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Title: A Heap o' Livin'

Author: Edgar A. Guest

Release date: September 1, 1995 [eBook #328]

Most recently updated: January 1, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/328

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HEAP O' LIVIN' ***

A Heap o' Livin'

by

Edgar A. Guest

To

Marjorie and Buddy

this little book of verse

is affectionately

dedicated

by their Daddy

{11}

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.

{13}

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.

{14}

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.

{15}

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.

{16}

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,

{17}

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 care-free boy again.

{18}

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.

All this a baby costs, and yet

His smile is worth it all, you bet."

{19}

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.

{20}

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.

{21}

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.

{22}

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 women-folks

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!"

{24}

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.

{26}

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.

{28}

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

thumb-marks 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.

{30}

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.

{32}

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.

{33}

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.

{34}

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.

{36}

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.

{38}

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.

{39}

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.

{40}

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.

{42}

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.

{43}

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.

{44}

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.

{46}

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.

{48}

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.

{49}

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.

{50}

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.

{52}

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."

{54}

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

ever-lasting 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.

{56}

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.

{57}

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.

{58}

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.

{59}

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.

{60}

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.

{62}

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.

{63}

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.

{64}

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.

{66}

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 fragrant 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.

{67}

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.

{68}

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.

{70}

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.

{71}

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.

{72}

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.

{73}

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.

{74}

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.

{75}

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.

{76}

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."

{77}

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.

{78}

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.

{80}

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.

{81}

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.

{82}

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.

{83}

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.

{84}

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.

{85}

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.

{86}

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 forget-me-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.

{88}

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.

{90}

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.

{91}

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.

{92}

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.

{93}

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.

{94}

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.

{96}

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.

{97}

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.

{98}

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.

{100}

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!"

{102}

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.

{103}

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.

{104}

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.

{106}

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.

{107}

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.

{108}

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."

{109}

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.

{110}

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.

{111}

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.

{112}

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.

{113}

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.

{114}

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.

{116}

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.

{117}

HOMESICK

It's tough when you are homesick in a strange

and distant place;

It's anguish when you're hungry for an

old-familiar 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.

{118}

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.

{120}

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.

{121}

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.

{122}

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.

{124}

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.

{126}

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."

{128}

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.

{130}

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.

{132}

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.

{133}

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!

{134}

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.

{136}

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'.

{138}

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!"

{140}

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?

{141}

DIVISION

You cannot gather every rose,

Nor every pleasure claim,

Nor bask in every breeze that blows,

Nor play in every game.

No millionaire could ever own

The world's supply of pearls,

And no man here has ever known

All of the pretty girls.

So take what joy may come your way,

And envy not your brothers;

Enjoy your share of fun each day,

And leave the rest for others.

{142}

A MAN

A man doesn't whine at his losses,

A man doesn't whimper and fret,

Or rail at the weight of his crosses

And ask life to rear him a pet.

A man doesn't grudgingly labor

Or look upon toil as a blight;

A man doesn't sneer at his neighbor

Or sneak from a cause that is right.

A man doesn't sulk when another

Succeeds where his efforts have failed;

Doesn't keep all his praise for the brother

Whose glory is publicly hailed;

And pass by the weak and the humble

As though they were not of his clay;

A man doesn't ceaselessly grumble

When things are not going his way.

A man looks on woman as tender

And gentle, and stands at her side

At all times to guard and defend her,

And never to scorn or deride.

A man looks on life as a mission.

To serve, just so far as he can;

A man holds his noblest ambition

On earth is to live as a man.

{143}

A VOW

I might not ever scale the mountain heights

Where all the great men stand in glory now;

I may not ever gain the world's delights

Or win a wreath of laurel for my brow;

I may not gain the victories that men

Are fighting for, nor do a thing to boast of;

I may not get a fortune here, but then,

The little that I have I'll make the most of.

I'll make my little home a palace fine,

My little patch of green a garden fair,

And I shall know each humble plant and vine

As rich men know their orchid blossoms rare.

My little home may not be much to see;

Its chimneys may not tower far above;

But it will be a mansion great to me,

For in its walls I'll keep a hoard of love.

I will not pass my modest pleasures by

To grasp at shadows of more splendid things,

Disdaining what of joyousness is nigh

Because I am denied the joy of kings.

But I will laugh and sing my way along,

I'll make the most of what is mine to-day,

And if I never rise above the throng,

I shall have lived a full life anyway.

{144}

TREASURES

Some folks I know, when friends drop in

To visit for awhile and chin,

Just lead them round the rooms and halls

And show them pictures on their walls,

And point to rugs and tapestries

The works of men across the seas;

Their loving cups they show with pride,

To eyes that soon are stretching wide

With wonder at the treasures rare

That have been bought and gathered there.

But when folks come to call on me,

I've no such things for them to see.

No picture on my walls is great;

I have no ancient family plate;

No tapestry of rare design

Or costly woven rugs are mine;

I have no loving cup to show,

Or strange and valued curio;

But if my treasures they would see,

I bid them softly follow me.

And then I lead them up the stairs

Through trains of cars and Teddy bears,

And to a little room we creep

Where both my youngsters lie asleep,

Close locked in one another's arms.

I let them gaze upon their charms,

I let them see the legs of brown

Curled up beneath a sleeping gown,

And whisper in my happiness:

"Behold the treasures I possess."

{145}

CHALLENGE

Life is a challenge to the bold,

It flings its gauntlet down

And bids us, if we seek for gold

And glory and renown,

To come and take them from its store,

It will not meekly hand them o'er.

Life is a challenge all must meet,

And nobly must we dare;

Its gold is tawdry when we cheat,

Its fame a bitter snare

If it be stolen from life's clutch;

Men must be true to prosper much.

Life is a challenge and its laws

Are rigid ones and stern;

The splendid joy of real applause

Each man must nobly earn.

It makes us win its jewels rare,

But gives us paste, if we're unfair.

{146}

A TOAST TO HAPPINESS

To happiness I raise my glass,

The goal of every human,

The hope of every clan and class

And every man and woman.

The daydreams of the urchin there,

The sweet theme of the maiden's prayer,

The strong man's one ambition,

The sacred prize of mothers sweet,

The tramp of soldiers on the street

Have all the selfsame mission.

Life here is nothing more or less

Than just a quest for happiness.

Some seek it on the mountain top,

And some within a mine;

The widow in her notion shop

Expects its sun to shine.

The tramp that seeks new roads to fare,

Is one with king and millionaire

In this that each is groping

On different roads, in different ways,

To come to glad, contented days,

And shares the common hoping.

The sound of martial fife and drum

Is born of happiness to come.

Yet happiness is always here

Had we the eyes to see it;

No breast but holds a fund of cheer

Had man the will to free it.

'Tis there upon the mountain top,

Or in the widow's notion shop,

'Tis found in homes of sorrow;

'Tis woven in the memories

Of happier, brighter days than these,

The gift, not of to-morrow

But of to-day, and in our tears

Some touch of happiness appears.

'Tis not a joy that's born of wealth:

The poor man may possess it.

'Tis not alone the prize of health:

No sickness can repress it.

'Tis not the end of mortal strife,

The sunset of the day of life,

Or but the old should find it;

It is the bond twixt God and man,

The touch divine in all we plan,

And has the soul behind it.

And so this toast to happiness,

The seed of which we all possess.

{148}

GUESSING TIME

It's guessing time at our house; every evening

after tea

We start guessing what old Santa's going to

leave us on our tree.

Everyone of us holds secrets that the others try

to steal,

And that eyes and lips are plainly having trouble

to conceal.

And a little lip that quivered just a bit the other

night

Was a sad and startling warning that I mustn't

guess it right.

"Guess what you will get for Christmas!" is the

cry that starts the fun.

And I answer: "Give the letter with which the

name's begun."

Oh, the eyes that dance around me and the joyous

faces there

Keep me nightly guessing wildly: "Is it something

I can wear?"

I implore them all to tell me in a frantic sort

of way

And pretend that I am puzzled, just to keep them

feeling gay.

Oh, the wise and knowing glances that across the

table fly

And the winks exchanged with mother, that they

think I never spy;

Oh, the whispered confidences that are poured

into her ear,

And the laughter gay that follows when I try

my best to hear!

Oh, the shouts of glad derision when I bet that

it's a cane,

And the merry answering chorus: "No, it's

not. Just guess again!"

It's guessing time at our house, and the fun is

running fast,

And I wish somehow this contest of delight

could always last,

For the love that's in their faces and their

laughter ringing clear

Is their dad's most precious present when the

Christmas time is near.

And soon as it is over, when the tree is bare

and plain,

I shall start in looking forward to the time to

guess again.

{150}

UNDERSTANDING

When I was young and frivolous and never

stopped to think,

When I was always doing wrong, or just upon

the brink;

When I was just a lad of seven and eight and

nine and ten,

It seemed to me that every day I got in trouble

then,

And strangers used to shake their heads and say

I was no good,

But father always stuck to me—it seems he

understood.

I used to have to go to him 'most every night

and say

The dreadful things that I had done to worry

folks that day.

I know I didn't mean to be a turmoil round the

place,

And with the womenfolks about forever in disgrace;

To do the way they said I should, I tried the

best I could,

But though they scolded me a lot—my father

understood.

He never seemed to think it queer that I should

risk my bones,

Or fight with other boys at times, or pelt a cat

with stones;

An' when I'd break a window pane, it used to

make him sad,

But though the neighbors said I was, he never

thought me bad;

He never whipped me, as they used to say to me

he should;

That boys can't always do what's right—it

seemed he understood.

Now there's that little chap of mine, just full of

life and fun,

Comes up to me with solemn face to tell the

bad he's done.

It's natural for any boy to be a roguish elf,

He hasn't time to stop and think and figure for

himself,

And though the womenfolks insist that I should

take a hand,

They've never been a boy themselves, and they

don't understand.

Some day I've got to go up there, and make a

sad report

And tell the Father of us all where I have fallen

short;

And there will be a lot of wrong I never meant

to do,

A lot of smudges on my sheet that He will have

to view.

And little chance for heavenly bliss, up there,

will I command,

Unless the Father smiles and says: "My boy,

I understand."

{152}

PEOPLE LIKED HIM

People liked him, not because

He was rich or known to fame;

He had never won applause

As a star in any game.

His was not a brilliant style,

His was not a forceful way,

But he had a gentle smile

And a kindly word to say.

Never arrogant or proud,

On he went with manner mild;

Never quarrelsome or loud,

Just as simple as a child;

Honest, patient, brave and true:

Thus he lived from day to day,

Doing what he found to do

In a cheerful sort of way.

Wasn't one to boast of gold

Or belittle it with sneers,

Didn't change from hot to cold,

Kept his friends throughout the years,

Sort of man you like to meet

Any time or any place.

There was always something sweet

And refreshing in his face.

Sort of man you'd like to be:

Balanced well and truly square;

Patient in adversity,

Generous when his skies were fair.

Never lied to friend or foe,

Never rash in word or deed,

Quick to come and slow to go

In a neighbor's time of need.

Never rose to wealth or fame,

Simply lived, and simply died,

But the passing of his name

Left a sorrow, far and wide.

Not for glory he'd attained,

Nor for what he had of pelf,

Were the friends that he had gained,

But for what he was himself.

{154}

WHEN FATHER SHOOK THE STOVE

'Twas not so many years ago,

Say, twenty-two or three,

When zero weather or below

Held many a thrill for me.

Then in my icy room I slept

A youngster's sweet repose,

And always on my form I kept

My flannel underclothes.

Then I was roused by sudden shock

Though still to sleep I strove,

I knew that it was seven o'clock

When father shook the stove.

I never heard him quit his bed

Or his alarm clock ring;

I never heard his gentle tread,

Or his attempts to sing;

The sun that found my window pane

On me was wholly lost,

Though many a sunbeam tried in vain

To penetrate the frost.

To human voice I never stirred,

But deeper down I dove

Beneath the covers, when I heard

My father shake the stove.

To-day it all comes back to me

And I can hear it still;

He seemed to take a special glee

In shaking with a will.

He flung the noisy dampers back,

Then rattled steel on steel,

Until the force of his attack

The building seemed to feel.

Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes

All sleep from them he drove;

It seemed to me the dead must rise

When father shook the stove.

Now radiators thump and pound

And every room is warm,

And modern men new ways have found

To shield us from the storm.

The window panes are seldom glossed

The way they used to be;

The pictures left by old Jack Frost

Our children never see.

And now that he has gone to rest

In God's great slumber grove,

I often think those days were best

When father shook the stove.

{156}

HOUSE-HUNTING

Time was when spring returned we went

To find another home to rent;

We wanted fresher, cleaner walls,

And bigger rooms and wider halls,

And open plumbing and the dome

That made the fashionable home.

But now with spring we want to sell,

And seek a finer place to dwell.

Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes;

We want the latest thing in homes;

To life we'll not be reconciled

Until we have a bathroom tiled.

A butler's pantry we desire,

Although no butler do we hire;

Nell's life will be one round of gloom

Without a closet for the broom,

And mine will dreary be and sour

Unless the bathroom has a shower.

For months and months we've sat and dreamed

Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed

And built-in cases for the books,

An attic room to be the cook's.

No house will she consent to view

Unless it has a sun room, too.

There must be wash bowls here and there

To save much climbing of the stair;

A sleeping porch we both demand—

This fad has swept throughout the land—

And, Oh, 'twill give her heart a wrench

Not to possess a few doors, French.

I want to dig and walk around

At least full fifty feet of ground;

She wants the latest style in tubs;

I want more room for trees and shrubs,

And a garage, with light and heat,

That can be entered from the street.

The trouble is the things we seek

Cannot be bought for ten-a-week.

And all the joys for which we sigh

Are just too rich for us to buy.

We have the taste to cut a dash:

The thing we're lacking most is cash.

{158}

AN EASY WORLD

It's an easy world to live in if you choose to

make it so;

You never need to suffer, save the griefs that

all must know;

If you'll stay upon the level and will do the

best you can

You will never lack the friendship of a kindly

fellow man.

Life's an easy road to travel if you'll only walk

it straight;

When the clouds begin to gather and your hopes

begin to fade,

If you've only toiled in honor you won't have

to call for aid.

But if you've bartered friendship and the faith

on which it rests

For a temporary winning; if you've cheated in

the tests,

If with promises you've broken, you have chilled

the hearts of men;

It is vain to look for friendship for it will not

come again.

Oh, the world is full of kindness, thronged with

men who want to be

Of some service to their neighbors and they'll

run to you or me

When we're needing their assistance if we've

lived upon the square,

But they'll spurn us in our trouble if we've

always been unfair.

It's an easy world to live in; all you really need

to do

Is the decent thing and proper and then friends

will flock to you;

But let dishonor trail you and some stormy day

you'll find

To your heart's supremest sorrow that you've

made the world unkind.

{160}

THE STATES

There is no star within the flag

That's brighter than its brothers,

And when of Michigan I brag,

I'm boasting of the others.

Just which is which no man can say—

One star for every state

Gleams brightly on our flag to-day,

And every one is great.

The stars that gem the skies at night

May differ in degree,

And some are pale and some are bright,

But in our flag we see

A sky of blue wherein the stars

Are equal in design;

Each has the radiance of Mars

And all are yours and mine.

The glory that is Michigan's

Is Colorado's too;

The same sky Minnesota spans,

The same sun warms it through;

And all are one beneath the flag,

A common hope is ours;

Our country is the mountain crag,

The valley and its flowers.

The land we love lies far away

As well as close at hand;

He has no vision who would say:

This state's my native land.

Though sweet the charms he knows the best,

Deep down within his heart

The farthest east, the farthest west

Of him must be a part.

There is no star within the flag

That's brighter than its brothers;

So when of Michigan I brag

I'm boasting of the others.

We share alike one purpose true;

One common end awaits;

We must in all we dream or do

Remain United States.

{162}

THE OBLIGATION OF FRIENDSHIP

You ought to be fine for the sake of the folks

Who think you are fine.

If others have faith in you doubly you're bound

To stick to the line.

It's not only on you that dishonor descends:

You can't hurt yourself without hurting your friends.

You ought to be true for the sake of the folks

Who believe you are true.

You never should stoop to a deed that your friends

Think you wouldn't do.

If you're false to yourself, be the blemish but small,

You have injured your friends; you've been false to them all.

For friendship, my boy, is a bond between men

That is founded on truth:

It believes in the best of the ones that it loves,

Whether old man or youth;

And the stern rule it lays down for me and for you

Is to be what our friends think we are, through and through.

{163}

UNDER THE SKIN OF MEN

Did you ever sit down and talk with men

In a serious sort of a way,

On their views of life and ponder then

On all that they have to say?

If not, you should in some quiet hour;

It's a glorious thing to do:

For you'll find that back of the pomp and power

Most men have a goal in view.

They'll tell you then that their aim is not

The clink of the yellow gold;

That not in the worldly things they've got

Would they have their stories told.

They'll say the joys that they treasure most

Are their good friends, tried and true,

And an honest name for their own to boast

And peace when the day is through.

I've talked with men and I think I know

What's under the toughened skin.

I've seen their eyes grow bright and glow

With the fire that burns within.

And back of the gold and back of the fame

And back of the selfish strife,

In most men's breasts you'll find the flame

Of the nobler things of life.

{164}

THE FINER THOUGHT

How fine it is at night to say:

"I have not wronged a soul to-day.

I have not by a word or deed,

In any breast sowed anger's seed,

Or caused a fellow being pain;

Nor is there on my crest a stain

That shame has left. In honor's way,

With head erect, I've lived this day."

When night slips down and day departs

And rest returns to weary hearts,

How fine it is to close the book

Of records for the day, and look

Once more along the traveled mile

And find that all has been worth while;

To say: "In honor I have toiled;

My plume is spotless and unsoiled."

Yet cold and stern a man may be

Retaining his integrity;

And he may pass from day to day

A spirit dead, in living clay,

Observing strictly morals, laws,

Yet serving but a selfish cause;

So it is not enough to say:

"I have not stooped to shame to-day!"

It is a finer, nobler thought

When day is done and night has brought

The contemplative hours and sweet,

And rest to weary hearts and feet,

If man can stand in truth and say:

"I have been useful here to-day.

Back there is one I chanced to see

With hope newborn because of me.

"This day in honor I have toiled;

My shining crest is still unsoiled;

But on the mile I leave behind

Is one who says that I was kind;

And someone hums a cheerful song

Because I chanced to come along."

Sweet rest at night that man shall own

Who has not lived his day alone.

{166}

STUCK

I'm up against it day by day,

My ignorance is distressing;

The things I don't know on the way

I'm busily confessing.

Time was I used to think I knew

Some useful bits of knowledge

And could be sure of one or two

Real facts I'd gleaned in college.

But I'm unfitted for the task

Of answering things my boy can ask.

Now, who can answer queries queer

That four-year-olds can think up?

And tell in simple phrase and clear

Why fishes do not drink up

The water in the streams and lakes,

Or where the wind is going,

And tell exactly how God makes

The roses that are growing?

I'm sure I cannot satisfy

Each little when, and how, and why.

Had I the wisdom of a sage

Possessed of all the learning

That can be gleaned from printed page

From bookworm's closest turning,

That eager knowledge-seeking lad

That questions me so gayly

Could still go round and boast he had

With queries floored me daily.

He'll stick, I'll bet, in less than five

Brief minutes any man alive.

{167}

ETERNAL FRIENDSHIP

Who once has had a friend has found

The link 'twixt mortal and divine;

Though now he sleeps in hallowed ground,

He lives in memory's sacred shrine;

And there he freely moves about,

A spirit that has quit the clay,

And in the times of stress and doubt

Sustains his friend throughout the day.

No friend we love can ever die;

The outward form but disappears;

I know that all my friends are nigh

Whenever I am moved to tears.

And when my strength and hope are gone,

The friends, no more, that once I knew,

Return to cheer and urge me on

Just as they always used to do.

They whisper to me in the dark

Kind words of counsel and of cheer;

When hope has flickered to a spark

I feel their gentle spirits near.

And Oh! because of them I strive

With all the strength that I can call

To keep their friendship still alive

And to be worthy of them all.

Death does not end our friendships true;

We all are debtors to the dead;

There, wait on everything we do

The splendid souls who've gone ahead.

To them I hold that we are bound

By double pledges to be fine.

Who once has had a friend has found

The link 'twixt mortal and divine.

{168}

FAITH

I believe in the world and its bigness and splendor:

That most of the hearts beating round us are tender;

That days are but footsteps and years are but miles

That lead us to beauty and singing and smiles:

That roses that blossom and toilers that plod

Are filled with the glorious spirit of God.

I believe in the purpose of everything living:

That taking is but the forerunner of giving;

That strangers are friends that we some day may meet;

And not all the bitter can equal the sweet;

That creeds are but colors, and no man has said

That God loves the yellow rose more than the red.

I believe in the path that to-day I am treading,

That I shall come safe through the dangers I'm dreading;

That even the scoffer shall turn from his ways

And some day be won back to trust and to praise;

That the leaf on the tree and the thing we call Man

Are sharing alike in His infinite plan.

I believe that all things that are living and breathing

Some richness of beauty to earth are bequeathing;

That all that goes out of this world leaves behind

Some duty accomplished for mortals to find;

That the humblest of creatures our praise is deserving,

For it, with the wisest, the Master is serving.

{170}

I

Nobody hates me more than I;

No enemy have I to-day

That I so bravely must defy;

There are no foes along my way,

However bitter they may be,

So powerful to injure me

As I am, nor as quick to spoil

The beauty of my bit of toil.

Nobody harms me more than I;

No one is meaner unto me;

Of all the foes that pass me by

I am the worst one that I see.

I am the dangerous man to fear;

I am the cause of sorrow here;

Of all men 'gainst my hopes inclined

I am myself the most unkind.

I do more harmful things to me

Than all the men who seem to hate;

I am the fellow that should be

More dreaded than the works of fate.

I am the one that I must fight

With all my will and all my might;

My foes are better friends to me

Than I have ever proved to be.

I am the careless foe and mean;

I am the selfish rival too;

My enmity to me is seen

In almost everything I do.

More courage it requires to beat

Myself, than all the foes I meet;

I am more traitorous to me

Than other men could ever be.

In every struggle I have lost

I am the one that was to blame;

My weaknesses cannot be glossed

By glib excuses. I was lame.

I that would dare for fame or pelf

Am far less daring with myself.

I care not who my foes may be,

I am my own worst enemy.

{172}

THE THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN DONE BEFORE

The things that haven't been done before,

Those are the things to try;

Columbus dreamed of an unknown shore

At the rim of the far-flung sky,

And his heart was bold and his faith was strong

As he ventured in dangers new,

And he paid no heed to the jeering throng

Or the fears of the doubting crew.

The many will follow the beaten track

With guideposts on the way,

They live and have lived for ages back

With a chart for every day.

Someone has told them it's safe to go

On the road he has traveled o'er.

And all that they ever strive to know

Are the things that were known before.

A few strike out, without map or chart,

Where never a man has been,

From the beaten paths they draw apart

To see what no man has seen.

There are deeds they hunger alone to do;

Though battered and bruised and sore,

They blaze the path for the many, who

Do nothing not done before.

The things that haven't been done before,

Are the tasks worth while to-day;

Are you one of the flock that follows, or

Are you one that shall lead the way?

Are you one of the timid souls that quail

At the jeers of a doubting crew,

Or dare you, whether you win or fail,

Strike out for a goal that's new?

{173}

REVENGE

If I had hatred in my heart toward my fellow

man,

If I were pressed to do him ill, to conjure up a

plan

To wound him sorely and to rob his days of all

their joy,

I'd wish his wife would go away and take their

little boy.

I'd waste no time on curses vague, nor try to

take his gold,

Nor seek to shatter any plan that he might

dearly hold.

A crueler revenge than that for him I would

bespeak:

I'd wish his wife and little one might leave him

for a week.

I'd wish him all the loneliness that comes with

loss of those

Who fill his life with laughter and contentment

and repose.

I'd wish him empty rooms at night and mocking

stairs to squeak

That neither wife nor little boy will greet him

for a week.

If I despised my fellow man, I'd make my

hatred known

By wishing him a week or two of living all

alone;

I'd let him know the torture that is mine to

bear to-day,

For Buddy and his mother now are miles and

miles away.

{174}

PROMOTION

Promotion comes to him who sticks

Unto his work and never kicks,

Who watches neither clock nor sun

To tell him when his task is done;

Who toils not by a stated chart,

Defining to a jot his part,

But gladly does a little more

Than he's remunerated for.

The man, in factory or shop,

Who rises quickly to the top,

Is he who gives what can't be bought:

Intelligent and careful thought.

No one can say just when begins

The service that promotion wins,

Or when it ends; 'tis not defined

By certain hours or any kind

Of system that has been devised;

Merit cannot be systemized.

It is at work when it's at play;

It serves each minute of the day;

'Tis always at its post, to see

New ways of help and use to be.

Merit from duty never slinks,

Its cardinal virtue is—it thinks!

Promotion comes to him who tries

Not solely for a selfish prize,

But day by day and year by year

Holds his employer's interests dear.

Who measures not by what he earns

The sum of labor he returns,

Nor counts his day of toiling through

Till he's done all that he can do.

His strength is not of muscle bred,

But of the heart and of the head.

The man who would the top attain

Must demonstrate he has a brain.

{176}

EXPECTATION

Most folks, as I've noticed, in pleasure an' strife,

Are always expecting too much out of life.

They wail an' they fret

Just because they don't get

The best o' the sunshine, the fairest o' flowers,

The finest o' features, the strongest o' powers;

They whine an' they whimper an' curse an' condemn,

Coz life isn't always being' partial to them.

Notwithstandin' the pain an' the sufferin' they see,

They cling to the notion that they should go free:

That they shouldn't share

In life's trouble an' care

But should always be happy an' never perplexed,

An' never discouraged or beaten or vexed.

When life treats 'em roughly an' jolts 'em with care,

They seem to imagine it's bein' unfair.

It's a curious notion folks hold in their pride,

That their souls should never be tested or tried;

That others must mourn

An' be sick an' forlorn

An' stand by the biers of their loved ones an' weep,

But life from such sorrows their bosoms must keep.

Oh, they mustn't know what it means to be sad,

Or they'll wail that the treatment they're gettin'

is bad.

Now life as I view it means pleasure an' pain,

An' laughter an' weepin' an' sunshine an' rain,

An' takin' an' givin';

An' all who are livin'

Must face it an' bear it the best that they can

Believin' great Wisdom is workin' the plan.

An' no one should ever complain it's unfair

Because at the moment he's tastin' despair.

{177}

HARD WORK

One day, in ages dark and dim,

A toiler, weary, worn and faint,

Who found his task too much for him,

Gave voice unto a sad complaint.

And seeking emphasis to give

Unto his trials (day-starred!)

Coupled to "work" this adjective,

This little word of terror: Hard.

And from that day to this has work

Its frightening description worn;

'Tis spoken daily by the shirk,

The first cloud on the sky at morn.

To-day when there are tasks to do,

Save that we keep ourselves on guard

With fearful doubtings them we view,

And think and speak of them as hard.

That little but ill-chosen word

Has wrought great havoc with men's souls,

Has chilled the hearts ambition stirred

And held the pass to splendid goals.

Great dreams have faded and been lost,

Fine youth by it been sadly marred

As plants beneath a withering frost,

Because men thought and whispered: "Hard."

Let's think of work in terms of hope

And speak of it with words of praise,

And tell the joy it is to grope

Along the new, untrodden ways!

Let's break this habit of despair

And cheerfully our task regard;

The road to happiness lies there:

Why think or speak of it as hard?

{179}

GRATITUDE

Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk

along your way;

Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile

from day to day;

Be grateful for the health you own, the work

you find to do,

For round about you there are men less

fortunate than you.

Be grateful for the growing trees, the roses

soon to bloom,

The tenderness of kindly hearts that shared your

days of gloom;

Be grateful for the morning dew, the grass

beneath your feet,

The soft caresses of your babes and all their

laughter sweet.

Acquire the grateful habit, learn to see how blest

you are,

How much there is to gladden life, how little

life to mar!

And what if rain shall fall to-day and you with

grief are sad;

Be grateful that you can recall the joys that

you have had.

{180}

A REAL MAN

Men are of two kinds, and he

Was of the kind I'd like to be.

Some preach their virtues, and a few

Express their lives by what they do.

That sort was he. No flowery phrase

Or glibly spoken words of praise

Won friends for him. He wasn't cheap

Or shallow, but his course ran deep,

And it was pure. You know the kind.

Not many in a life you find

Whose deeds outrun their words so far

That more than what they seem they are.

There are two kinds of lies as well:

The kind you live, the ones you tell.

Back through his years from age to youth

He never acted one untruth.

Out in the open light he fought

And didn't care what others thought

Nor what they said about his fight

If he believed that he was right.

The only deeds he ever hid

Were acts of kindness that he did.

What speech he had was plain and blunt.

His was an unattractive front.

Yet children loved him; babe and boy

Played with the strength he could employ,

Without one fear, and they are fleet

To sense injustice and deceit.

No back door gossip linked his name

With any shady tale of shame.

He did not have to compromise

With evil-doers, shrewd and wise,

And let them ply their vicious trade

Because of some past escapade.

Men are of two kinds, and he

Was of the kind I'd like to be.

No door at which he ever knocked

Against his manly form was locked.

If ever man on earth was free

And independent, it was he.

No broken pledge lost him respect,

He met all men with head erect,

And when he passed I think there went

A soul to yonder firmament

So white, so splendid and so fine

It came almost to God's design.

{182}

THE NEIGHBORLY MAN

Some are eager to be famous, some are striving

to be great,

Some are toiling to be leaders of their nation

or their state,

And in every man's ambition, if we only understood,

There is much that's fine and splendid; every

hope is mostly good.

So I cling unto the notion that contented I

will be

If the men upon life's pathway find a needed

friend in me.

I rather like to putter 'round the walks and

yards of life,

To spray at night the roses that are burned and

browned with strife;

To eat a frugal dinner, but always to have a

chair

For the unexpected stranger that my simple

meal would share.

I don't care to be a traveler, I would rather be

the one

Sitting calmly by the roadside helping weary

travelers on.

I'd like to be a neighbor in the good old-fashioned way,

Finding much to do for others, but not over

much to say.

I like to read the papers, but I do not yearn

to see

What the journal of the morning has been

moved to say of me;

In the silences and shadows I would live my

life and die

And depend for fond remembrance on some

grateful passers-by.

I guess I wasn't fashioned for the brilliant

things of earth,

Wasn't gifted much with talent or designed for

special worth,

But was just sent here to putter with life's little

odds and ends

And keep a simple corner where the stirring

highway bends,

And if folks should chance to linger, worn and

weary through the day,

To do some needed service and to cheer them

on their way.

{184}

ROSES

When God first viewed the rose He'd made

He smiled, and thought it passing fair;

Upon the bloom His hands He laid,

And gently blessed each petal there.

He summoned in His artists then

And bade them paint, as ne'er before,

Each petal, so that earthly men

Might love the rose for evermore.

With Heavenly brushes they began

And one with red limned every leaf,

To signify the love of man;

The first rose, white, betokened grief;

"My rose shall deck the bride," one said

And so in pink he dipped his brush,

"And it shall smile beside the dead

To typify the faded blush."

And then they came unto His throne

And laid the roses at His feet,

The crimson bud, the bloom full blown,

Filling the air with fragrance sweet.

"Well done, well done!" the Master spake;

"Henceforth the rose shall bloom on earth:

One fairer blossom I will make,"

And then a little babe had birth.

On earth a loving mother lay

Within a rose-decked room and smiled,

But from the blossoms turned away

To gently kiss her little child,

And then she murmured soft and low,

"For beauty, here, a mother seeks.

None but the Master made, I know,

The roses in a baby's cheeks."

{185}

THE JUNK BOX

My father often used to say:

"My boy don't throw a thing away:

You'll find a use for it some day."

So in a box he stored up things,

Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings,

And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.

Despite each blemish and each flaw,

Some use for everything he saw;

With things material, this was law.

And often when he'd work to do,

He searched the junk box through and through

And found old stuff as good as new.

And I have often thought since then,

That father did the same with men;

He knew he'd need their help again.

It seems to me he understood

That men, as well as iron and wood,

May broken be and still be good.

Despite the vices he'd display

He never threw a man away,

But kept him for another day.

A human junk box is this earth

And into it we're tossed at birth,

To wait the day we'll be of worth.

Though bent and twisted, weak of will,

And full of flaws and lacking skill,

Some service each can render still.

{186}

THE BOY THAT WAS

When the hair about the temples starts to show

the signs of gray,

And a fellow realizes that he's wandering far

away

From the pleasures of his boyhood and his

youth, and never more

Will know the joy of laughter as he did in days

of yore,

Oh, it's then he starts to thinking of a stubby

little lad

With a face as brown as berries and a soul

supremely glad.

When a gray-haired dreamer wanders down the

lanes of memory

And forgets the living present for the time of

"used-to-be,"

He takes off his shoes and stockings, and he

throws his coat away,

And he's free from all restrictions, save the rules

of manly play.

He may be in richest garments, but bareheaded

in the sun

He forgets his proud successes and the riches

he has won.

Oh, there's not a man alive but that would give

his all to be

The stubby little fellow that in dreamland he

can see,

And the splendors that surround him and the

joys about him spread

Only seem to rise to taunt him with the boyhood

that has fled.

When the hair about the temples starts to show

Time's silver stain,

Then the richest man that's living yearns to be

a boy again.

{188}

AS FALL THE LEAVES

As fall the leaves, so drop the days

In silence from the tree of life;

Born for a little while to blaze

In action in the heat of strife,

And then to shrivel with Time's blast

And fade forever in the past.

In beauty once the leaf was seen;

To all it offered gentle shade;

Men knew the splendor of its green

That cheered them so, would quickly fade:

And quickly, too, must pass away

All that is splendid of to-day.

To try to keep the leaves were vain:

Men understand that they must fall;

Why should they bitterly complain

When sorrows come to one and all?

Why should they mourn the passing day

That must depart along the way?

INDEX

Answering Him………………….. 126

Apple Tree, The………………… 68

As Fall the Leaves……………… 188

At the Door……………………. 132

Autumn at the Orchard…………… 136

Be a Friend……………………. 97

Bear Story, A………………….. 134

Boy That Was, The………………. 186

Breakfast Time, At……………… 50

Bumps and Bruises Doctor, The……. 107

Canning Time…………………… 66

Can't…………………………. 52

Care-Free Youth………………… 78

Challenge……………………… 145

Courage……………………….. 72

Defeat………………………… 111

Division………………………. 141

Dull Road, The…………………. 67

Duty………………………….. 133

Duty to Our Flag, Our…………… 58

Easy World, An…………………. 158

Epicure, The…………………… 74

Eternal Friendship……………… 167

Expectation……………………. 176

Failures………………………. 83

Faith…………………………. 168

Father………………………… 46

Father and Son…………………. 128

Fishing Cure, The………………. 102

Finer Thought, The……………… 164

Finest Age, The………………… 76

Folks…………………………. 36

Friend's Greeting, A……………. 32

Gentle Gardener, The……………. 75

Going Home for Christmas, On…….. 24

Gratitude……………………… 179

Greatness……………………… 73

Guessing Time………………….. 148

Happiest Days, The……………… 88

Happy Slow Thinker, The…………. 103

Hard Knocks……………………. 43

Hard Work……………………… 177

Home………………………….. 28

Homesick………………………. 117

Home-Town, The…………………. 70

House-Hunting………………….. 156

How Do You Tackle Your Work?…….. 62

Hunter, The……………………. 59

I…………………………….. 170

It Isn't Costly………………… 14

It's September…………………. 60

James Whitcomb Riley……………. 54

Joy of a Dog, The………………. 116

June Couple, The……………….. 130

Junk Box, The………………….. 185

Laddies……………………….. 48

Lady in the Electric, To the…….. 122

Life………………………….. 63

Life's Tests…………………… 85

Little Master Mischievous……….. 38

Living Beauties, The……………. 49

Ma and Her Check Book…………… 100

Ma and the Auto………………… 22

Man, A………………………… 142

Man, A Real……………………. 180

Man Who Couldn't Save, The………. 124

Mother………………………… 19

Mother's Day…………………… 140

Mother's Glasses……………….. 94

My Creed………………………. 15

My Paw Said So…………………. 80

Neighborly Man, The…………….. 182

No Place to Go…………………. 110

Obligation of Friendship, The……. 162

Old Friends……………………. 34

Only a Dad…………………….. 42

Opportunity……………………. 39

Other Fellow, The………………. 57

Out-of-Doors…………………… 104

Path That Leads to Home, The…….. 30

Patriotic Wish, A………………. 112

Peace…………………………. 109

Peaceful Warriors, The………….. 82

People Liked Him……………….. 152

Perfect Dinner Table, The……….. 118

Prayer, A……………………… 121

Preparedness…………………… 81

Price of Joy, The………………. 113

Princess Pat's, The…………….. 96

Promotion……………………… 174

Purpose……………………….. 93

Raisin Pie…………………….. 84

Ready Artists, The……………… 86

Real Bait, The…………………. 90

Real Singing…………………… 106

Results and Roses………………. 56

Revenge……………………….. 173

Rich………………………….. 21

Roses…………………………. 184

Rough Little Rascal, The………… 13

Selfish……………………….. 20

Song, A……………………….. 33

Sorrow Tugs, The……………….. 40

Spring in the Trenches………….. 44

States, The……………………. 160

Story Telling………………….. 64

Stuck…………………………. 166

Success and Failure…………….. 77

Sugar Camp, At…………………. 26

Sulkers, The…………………… 92

Take Home a Smile………………. 71

Thanksgiving…………………… 98

Things That Haven't Been Done Before 172

Things That Make Soldier Great, The. 114

Toast to Happiness, A…………… 146

To-morrow……………………… 120

Treasures……………………… 144

True Nobility………………….. 91

Understanding………………….. 150

Under the Skin of Men…………… 163

Vow, A………………………… 143

Wish, A……………………….. 16

What a Baby Costs………………. 18

When Father Shook the Stove……… 154

When Pa Comes Home……………… 138

When Pa Counts…………………. 108

When You Know a Fellow………….. 11

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A man doesn't whine at his losses…………. 142

A man must earn his hour of peace…………. 109

Are you fond of your wife and your children… 57

As fall the leaves, so drop the days………. 188

A smudge on his nose and a smear on his

cheek………………………………… 13

A table cloth that slightly soiled………… 118

A touch of the plain and the prairie………. 96

At Sugar Camp the cook is kind……………. 26

Be a friend. You don't need money…………. 97

Before we take an auto ride Pa says to Ma….. 22

Be grateful for the kindly friends………… 179

Be more than his dad…………………….. 128

Can't is the worst word that's written…….. 52

Cheek that is tanned by the wind of the north. 59

Courage isn't a brilliant dash……………. 72

Did you ever sit down and talk with men……. 163

Does the grouch get richer quicker………… 14

Foxes can talk if you know how to listen…… 80

Full many a time a thought has come……….. 103

Gentle hands that never weary…………….. 140

God grant me kindly thought………………. 121

He little knew the sorrow that was in his

vacant chair………………………….. 24

He spent what he made, or he gave it away….. 124

He was going to be all that a mortal should… 120

He wiped his shoes before his door………… 132

How do you tackle your work each day………. 62

How fine it is at night to say……………. 164

"How much do babies cost?" said he………… 18

I am selfish in my wishin' every sort o' joy.. 20

I believe in the world…………………… 168

I'd like to be a boy again……………….. 16

I'd like to be the sort of friend…………. 32

I'd like to be the sort of man……………. 112

I'd like to leave but daffodills………….. 75

I do not say new friends are not considerate.. 34

I do not think all failure's undeserved……. 77

If I had hatred in my heart………………. 173

If never a sorrow came to us……………… 85

I might not ever scale the mountain heights… 143

I'm not the man to say that failure's sweet… 43

I'm the bumps and bruises doctor………….. 107

I'm up against it day by day……………… 166

I never knew, until they went…………….. 49

It's an easy world to live in if you choose… 158

It's coming time for planting…………….. 44

It's guessing time at our house…………… 148

It's September, and the orchards are afire…. 60

It's the dull road that leads to the gay road. 67

It's tough when you are homesick………….. 117

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house to make

it home………………………………. 28

I've sipped a rich man's sparkling wine……. 74

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

her pocketbook………………………… 94

Lady in the show case carriage……………. 122

Less hate and greed……………………… 58

Let others sing their songs of war………… 82

Life is a challenge to the bold…………… 145

Life is a gift to be used every day……….. 63

Little Master Mischievous, that's the name…. 38

Ma has a dandy little book……………….. 100

Ma says no, it's too much care……………. 116

Men are of two kind, and he………………. 180

Most every night when they're in bed………. 64

Most folks, as I've noticed, in pleasure an'

strife……………………………….. 176

My father often used to say………………. 185

My Pa he eats his breakfast………………. 50

Never a sigh for the cares that she bore…… 19

Nobody hates me more than I………………. 170

None knows the day that friends must part….. 33

No one is beat till he quits……………… 111

Not for the sake of the gold……………… 93

One day, in ages dim and dark…………….. 177

Only a dad with a tired face……………… 42

Pa's not so very big or brave…………….. 108

People liked him, not because…………….. 152

Promotion comes to him who sticks…………. 174

Right must not live in idleness…………… 85

She is fair to see and sweet……………… 130

So long as men shall be on earth………….. 39

Some are eager to be famous………………. 182

Some folks leave home for money…………… 70

Some folks I know, when friends drop in……. 144

Take home a smile; forget the petty cares….. 71

Thankful for the glory of the old Red, White

and Blue……………………………… 98

The happiest nights……………………… 110

The green is in the meadow……………….. 86

The kids are out-of-doors once more……….. 104

The little path that leads to home………… 30

The man who wants a garden fair…………… 56

There is no star within the flag………….. 160

There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden

Shore to-day………………………….. 54

There's a heap of pent-up goodness………… 84

There's a lot of joy in the smiling world….. 40

There's a wondrous smell of spices………… 66

There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary

soul…………………………………. 102

There was a bear—his name was Jim………. 134

The skies are blue and the sun is out……… 78

The sumac's flaming scarlet………………. 136

The things that haven't been done before…… 172

The things that make a soldier great………. 114

The world's too busy now to pause…………. 92

'Tis better to have tried in vain…………. 83

To do your little bit of toil…………….. 133

To gentle ways I am inclined……………… 90

To happiness I raise my glass…………….. 146

To live as gently as I can……………….. 15

Time was when spring returned we went……… 156

'Twas not so many years ago………………. 154

Used to wonder just why father……………. 46

We can be great by helping one another…….. 73

We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks… 36

When an apple tree is ready for the world….. 68

When God first viewed the rose He'd made…… 184

When he was only nine months old………….. 76

When I was young and frivolous……………. 150

When Pa comes home, I'm at the door……….. 138

"When shall I be a man?" he said………….. 126

When the hair about the temples starts to

show the signs of gray…………………. 186

When you get to know a fellow…………….. 11

Who does his task from day to day…………. 91

Who has a troop of romping youth………….. 21

Who once has had a friend has found……….. 167

You cannot gather every rose……………… 141

You can talk about your music…………….. 106

You do not know it, little man……………. 88

You don't begrudge the labor……………… 113

You ought to be fine for the sake of the folks 162

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