forgot the day the first
Pink rosebuds into beauty burst.

You don't begrudge the trials grim when joy has come to you;
You don't recall the dreary days when all your skies are blue;
And though you've trod a weary mile
The ache of it was all worth while;
And all the stings
And bitter flings
Are wiped away upon the day
Success comes dancing down the way.

THE THINGS THAT MAKE A SOLDIER

GREAT

The things that make a soldier great and send

him out to die,
To face the flaming cannon's mouth nor ever

question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips

red,
The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed, The grass plot where his children play, the roses

on the wall:
'Tis these that make a soldier great. He's fighting

for them all.

'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make

a soldier brave;
'Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may

wave;
For soldiers never fight so well on land or on

the foam
As when behind the cause they see the little

place called home.
Endanger but that humble street whereon his

children run,
You make a soldier of the man who never bore

a gun.

What is it through the battle smoke the valiant

solider sees?
The little garden far away, the budding apple

trees,
The little patch of ground back there, the children

at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church

of gray.
The golden thread of courage isn't linked to

castle dome
But to the spot, where'er it be -- the humblest spot

called home.

And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely

there
And homesick soldiers far away know spring

is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again, the grass

once more is green,
And every man can see the spot where all his

joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him, he hears the

bugle call,
And only death can stop him now -- he's fighting

for them all.

THE JOY OF A DOG

Ma says no, it's too much care
An' it will scatter germs an' hair,
An' it's a nuisance through and through. An' barks when you don't want it to;
An' carries dirt from off the street,
An' tracks the carpets with its feet.
But it's a sign he's growin' up
When he is longin' for a pup.

Most every night he comes to me
An' climbs a-straddle of my knee
An' starts to fondle me an' pet,
Then asks me if I've found one yet.
An' ma says: "Now don't tell him yes;
You know they make an awful mess."
An' starts their faults to catalogue.
But every boy should have a dog.

An' some night when he comes to me,
Deep in my pocket there will be
The pup he's hungry to possess
Or else I sadly miss my guess.
For I remember all the joy
A dog meant to a little boy
Who loved it in the long ago,
The joy that's now his right to know.

HOMESICK

It's tough when you are homesick in a strange

and distant place;
It's anguish when you're hungry for an oldfamiliar

face.
And yearning for the good folks and the joys

you used to know,
When you're miles away from friendship, is a

bitter sort of woe.
But it's tougher, let me tell you, and a stiffer

discipline
To see them through the window, and to know

you can't go in.

Oh, I never knew the meaning of that red sign

on the door,
Never really understood it, never thought of it

before;
But I'll never see another since they've tacked

one up on mine
But I'll think about the father that is barred

from all that's fine.
And I'll think about the mother who is prisoner

in there
So her little son or daughter shall not miss a

mother's care.
And I'll share a fellow feeling with the saddest

of my kin,
The dad beside the gateway of the home he

can't go in.

Oh, we laugh and joke together and the mother

tries to be
Brave and sunny in her prison, and she thinks

she's fooling me;
And I do my bravest smiling and I feign a

merry air
In the hope she won't discover that I'm burdened

down with care.
But it's only empty laughter, and there's nothing

in the grin
When you're talking through the window of the

home you can't go in.

THE PERFECT DINNER TABLE

A table cloth that's slightly soiled
Where greasy little hands have toiled;
The napkins kept in silver rings,
And only ordinary things
From which to eat, a simple fare,
And just the wife and kiddies there,
And while I serve, the clatter glad
Of little girl and little lad
Who have so very much to say
About the happenings of the day.

Four big round eyes that dance with glee, Forever flashing joys at me,
Two little tongues that race and run
To tell of troubles and of fun;
The mother with a patient smile
Who knows that she must wait awhile
Before she'll get a chance to say
What she's discovered through the day.
She steps aside for girl and lad
Who have so much to tell their dad.

Our manners may not be the best;
Perhaps our elbows often rest
Upon the table, and at times
That very worst of dinner crimes,
That very shameful act and rude
Of speaking ere you've downed your food, Too frequently, I fear, is done,
So fast the little voices run.
Yet why should table manners stay
Those tongues that have so much to say?

At many a table I have been
Where wealth and luxury were seen,
And I have dined in halls of pride
Where all the guests were dignified;
But when it comes to pleasure rare
The perfect dinner table's where
No stranger's face is ever known:
The dinner hour we spend alone,
When little girl and little lad
Run riot telling things to dad.

TO-MORROW

He was going to be all that a mortal should be

To-morrow.
No one should be kinder or braver than he

To-morrow.
A friend who was troubled and weary he knew, Who'd be glad of a lift and who needed it, too; On him he would call and see what he could do

To-morrow.

Each morning he stacked up the letters he'd write
To-morrow.
And thought of the folks he would fill with delight
To-morrow.
It was too bad, indeed, he was busy to-day, And hadn't a minute to stop on his way; More time he would have to give others, he'd say,
To-morrow.

The greatest of workers this man would have been
To-morrow.
The world would have known him, had he ever seen
To-morrow.
But the fact is he died and he faded from view, And all that he left here when living was through
Was a mountain of things he intended to do

To-morrow.

A PRAYER

God grant me kindly thought
And patience through the day,
And in the things I've wrought
Let no man living say
That hate's grim mark has stained
What little joy I've gained.

God keep my nature sweet,
Teach me to bear a blow,
Disaster and defeat,
And no resentment show.
If failure must be mine
Sustain this soul of mine.

God grant me strength to face
Undaunted day or night;
To stoop to no disgrace
To win my little fight;
Let me be, when it is o'er,
As manly as before.

TO THE LADY IN THE ELECTRIC

Lady in the show case carriage,
Do not think that I'm a bear;
Not for worlds would I disparage
One so gracious and so fair;
Do not think that I am blind to
One who has a smile seraphic;
You I'd never be unkind to,
But you are impeding traffic.

If I had some way of knowing
What you are about to do,
Just exactly where you're going,
If I could depend on you,
I could keep my engine churning,
Travel on and never mind you.
Lady, when you think of turning,
Why not signal us behind you?

Lady, free from care and worry,
Riding in your plate-glass car,
Some of us are in a hurry;
Some of us must travel far.
I, myself, am eager, very,
To be journeying on my way;
Lady, is it necessary
To monopolize the highway?

Lady, at the handle, steering,
Why not keep a course that's straight? Know you not that wildly veering
As you do, is tempting fate?
Do not think my horn I'm blowing
Just on purpose to harass you,
It is just a signal showing
That I'd safely like to pass you.

Lady, there are times a duty
Must be done, however saddening;
It is hard to tell a beauty
That she's very often maddening.
And I would not now be saying
Harsh and cruel words to fuss you,
But when traffic you're delaying
You are forcing men to cuss you.

THE MAN WHO COULDN'T SAVE

He spent what he made, or he gave it away, Tried to save money, and would for a day, Started a bank-account time an' again,
Got a hundred or so for a nest egg, an' then Some fellow that needed it more than he did, Who was down on his luck, with a sick wife or kid,
Came along an' he wasted no time till he went An' drew out the coin that for saving was meant.

They say he died poor, and I guess that is so: To pile up a fortune he hadn't a show;
He worked all the time and good money he made, Was known as an excellent man at his trade. But he saw too much, heard too much, felt too much here
To save anything by the end of the year, An' the shabbiest wreck the Lord ever let live Could get money from him if he had it to give.

I've seen him slip dimes to the bums on the street Who told him they hungered for something to eat,
An' though I remarked they were going for drink
He'd say: "Mebbe so. But I'd just hate to think
That fellow was hungry an' I'd passed him by; I'd rather be fooled twenty times by a lie Than wonder if one of 'em I wouldn't feed Had told me the truth an' was really in need."

Never stinted his family out of a thing: They had everything that his money could bring; Said he'd rather be broke and just know they were glad,
Than rich, with them pining an' wishing they had Some of the pleasures his money would buy; Said he never could look a bank book in the eye If he knew it had grown on the pleasures and joys
That he'd robbed from his wife and his girls and his boys.

Queer sort of notion he had, I confess, Yet many a rich man on earth is mourned less. All who had known him came back to his side To honor his name on the day that he died. Didn't leave much in the bank, it is true, But did leave a fortune in people who knew The big heart of him, an' I'm willing to swear That to-day he is one of the richest up there.

ANSWERING HIM

"When shall I be a man?" he said,
As I was putting him to bed.
"How many years will have to be
Before Time makes a man of me?
And will I be a man when I
Am grown up big? I heaved a sigh,
Because it called for careful thought
To give the answer that he sought.

And so I sat him on my knee,
And said to him: "A man you'll be
When you have learned that honor brings More joy than all the crowns of kings;
That it is better to be true
To all who know and trust in you
Than all the gold of earth to gain
If winning it shall leave a stain.

"When you can fight for victory sweet,
Yet bravely swallow down defeat,
And cling to hope and keep the right,
Nor use deceit instead of might;
When you are kind and brave and clean,
And fair to all and never mean;
When there is good in all you plan,
That day, my boy, you'll be a man.

"Some of us learn this truth too late;
That years alone can't make us great;
That many who are three-score, ten
Have fallen short of being men,
Because in selfishness they fought
And toiled without refining thought;
And whether wrong or whether right
They lived but for their own delight.

"When you have learned that you must hold Your honor dearer far than gold;
That no ill-gotten wealth or fame
Can pay you for your tarnished name;
And when in all you say or do
Of others you're considerate, too,
Content to do the best you can
By such a creed, you'll be a man."

FATHER AND SON

Be more than his dad,
Be a chum to the lad;
Be a part of his life
Every hour of the day;
Find time to talk with him,
Take time to walk with him,
Share in his studies
And share in his play;
Take him to places,
To ball games and races,
Teach him the things
That you want him to know;
Don't live apart from him,
Don't keep your heart from him,
Be his best comrade,
He's needing you so!

Never neglect him,
Though young, still respect him,
Hear his opinions
With patience and pride;
Show him his error,
But be not a terror,
Grim-visaged and fearful,
When he's at your side.
Know what his thoughts are,
Know what his sports are,
Know all his playmates,
It's easy to learn to;
Be such a father
That when troubles gather
You'll be the first one
For counsel, he'll turn to.

You can inspire him
With courage, and fire him
Hot with ambition
For deeds that are good;
He'll not betray you
Nor illy repay you,
If you have taught him
The things that you should.
Father and son
Must in all things be one --
Partners in trouble
And comrades in joy.
More than a dad
Was the best pal you had;
Be such a chum
As you knew, to your boy.

THE JUNE COUPLE

She is fair to see and sweet,
Dainty from her head to feet,
Modest, as her blushing shows,
Happy, as her smiles disclose,
And the young man at her side
Nervously attempts to hide
Underneath a visage grim
That the fuss is bothering him.

Pause a moment, happy pair!
This is not the station where
Romance ends, and wooing stops
And the charm from courtship drops;
This is but the outward gate
Where the souls of mortals mate,
But the border of the land
You must travel hand in hand.

You who come to marriage, bring
All your tenderness, and cling
Steadfastly to all the ways
That have marked your wooing days.
You are only starting out
On life's roadways, hedged about
Thick with roses and with tares,
Sweet delights and bitter cares.

Heretofore you've only played
At love's game, young man and maid;
Only known it at its best;
Now you'll have to face its test.
You must prove your love worth while,
Something time cannot defile,
Something neither care nor pain
Can destroy or mar or stain.

You are now about to show
Whether love is real or no;
Yonder down the lane of life
You will find, as man and wife,
Sorrows, disappointments, doubt,
Hope will almost flicker out;
But if rightly you are wed
Love will linger where you tread.

There are joys that you will share,
Joys to balance every care;
Arm in arm remain, and you
Will not fear the storms that brew,
If when you are sorest tried
You face your trials, side by side.
Now your wooing days are done,
And your loving years begun.

AT THE DOOR

He wiped his shoes before his door,
But ere he entered he did more;
'Twas not enough to cleanse his feet
Of dirt they'd gathered in the street;
He stood and dusted off his mind
And left all trace of care behind.
"In here I will not take," said he,
"The stains the day has brought to me.

"Beyond this door shall never go
The burdens that are mine to know;
The day is done, and here I leave
The petty things that vex and grieve;
What clings to me of hate and sin
To them I will not carry in;
Only the good shall go with me
For their devoted eyes to see.

"I will not burden them with cares,
Nor track the home with grim affairs;
I will not at my table sit
With soul unclean, and mind unfit;
Beyond this door I will not take
The outward signs of inward ache;
I will not take a dreary mind
Into this house for them to find."

He wiped his shoes before his door,
But paused to do a little more.
He dusted off the stains of strife,
The mud that's incident to life,
The blemishes of careless thought,
The traces of the fight he'd fought,
The selfish humors and the mean,
And when he entered he was clean.

DUTY

To do your little bit of toil,
To play life's game with head erect;
To stoop to nothing that would soil
Your honor or your self-respect;
To win what gold and fame you can,
But first of all to be a man.

To know the bitter and the sweet,
The sunshine and the days of rain;
To meet both victory and defeat,
Nor boast too loudly nor complain;
To face whatever fates befall
And be a man throughout it all.

To seek success in honest strife,
But not to value it so much
That, winning it, you go through life
Stained by dishonor's scarlet touch.
What goal or dream you choose, pursue,
But be a man whate'er you do!

A BEAR STORY

There was a bear -- his name was Jim,
An' children weren't askeered of him,
An' he lived in a cave, where he
Was confortubbul as could be,
An' in that cave, so my Pa said,
Jim always kept a stock of bread
An' honey, so that he could treat
The boys an' girls along his street.

An' all that Jim could say was "Woof!"
An' give a grunt that went like "Soof!" An' Pa says when his grunt went off
It sounded jus' like Grandpa's cough,
Or like our Jerry when he's mad
An' growls at peddler men that's bad.
While grown-ups were afraid of Jim,
Kids could do anything with him.

One day a little boy like me
That had a sister Marjorie,
Was walking through the woods, an' they Heard something "woofing" down that way, An' they was scared an' stood stock still An' wished they had a gun to kill
Whatever 'twas, but little boys
Don't have no guns that make a noise.

An' soon the "woofing" closer grew,
An' then a bear came into view,
The biggest bear you ever saw --
Ma's muff was smaller than his paw.
He saw the children an' he said:
"I ain't a-goin' to kill you dead;
You needn't turn away an' run;
I'm only scarin' you for fun."

An' then he stood up just like those
Big bears in circuses an' shows,
An' danced a jig, an' rolled about
An' said "Woof! Woof!" which meant "Look

out!"
An' turned a somersault as slick
As any boy can do the trick.
Those children had been told of Jim
An' they decided it was him.

They stroked his nose when they got brave, An' followed him into his cave,
An' Jim asked them if they liked honey, They said they did. Said Jim: "That's funny. I've asked a thousand boys or so
That question, an' not one's said no."
What happened then I cannot say
'Cause next I knew 'twas light as day.

AUTUMN AT THE ORCHARD

The sumac's flaming scarlet on the edges o' the

lake,
An' the pear trees are invitin' everyone t' come

an' shake.
Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin'

everywhere
Till it seems that you can almost see the Master

Painter there.
There's a solemn sort o' stillness that's pervadin'

every thing,
Save the farewell songs to summer that the

feathered tenors sing,
An' you quite forget the city where disgruntled

folks are kickin'
Off yonder with the Pelletiers, when spies are

ripe for pickin'.

The Holsteins are a-posin' in a clearin' near a

wood,
Very dignified an' stately, just as though they

understood
That they're lending to life's pictures just the

touch the Master needs,
An' they're preachin' more refinement than a lot

o' printed creeds.
The orchard's fairly groanin' with the gifts o'

God to man,
Just as though they meant to shame us who

have doubted once His plan.
Oh, there's somethin' most inspirin' to a soul in

need o' prickin'
Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are

ripe fer pickin'.

The frisky little Shetlands now are growin'

shaggy coats
An' acquirin' silken mufflers of their own to

guard their throats;
An' a Russian wolf-hound puppy left its mother

yesterday,
An' a tinge o' sorrow touched us as we saw it

go away.
For the sight was full o' meanin', an' we knew,

when it had gone,
'Twas a symbol of the partin's that the years are

bringin' on.
Oh, a feller must be better -- to his faith he can't

help stickin'
Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe

fer pickin'.

The year is almost over, now at dusk the valleys

glow
With the misty mantle chillin', that is hangin'

very low.
An' each mornin' sees the maples just a little

redder turned
Than they were the night we left 'em, an' the

elms are browner burned.
An' a feller can't help feelin', an' I don't care

who it is,
That the mind that works such wonders has a

greater power than his.
Oh, I know that I'll remember till life's last few

sparks are flickin'
The lessons out at Pelletiers when spies were ripe

for pickin'.

WHEN PA COMES HOME

When Pa comes home, I'm at the door,
An' then he grabs me off the floor
An' throws me up an' catches me
When I come down, an' then, says he:
"Well, how'd you get along to-day?
An' were you good, an' did you play,
An' keep right out of mamma's way?
An' how'd you get that awful bump
Above your eye? My, what a lump!
An' who spilled jelly on your shirt?
An' where'd you ever find the dirt
That's on your hands? And my! Oh, my! I guess those eyes have had a cry,
They look so red. What was it, pray?
What has been happening here to-day?

An' then he drops his coat an' hat
Upon a chair, an' says: "What's that?
Who knocked that engine on its back
An' stepped upon that piece of track?"
An' then he takes me on his knee
An' says: "What's this that now I see? Whatever can the matter be?
Who strewed those toys upon the floor,
An' left those things behind the door?
Who upset all those parlor chairs
An' threw those blocks upon the stairs? I guess a cyclone called to-day
While I was workin' far away.
Who was it worried mamma so?
It can't be anyone I know."

An' then I laugh an' say: "It's me!
Me did most ever'thing you see.
Me got this bump the time me tripped.
An' here is where the jelly slipped
Right off my bread upon my shirt,
An' when me tumbled down it hurt.
That's how me got all over dirt.
Me threw those building blocks downstairs, An' me upset the parlor chairs,
Coz when you're playin' train you've got To move things 'round an awful lot."
An' then my Pa he kisses me
An' bounces me upon his knee
An' says: "Well, well, my little lad,
What glorious fun you must have had!"

MOTHER'S DAY

Gentle hands that never weary toiling in love's

vineyard sweet,
Eyes that seem forever cheery when our eyes

they chance to meet,
Tender, patient, brave, devoted, this is always

mother's way,
Could her worth in gold be quoted as you think

of her to-day?

There shall never be another quite so tender,

quite so kind
As the patient little mother; nowhere on this

earth you'll find
Her affection duplicated; none so proud if you

are fine.
Could her worth be overstated? Not by any

words of mine.

Death stood near the hour she bore us, agony

was hers to know,
Yet she bravely faced it for us, smiling in her

time of woe;
Down the years how oft we've tried her, often

selfish, heedless, blind,
Yet with love alone to guide her she was never

once unkind.

Vain are all our tributes to her if in words

alone they dwell.
We must live the praises due her; there's no

other way to tell
Gentle mother that we love her. Would you say,

as you recall
All the patient service of her, you've been

worthy of it all?