A Heap O' Livin'

Edgar A. Guest

This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.

http://www.blackmask.com

  • WHEN YOU KNOW A FELLOW
  • THE ROUGH LITTLE RASCAL
  • IT ISN'T COSTLY
  • MY CREED
  • A WISH
  • WHAT A BABY COSTS
  • MOTHER
  • SELFISH
  • RICH
  • MA AND THE AUTO
  • ON GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
  • AT SUGAR CAMP
  • HOME
  • THE PATH THAT LEADS TO HOME
  • A FRIEND'S GREETING
  • A SONG
  • OLD FRIENDS
  • FOLKS
  • LITTLE MASTER MISCHIEVOUS
  • OPPORTUNITY
  • THE SORROW TUGS
  • ONLY A DAD
  • HARD KNOCKS
  • SPRING IN THE TRENCHES
  • FATHER
  • LADDIES
  • AT BREAKFAST TIME
  • CAN'T
  • JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
  • THE OTHER FELLOW
  • THE HUNTER
  • IT'S SEPTEMBER
  • LIFE
  • STORY TELLING
  • CANNING TIME
  • THE DULL ROAD
  • THE APPLE TREE
  • TAKE HOME A SMILE
  • COURAGE
  • GREATNESS
  • THE EPICURE
  • THE GENTLE GARDENER
  • THE FINEST AGE
  • SUCCESS AND FAILURE
  • CARE-FREE YOUTH
  • MY PAW SAID SO
  • LIFE'S TESTS
  • FAILURES
  • RAISIN PIE
  • PREPAREDNESS
  • THE READY ARTISTS
  • TRUE NOBILITY
  • PURPOSE
  • MOTHER'S GLASSES
  • THE PRINCESS PAT'S
  • BE A FRIEND
  • THANKSGIVING
  • MA AND HER CHECK BOOK
  • THE FISHING CURE
  • OUT-OF-DOORS
  • REAL SINGING
  • WHEN PA COUNTS
  • PEACE
  • DEFEAT
  • A PATRIOTIC WISH
  • THE PRICE OF JOY
  • THE THINGS THAT MAKE A SOLDIER GREAT
  • HOMESICK
  • TO-MORROW
  • A PRAYER
  • ANSWERING HIM
  • AT THE DOOR
  • DUTY
  • A BEAR STORY
  • MOTHER'S DAY
  • DIVISION
  • A MAN
  • A VOW
  • TREASURES
  • CHALLENGE
  • GUESSING TIME
  • UNDERSTANDING
  • HOUSE-HUNTING
  • AN EASY WORLD
  • THE STATES
  • UNDER THE SKIN OF MEN
  • STUCK
  • ETERNAL FRIENDSHIP
  • FAITH
  • I
  • THE THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN DONE BEFORE
  • REVENGE
  • PROMOTION
  • EXPECTATION
  • HARD WORK
  • GRATITUDE
  • A REAL MAN
  • THE NEIGHBORLY MAN
  • ROSES
  • THE JUNK BOX
  • THE BOY THAT WAS
  • AS FALL THE LEAVES

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




    WHEN YOU KNOW A FELLOW



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

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

    When you get to know a fellow, know his every
      mood and whim,
    You begin to find the texture of the splendid
      side of him;
    You begin to understand him, and you cease to
      scoff and sneer,
    For with understanding always prejudices dis-
      appear.
    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 under-
      stand his ways,
    Then his faults won't really matter, for you'll
      find a lot to praise.

    THE ROUGH LITTLE RASCAL



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

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

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

    IT ISN'T COSTLY



    Does the grouch get richer quicker than the
       friendly sort of man?
    Can the grumbler labor better than the cheerful
       fellow can?
    Is the mean and churlish neighbor any cleverer
       than the one
    Who shouts a glad "good morning," and then
       smiling passes on?

    Just stop and think about it. Have you ever
       known or seen
    A mean man who succeeded, just because he
       was so mean?
    When you find a grouch with honors and with
       money in his pouch,
    You can bet he didn't win them just because
       he was a grouch.

    Oh, you'll not be any poorer if you smile along
       your way,
    And your lot will not be harder for the kindly
       things you say.
    Don't imagine you are wasting time for others
       that you spend:
    You can rise to wealth and glory and still pause
       to be a friend.

    MY CREED



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

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

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

    A WISH



    I'd like to be a boy again, a care-free prince of
        joy again,
      I'd like to tread the hills and dales the way I
        used to do;
    I'd like the tattered shirt again, the knickers
        thick with dirt again,
      The ugly, dusty feet again that long ago I
        knew.
    I'd like to play first base again, and Sliver's
        curves to face again,
      I'd like to climb, the way I did, a friendly
        apple tree;
    For, knowing what I do to-day, could I but
        wander back and play,
      I'd get full measure of the joy that boy-
        hood gave to me.

    I'd like to be a lad again, a youngster, wild and
        glad again,
      I'd like to sleep and eat again the way I used
        to do;
    I'd like to race and run again, and drain from
        life its fun again,
      And start another round of joy the moment
        one was through.
    But care and strife have come to me, and often
        days are glum to me,
      And sleep is not the thing it was and food
        is not the same;
    And I have sighed, and known that I must
        journey on again to sigh,
      And I have stood at envy's point and heard
        the voice of shame.

    I've learned that joys are fleeting things; that
        parting pain each meeting brings;
      That gain and loss are partners here, and so
        are smiles and tears;
    That only boys from day to day can drain and
        fill the cup of play;
      That age must mourn for what is lost
        throughout the coming years.
    But boys cannot appreciate their priceless joy
        until too late
      And those who own the charms I had will
        soon be changed to men;
    And then, they too will sit, as I, and backward
        turn to look and sigh
      And share my longing, vain, to be a care-
        free boy again.

    WHAT A BABY COSTS



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

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

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

    MOTHER



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

    Oh, the long nights that she came at my call to
       me!
      Oh, the soft touch of her hands on my brow!
    Oh, the long years that she gave up her all to
       me!
      Oh, how I yearn for her gentleness now!

    Slave to her baby! Yes, that was the way of
       her,
      Counting her greatest of services small;
    Words cannot tell what this old heart would
       say of her,
      Mother — the sweetest and fairest of all.

    SELFISH



    I am selfish in my wishin' every sort o' joy for
       you;
    I am selfish when I tell you that I'm wishin'
       skies o' blue
    Bending o'er you every minute, and a pocketful
       of gold,
    An' as much of love an' gladness as a human
       heart can hold.
    Coz I know beyond all question that if such a
       thing could be
    As you cornerin' life's riches you would share
       'em all with me.

    I am selfish in my wishin' every sorrow from
       your way,
    With no trouble thoughts to fret you at the
       closin' o' the day;
    An' it's selfishness that bids me wish you com-
       forts by the score,
    An' all the joys you long for, an' on top o'
       them, some more;
    Coz I know, old tried an' faithful, that if such
       a thing could be
    As you cornerin' life's riches you would share
       'em all with me.

    RICH



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

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

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

    MA AND THE AUTO



    Before we take an auto ride Pa says to Ma:
       "My dear,
    Now just remember I don't need suggestions
       from the rear.
    If you will just sit still back there and hold
       in check your fright,
    I'll take you where you want to go and get
       you back all right.
    Remember that my hearing's good and also I'm
       not blind,
    And I can drive this car without suggestions
       from behind."

    Ma promises that she'll keep still, then off we
       gayly start,
    But soon she notices ahead a peddler and his
       cart.
    "You'd better toot your horn," says she, "to let
       him know we're near;
    He might turn out!" and Pa replies: "Just
       shriek at him, my dear."
    And then he adds: "Some day, some guy will
       make a lot of dough
    By putting horns on tonneau seats for 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!"

    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 sor-
        rowful and dumb,
    Or he never would have written that he thought
        he couldn't come.

    He little knew the gladness that his presence
        would have made,
    And the joy it would have given, or he never
        would have stayed.
    He didn't know how hungry had the little
        mother grown
    Once again to see her baby and to claim him
        for her own.
    He didn't guess the meaning of his visit
        Christmas Day
    Or he never would have written that he
        couldn't get away.

    He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that
        once were pink,
    And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't
        stop to think
    How the years are passing swiftly, and next
        Christmas it might be
    There would be no home to visit and no mother
        dear to see.
    He didn't think about it — I'll not say he didn't
        care.
    He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely
        have been there.

    Are you going home for Christmas? Have you
        written you'll be there?
    Going home to kiss the mother and to show
        her that you care?
    Going home to greet the father in a way to
        make him glad?
    If you're not I hope there'll never come a time
        you'll wish you had.
    Just sit down and write a letter — it will make
        their heart strings hum
    With a tune of perfect gladness — if you'll tell
        them that you'll come.

    AT SUGAR CAMP



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

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

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

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

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

    HOME



    It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it
       home,
    A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes
       have t' roam
    Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef'
       behind,
    An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus
       on yer mind.
    It don't make any differunce how rich ye get
       t' be,
    How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great
       yer luxury;
    It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a
       king,
    Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round
       everything.

    Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up
       in a minute;
    Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'
       in it;
    Within the walls there's got t' be some babies
       born, and then
    Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women
       good, an' men;
    And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye
       wouldn't part
    With anything they ever used — they've grown
       into yer heart:
    The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the
       little shoes they wore
    Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the 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.

    THE PATH THAT LEADS TO HOME



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

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

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

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

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

    A FRIEND'S GREETING



    I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have
        been to me;
    I'd like to be the help that you've been always
        glad to be;
    I'd like to mean as much to you each minute
        of the day
    As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me
        along the way.

    I'd like to do the big things and the splendid
        things for you,
    To brush the gray from out your skies and
        leave them only blue;
    I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft
        have heard,
    And feel that I could rouse your soul the way
        that mine you've stirred.

    I'd like to give you back the joy that you have
        given me,
    Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will
        never be;
    I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who
        travel on
    Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to
        lean upon.

    I'm wishing at this Christmas time that I could
        but repay
    A portion of the gladness that you've strewn
        along my way;
    And could I have one wish this year, this only
        would it be:
    I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have
        been to me.

    A SONG



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

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

    OLD FRIENDS



    I do not say new friends are not considerate and
       true,
    Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm
       tellin' you
    That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin'
       with the pain,
    And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks
       like summer rain,
    Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than
       he can bear,
    Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really
       seem to care.
    The friends who've stuck through thick an'
       thin, who've known you, good an' bad,
    Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the strug-
       gles you have had,
    When they come to you gentle-like an' take
       your hand an' say:
    "Cheer up! we're with you still," it counts, for
       that's the old friends' way.

    The new friends may be fond of you for what
       you are to-day;
    They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only
       seen you gay;
    You can't tell what's attracted them; your
       station may appeal;
    Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin'
       something real;
    But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also
       seen you win,
    Who've loved you either up or down, stuck
       to you, thick or thin,
    Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched
       you start to climb,
    Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours
       an' constant all the time,
    When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I
       don't care what you say,
    They are the friends you'll turn to, for you
       want the old friends' way.

    The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish,
       too, but when
    Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun
       won't shine again,
    It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's
       not their style,
    It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the
       old friend's smile,
    The old hand that has helped before, stretched
       out once more to you,
    The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an',
       Oh, so true!
    The tenderness of folks who know just what
       your sorrow means,
    These are the things on which, somehow, your
       spirit always leans.
    When grief is poundin' at your breast — the
       new friends disappear
    An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for
       aid an' cheer.

    FOLKS



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

    They may differ in creeds an' politics,
      They may argue an' even quarrel,
    But their throats grip tight, if they catch a
       sight
      Of their favorite elm or laurel.
    An' the winding lane that they used to tread
      With never a care to fret 'em,
    Or the pasture gate where they used to wait,
      Right under the skin will get 'em.

    Now folks is folks on their different ways,
      With their different griefs an' pleasures,
    But the home they knew, when their years were
       few,
      Is the dearest of all their treasures.
    An' the richest man to the poorest waif
      Right under the skin is brother
    When they stand an' sigh, with a tear-dimmed
       eye,
      At a thought of the dear old mother.

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

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

    LITTLE MASTER MISCHIEVOUS



    Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for
        you;
    There's no better title that describes the things
        you do:
    Into something all the while where you
        shouldn't be,
    Prying into matters that are not for you to see;
    Little Master Mischievous, order's overthrown
    If your mother leaves you for a minute all
        alone.

    Little Master Mischievous, opening every door,
    Spilling books and papers round about the parlor
        floor,
    Scratching all the tables and marring all the
        chairs,
    Climbing where you shouldn't climb and tum-
        bling down the stairs.
    How'd you get the ink well? We can never
        guess.
    Now the rug is ruined; so's your little dress.

    Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar,
    Who has ever told you where the cookies are?
    Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains
        white;
    You have finger-printed everything in sight.
    There's no use in scolding; when you smile that
        way
    You can rob of terror every word we say.

    Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for
        you;
    There's no better title that describes the things
        you do:
    Prying into corners, peering into nooks,
    Tugging table covers, tearing costly books.
    Little Master Mischievous, have your roguish
        way;
    Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some
        day.

    OPPORTUNITY



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

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

    THE SORROW TUGS



    There's a lot of joy in the smiling world,
       there's plenty of morning sun,
    And laughter and songs and dances, too, when-
       ever the day's work's done;
    Full many an hour is a shining one, when
       viewed by itself apart,
    But the golden threads in the warp of life are
       the sorrow tugs at your heart.

    Oh, the fun is froth and it blows away, and
       many a joy's forgot,
    And the pleasures come and the pleasures go,
       and memory holds them not;
    But treasured ever you keep the pain that causes
       your tears to start,
    For the sweetest hours are the ones that bring
       the sorrow tugs at your heart.

    The lump in your throat and the little sigh when
       your baby trudged away
    The very first time to the big red school — how
       long will their memory stay?
    The fever days and the long black nights you
       watched as she troubled, slept,
    And the joy you felt when she smiled once
       more — how long will that all be kept?

    The glad hours live in a feeble way, but the sad
       ones never die.
    His first long trousers caused a pang and you
       saw them with a sigh.
    And the big still house when the boy and girl,
       unto youth and beauty grown,
    To college went; will you e'er forget that first
       grim hour alone?

    It seems as you look back over things, that all
       that you treasure dear
    Is somehow blent in a wondrous way with a
       heart pang and a tear.
    Though many a day is a joyous one when
       viewed by itself apart,
    The golden threads in the warp of life are the
       sorrow tugs at your heart.

    ONLY A DAD



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

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

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

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

    HARD KNOCKS



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

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

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

    SPRING IN THE TRENCHES



    It's coming time for planting in that little patch
        of ground,
    Where the lad and I made merry as he followed
        me around;
    Now the sun is getting higher, and the skies
        above are blue,
    And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the
        war was through.
        But it's tramp, tramp, tramp,
        And it's never look behind,
        And when you see a stranger's kids
        Pretend that you are blind.

    The spring is coming back again, the birds
        begin to mate;
    The skies are full of kindness, but the world is
        full of hate.
    And it's I that should be bending now in peace
        above the soil
    With laughing eyes and little hands about to
        bless the toil.
        But it's fight, fight, fight,
        And it's charge at double-quick;
        A soldier thinking thoughts of home
        Is one more soldier sick.

    Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and
        saw the roses bud;
    This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of
        it is blood.
    Last year the mother in the door was glad as
        she could be;
    To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is
        hurting me.
        But it's shoot, shoot, shoot,
        And when the bullets hiss,
        Don't let the tears fill up your eyes,
        For weeping soldiers miss.

    Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will
        sow the seeds?
    And who will do the heavy work the little
        garden needs?
    And who will tell the lad of mine the things
        he wants to know,
    And take his hand and lead him round the
        paths we used to go?
        For it's charge, charge, charge,
        And it's face the foe once more;
        Forget the things you love the most
        And keep your mind on gore.

    FATHER



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

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

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

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

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

    LADDIES



    Show me the boy who never threw
      A stone at someone's cat,
    Or never hurled a snowball swift
      At someone's high silk hat —
    Who never ran away from school,
      To seek the swimming hole,
    Or slyly from a neighbor's yard
      Green apples never stole —

    Show me the boy who never broke
      A pane of window glass,
    Who never disobeyed the sign
      That says: "Keep off the grass."
    Who never did a thousand things,
      That grieve us sore to tell,
    And I'll show you a little boy
      Who must be far from well.

        THE LIVING BEAUTIES

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

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

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

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

    AT BREAKFAST TIME



    My Pa he eats his breakfast in a funny sort of
       way:
    We hardly ever see him at the first meal of the
       day.
    Ma puts his food before him and he settles in
       his place
    An' then he props the paper up and we can't
       see his face;
    We hear him blow his coffee and we hear him
       chew his toast,
    But it's for the morning paper that he seems
       to care the most.

    Ma says that little children mighty grateful
       ought to be
    To the folks that fixed the evening as the proper
       time for tea.
    She says if meals were only served to people
       once a day,
    An' that was in the morning just before Pa goes
       away,
    We'd never know how father looked when he
       was in his place,
    Coz he'd always have the morning paper stuck
       before his face.

    He drinks his coffee steamin' hot, an' passes
       Ma his cup
    To have it filled a second time, an' never once
       looks up.
    He never has a word to say, but just sits there
       an' reads,
    An' when she sees his hand stuck out Ma gives
       him what he needs.
    She guesses what it is he wants, coz it's no use
       to ask:
    Pa's got to read his paper an' sometimes that's
       quite a task.

    One morning we had breakfast an' his features
       we could see,
    But his face was long an' solemn an' he didn't
       speak to me,
    An' we couldn't get him laughin' an' we couldn't
       make him smile,
    An' he said the toast was soggy an' the coffee
       simply vile.
    Then Ma said: "What's the matter? Why are
       you so cross an' glum?"
    An' Pa 'most took her head off coz the paper
       didn't come.

    CAN'T



    _Can't_ is the worst word that's written or
        spoken;
      Doing more harm here than slander and lies;
    On it is many a strong spirit broken,
      And with it many a good purpose dies.
    It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each
        morning
      And robs us of courage we need through the
        day:
    It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning
      And laughs when we falter and fall by the
        way.

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

    _Can't_ is a word none should speak without
        blushing;
      To utter it should be a symbol of shame;
    Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;
      It blights a man's purpose and shortens his
        aim.
    Despise it with all of your hatred of error;
      Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;
    Arm against it as a creature of terror,
      And all that you dream of you some day shall
        gain.

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

    JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY



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

    There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden
       Shore to-day,
    An' the big an' little angels must be feelin'
       mighty gay:
    Could we look beyond the curtain now I fancy
       we should see
    Old Aunt Mary waitin', smilin', for the coming
       that's to be,
    An' Little Orphant Annie an' the whole excited
       pack
    Dancin' up an' down an' shoutin': "Mr. Riley's
       comin' back!"

    There's a heap o' real sadness in this good old
       world to-day;
    There are lumpy throats this morning now that
       Riley's gone away;
    There's a voice now stilled forever that in
       sweetness only spoke
    An' whispered words of courage with a faith that
       never broke.
    There is much of joy and laughter that we
       mortals here will lack,
    But the angels must be happy now that Riley's
       comin' back.

    The world was gettin' dreary, there was too
       much sigh an' frown
    In this vale o' mortal strivin', so God sent Jim
       Riley down,
    An' He said: "Go there an' cheer 'em in your
       good old-fashioned way,
    With your songs of tender sweetness, but don't
       make your plans to stay,
    Coz you're needed up in Heaven. I am lendin'
       you to men
    Just to help 'em with your music, but I'll want
       you back again."

    An' Riley came, an' mortals heard the music of
       his voice
    An' they caught his songs o' beauty an' they
       started to rejoice;
    An' they leaned on him in sorrow, an' they
       shared with him their joys,
    An' they walked with him the pathways that
       they knew when they were boys.
    But the heavenly angels missed him, missed his
       tender, gentle knack
    Of makin' people happy, an' they wanted Riley
       back.

    There must be great rejoicin' on the streets of
       Heaven to-day
    An' all the angel children must be troopin'
       down the way,
    Singin' heavenly songs of welcome an' pre-
       parin' 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.

        RESULTS AND ROSES

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

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

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

    THE OTHER FELLOW



    Are you fond of your wife and your children
       fair?
      So is the other fellow.
    Do you crave pleasures for them to share?
      So does the other fellow.
    Does your heart rejoice when your own are
       glad?
    And are you troubled when they are sad?
    Well, it's that way, too, in this life, my lad,
      That way with the other fellow.

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

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

      OUR DUTY TO OUR FLAG

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

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

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

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

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

    THE HUNTER



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

    Forests were ever the cradles of men;
      Manhood is born of a kinship with trees.
    Whence shall come brave hearts and stout
       muscles, when
      Woods have made way for our cities of ease?
    Oh, do you wonder that stalwarts return
      Yearly to hark to the whispering oaks?
    'Tis for the brave days of old that they yearn:
      These are the splendors the hunter invokes.

    IT'S SEPTEMBER



    It's September, and the orchards are afire with
        red and gold,
    And the nights with dew are heavy, and the
       morning's sharp with cold;
    Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia
       blazing red
    And the good old-fashioned asters laughing
       at us from their bed;
    Once again in shoes and stockings are the chil-
       dren'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 dark-
       ness 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 ripe-
       ness of the year;
    All the work of earth is finished, or the final
       tasks are near,
    But there is no doleful wailing; every living
       thing that grows,
    For the end that is approaching wears the
       finest garb it knows.
    And I pray that I may proudly hold my head
       up high and smile
    When I come to my September in the golden
       afterwhile.

        HOW DO YOU TACKLE YOUR WORK?

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

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

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

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

    LIFE



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

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

    STORY TELLING



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

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

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

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

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

    CANNING TIME



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

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

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

    THE DULL ROAD



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

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

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

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

    THE APPLE TREE



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

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

    Architects of splendid vision long have labored
      on the earth,
    And have raised their dreams in marble and
       we've marveled at their worth;
    Long the spires of costly churches have looked
       upward at the sky;
    Rich in promise and in the beauty, they have
       cheered the passer-by.
    But I'm sure there's nothing finer for the eye
       of man to meet
    Than an apple tree that's ready for the world
       to come and eat.

    There's the promise of the apples, red and
       gleaming in the sun,
    Like the medals worn by mortals as rewards
       for labors done;
    And the big arms stretched wide open, with a
       welcome warm and true
    In a way that sets you thinking it's intended
       just for you.
    There is nothing with a beauty so entrancing,
       so complete,
    As an apple tree that's ready for the world to
       come and eat.

        THE HOME-TOWN

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

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

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

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

    TAKE HOME A SMILE



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

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

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

    COURAGE



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

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

    Courage isn't a dazzling light
    That flashes and passes away from sight;
    It's a slow, unwavering, ingrained trait
    With the patience to work and the strength to
       wait.
    It's part of a man when his skies are blue,
    It's part of him when he has work to do.
    The brave man never is freed of it.
    He has it when there is no need of it.

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

    GREATNESS



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

    We can be famous for our works of kindness —
      Fame is not born alone of strength or skill;
    It sometimes comes from deafness and from
       blindness
      To petty words and faults, and loving still.

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

    THE EPICURE



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

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

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

    THE GENTLE GARDENER



    I'd like to leave but daffodills to mark my little
        way,
    To leave but tulips red and white behind me as
        I stray;
    I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd
        left behind
    But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come
        to find.

    I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the
        flowers of earth,
    To leave a path where those who come should
        find but gentle mirth;
    And when at last I'm called upon to join the
        heavenly throng
    I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign
        of wrong.

    And yet the cares are many and the hours of
        toil are few;
    There is not time enough on earth for all I'd
        like to do;
    But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the
        world to find
    Some little touch of beauty that my soul had
        left behind.

    THE FINEST AGE



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

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

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

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

    SUCCESS AND FAILURE



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

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

    CARE-FREE YOUTH



    The skies are blue and the sun is out and the
       grass is green and soft
    And the old charm's back in the apple tree
       and it calls a boy aloft;
    And the same low voice that the old don't hear,
       but the care-free youngsters do,
    Is calling them to the fields and streams and
       the joys that once I knew.
    And if youth be wild desire for play and care
       is the mark of men,
    Beneath the skin that Time has tanned I'm a
       madcap youngster then.

    Far richer than king with his crown of gold and
       his heavy weight of care
    Is the sunburned boy with his stone-bruised feet
       and his tousled shock of hair;
    For the king can hear but the cry of hate or the
       sickly sound of praise,
    And lost to him are the voices sweet that called
       in his boyhood days.
    Far better than ruler, with pomp and power
       and riches, is it to be
    The urchin gay in his tattered clothes that is
       climbing the apple tree.

    Oh, once I heard all the calls that come to the
       quick, glad ears of boys,
    And a certain spot on the river bank told me of
       its many joys,
    And certain fields and certain trees were loyal
       friends to me,
    And I knew the birds, and I owned a dog, and
       we both could hear and see.
    Oh, never from tongues of men have dropped
       such messages wholly glad
    As the things that live in the great outdoors
       once told to a little lad.

    And I'm sorry for him who cannot hear what
       the tall trees have to say,
    Who is deaf to the call of a running stream
       and the lanes that lead to play.
    The boy that shins up the faithful elm or
       sprawls on a river bank
    Is more richly blessed with the joys of life than
       any old man of rank.
    For youth is the golden time of life, and this
       battered old heart of mine
    Beats fast to the march of its old-time joys,
       when the sun begins to shine.

    MY PAW SAID SO



    Foxes can talk if you know how to listen,
       My Paw said so.
    Owls have big eyes that sparkle an' glisten,
       My Paw said so.
    Bears can turn flip-flaps an' climb ellum trees,
    An' steal all the honey away from the bees,
    An' they never mind winter becoz they don't
         freeze;
       My Paw said so.

    Girls is a-scared of a snake, but boys ain't,
       My Paw said so.
    They holler an' run; an' sometimes they faint,
       My Paw said so.
    But boys would be 'shamed to be frightened
         that way
    When all that the snake wants to do is to play;
    You've got to believe every word that I say,
       My Paw said so.

    Wolves ain't so bad if you treat 'em all right,
       My Paw said so.
    They're as fond of a game as they are of a fight,
       My Paw said so.
    An' all of the animals found in the wood
    Ain't always ferocious. Most times they are
         good.

    The trouble is mostly they're misunderstood,
       My Paw said so.
    You can think what you like, but I stick to it
         when
       My Paw said so.
    An' I'll keep right on sayin', again an' again,
       My Paw said so.
    Maybe foxes don't talk to such people as you,
    An' bears never show you the tricks they can do,
    But I know that the stories I'm tellin' are true,
       My Paw said so.

    LIFE'S TESTS



    If never a sorrow came to us, and never a care
        we knew;
    If every hope were realized, and every dream
        came true;
    If only joy were found on earth, and no one
        ever sighed,
    And never a friend proved false to us, and never
        a loved one died,
    And never a burden bore us down, soul-sick and
        weary, too,
    We'd yearn for tests to prove our worth and
        tasks for us to do.

        THE PEACEFUL WARRIORS

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

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

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

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

    FAILURES



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

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

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

    RAISIN PIE



    There's a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow
       bantam corn,
    And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch
       at morn;
    Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o'
       things to eat
    An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend
       to cut the sweet,
    But I run the whole list over, an' it seems
       somehow that I
    Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk
       o' raisin pie.

    There are pies that start the water circulatin' in
       the mouth;
    There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm
       an' sunny south;
    Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appe-
       tite
    An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o'
       real delight;
    But for downright solid goodness that comes
       drippin' from the sky
    There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o'
       raisin pie.

    I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin'
       up myself
    As the judge an' final critic of the good things
       on the shelf.
    I'm sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on
       earth,
    Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an'
       worth,
    An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my
        time to die,
    That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk
       o' raisin pie.

    PREPAREDNESS



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

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

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

    THE READY ARTISTS



    The green is in the meadow and the blue is in
       the sky,
    And all of Nature's artists have their colors
       handy by;
    With a few days bright with sunshine and a
       few nights free from frost
    They will start to splash their colors quite
       regardless of the cost.
    There's an artist waiting ready at each bleak
       and dismal spot
    To paint the flashing tulip or the meek 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 beau-
       tiful each scene
    And remove with colors gorgeous every trace of
       of what has been.

    Oh, the world is now in mourning; round about
       us all are spread
    The ruins and the symbols of the winter that
       is dead.
    But the bleak and barren picture very shortly
       now will pass,
    For the halls of life are ready for their velvet
       rugs of grass;
    And the painters now are waiting with their
       magic to replace
    This dullness with a beauty that no mortal hand
       can trace.

    The green is in the meadow and the blue is in
       the sky;
    The chill of death is passing, life will shortly
       greet the eye.
    We shall revel soon in colors only Nature's
       artists make
    And the humblest plant that's sleeping unto
       beauty shall awake.
    For there's not a leaf forgotten, not a twig
       neglected there,
    And the tiniest of pansies shall the royal purple
       wear.

      THE HAPPIEST DAYS

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

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

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

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

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

        THE REAL BAIT

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

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

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

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

    TRUE NOBILITY



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

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

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

        THE SULKERS

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

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

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

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

    PURPOSE



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

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

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

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

    MOTHER'S GLASSES



    I've told about the times that Ma can't find
        her pocketbook,
    And how we have to hustle round for it to help
        her look,
    But there's another care we know that often
        comes our way,
    I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day.
    It starts when first the postman through the
        door a letter passes,
    And Ma says: "Goodness gracious me! Wher-
        ever 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 com-
        pletely wrecks,
    For there's no place where you may not find
        poor Ma's elusive specs.

    But we're mighty glad, I tell you, that the
        duty's ours to do,
    An' we hope to hunt those glasses till our time
        of life is through;
    It's a little bit of service that is joyous in its
        thrill,
    It's a task that calls us daily an' we hope it
        always will.
    Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the
        joyless masses
    Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose
        her reading glasses.

    THE PRINCESS PAT'S



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

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

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

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

    BE A FRIEND



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

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

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

    THANKSGIVING



    Thankful for the glory of the old Red, White
       and Blue,
    For the spirit of America that still is staunch
       and true,
    For the laughter of our children and the sun-
       light in their eyes,
    And the joy of radiant mothers and their even-
       ing 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 per-
       fume of the flowers,
    For our homes with laughter ringing and our
       hearthfires blazing bright,
    For our land of peace and plenty and our land
       of truth and right;
    And we're thankful for the glory of the old
       Red, White and Blue,
    For the spirit of our fathers and a manhood
       that is true.

    MA AND HER CHECK BOOK



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

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

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

    THE FISHING CURE



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

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

    The things that he hates never follow him
       there —
      The jar of the street,
    The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair —
      For the open is sweet.
    In purity's realm he can rest and be clean,
      Be he humble or great,
    And as peaceful his soul may become as the
       scene
      That his eyes contemplate.

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

        THE HAPPY SLOW THINKER

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

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

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

    OUT-OF-DOORS



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

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

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

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

    REAL SINGING



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

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

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

       THE BUMPS AND BRUISES DOCTOR

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

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

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

    WHEN PA COUNTS



    Pa's not so very big or brave; he can't lift
       weights like Uncle Jim;
    His hands are soft like little girls'; most anyone
       could wallop him.
    Ma weighs a whole lot more than Pa. When
       they go swimming, she could stay
    Out in the river all day long, but Pa gets frozen
       right away.
    But when the thunder starts to roll, an' lightnin'
       spits, Ma says, "Oh, dear,
    I'm sure we'll all of us be killed. I only wish
       your Pa was here."

    Pa's cheeks are thin an' kinder pale; he couldn't
       rough it worth a cent.
    He couldn't stand the hike we had the day the
       Boy Scouts camping went.
    He has to hire a man to dig the garden, coz his
       back gets lame,
    An' he'd be crippled for a week, if he should
       play a baseball game.
    But when a thunder storm comes up, Ma sits an'
       shivers in the gloam
    An' every time the thunder rolls, she says: "I
       wish your Pa was home."

    I don't know just what Pa could do if he were
       home, he seems so frail,
    But every time the skies grow black I notice Ma
       gets rather pale.
    An' when she's called us children in, an' locked
       the windows an' the doors,
    She jumps at every lightnin' flash an' trembles
       when the thunder roars.
    An' when the baby starts to cry, she wrings her
       hands an' says: "Oh, dear,
    It's terrible! It's terrible! I only wish your
       Pa was here."

    PEACE



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

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

        NO PLACE TO GO

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

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

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

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

    DEFEAT



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

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

    A PATRIOTIC WISH



    I'd like to be the sort of man the flag could
        boast about;
    I'd like to be the sort of man it cannot live
        without;
    I'd like to be the type of man
    That really is American:
    The head-erect and shoulders-square,
    Clean-minded fellow, just and fair,
    That all men picture when they see
    The glorious banner of the free.

    I'd like to be the sort of man the flag now
        typifies,
    The kind of man we really want the flag to
        symbolize;
    The loyal brother to a trust,
    The big, unselfish soul and just,
    The friend of every man oppressed,
    The strong support of all that's best,
    The sturdy chap the banner's meant,
    Where'er it flies, to represent.

    I'd like to be the sort of man the flag's supposed
        to mean,
    The man that all in fancy see wherever it is
        seen,
    The chap that's ready for a fight
    Whenever there's a wrong to right,
    The friend in every time of need,
    The doer of the daring deed,
    The clean and generous handed man
    That is a real American.

    THE PRICE OF JOY



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

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

    THE THINGS THAT MAKE A SOLDIER GREAT



    The things that make a soldier great and send
       him out to die,
    To face the flaming cannon's mouth nor ever
       question why,
    Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips
       red,
    The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed,
    The grass plot where his children play, the roses
       on the wall:
    'Tis these that make a soldier great. He's fight-
       ing 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 chil-
       dren 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 fight-
       ing for them all.

        THE JOY OF A DOG

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

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

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

    HOMESICK



    It's tough when you are homesick in a strange
        and distant place;
    It's anguish when you're hungry for an 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 bur-
        dened down with care.
    But it's only empty laughter, and there's nothing
        in the grin
    When you're talking through the window of the
        home you can't go in.

       THE PERFECT DINNER TABLE

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

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

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

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

    TO-MORROW



    He was going to be all that a mortal should be
        To-morrow.
    No one should be kinder or braver than he
        To-morrow.
    A friend who was troubled and weary he knew,
    Who'd be glad of a lift and who needed it, too;
    On him he would call and see what he could do
        To-morrow.

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

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

    A PRAYER



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

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

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

      TO THE LADY IN THE ELECTRIC

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

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

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

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

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

        THE MAN WHO COULDN'T SAVE

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

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

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

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

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

    ANSWERING HIM



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

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

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

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

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

       FATHER AND SON

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

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

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

       THE JUNE COUPLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

    AT THE DOOR



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

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

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

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

    DUTY



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

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

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

    A BEAR STORY



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

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

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

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

    An' then he stood up just like those
    Big bears in circuses an' shows,
    An' danced a jig, an' rolled about
    An' said "Woof! Woof!" which meant "Look
        out!"
    An' turned a somersault as slick
    As any boy can do the trick.
    Those children had been told of Jim
    An' they decided it was him.

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

        AUTUMN AT THE ORCHARD

    The sumac's flaming scarlet on the edges o' the
       lake,
    An' the pear trees are invitin' everyone t' come
       an' shake.
    Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin'
       everywhere
    Till it seems that you can almost see the Master
       Painter there.
    There's a solemn sort o' stillness that's pervadin'
       every thing,
    Save the farewell songs to summer that the
       feathered tenors sing,
    An' you quite forget the city where disgruntled
       folks are kickin'
    Off yonder with the Pelletiers, when spies are
       ripe for pickin'.

    The Holsteins are a-posin' in a clearin' near a
       wood,
    Very dignified an' stately, just as though they
       understood
    That they're lending to life's pictures just the
       touch the Master needs,
    An' they're preachin' more refinement than a lot
       o' printed creeds.
    The orchard's fairly groanin' with the gifts o'
       God to man,
    Just as though they meant to shame us who
       have doubted once His plan.
    Oh, there's somethin' most inspirin' to a soul in
       need o' prickin'
    Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are
       ripe fer pickin'.

    The frisky little Shetlands now are growin'
       shaggy coats
    An' acquirin' silken mufflers of their own to
       guard their throats;
    An' a Russian wolf-hound puppy left its mother
       yesterday,
    An' a tinge o' sorrow touched us as we saw it
       go away.
    For the sight was full o' meanin', an' we knew,
       when it had gone,
    'Twas a symbol of the partin's that the years are
       bringin' on.
    Oh, a feller must be better — to his faith he can't
       help stickin'
    Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe
       fer pickin'.

    The year is almost over, now at dusk the valleys
       glow
    With the misty mantle chillin', that is hangin'
       very low.
    An' each mornin' sees the maples just a little
       redder turned
    Than they were the night we left 'em, an' the
       elms are browner burned.
    An' a feller can't help feelin', an' I don't care
       who it is,
    That the mind that works such wonders has a
       greater power than his.
    Oh, I know that I'll remember till life's last few
       sparks are flickin'
    The lessons out at Pelletiers when spies were ripe
       for pickin'.

        WHEN PA COMES HOME

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

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

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

    MOTHER'S DAY



    Gentle hands that never weary toiling in love's
        vineyard sweet,
    Eyes that seem forever cheery when our eyes
        they chance to meet,
    Tender, patient, brave, devoted, this is always
        mother's way,
    Could her worth in gold be quoted as you think
        of her to-day?

    There shall never be another quite so tender,
        quite so kind
    As the patient little mother; nowhere on this
        earth you'll find
    Her affection duplicated; none so proud if you
        are fine.
    Could her worth be overstated? Not by any
        words of mine.

    Death stood near the hour she bore us, agony
        was hers to know,
    Yet she bravely faced it for us, smiling in her
        time of woe;
    Down the years how oft we've tried her, often
        selfish, heedless, blind,
    Yet with love alone to guide her she was never
        once unkind.

    Vain are all our tributes to her if in words
        alone they dwell.
    We must live the praises due her; there's no
        other way to tell
    Gentle mother that we love her. Would you say,
        as you recall
    All the patient service of her, you've been
        worthy of it all?

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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."

    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.

        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.

    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 joy-
       ous faces there
    Keep me nightly guessing wildly: "Is it some-
       thing 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 laugh-
       ter 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.

    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 dis-
      grace;
    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."

       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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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.

        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.

    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.

        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.

    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.

    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 sacret 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.

    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 bequeath-
       ing;
    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.

    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.

    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?

    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.

    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.

    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.

    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?

    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 fortu-
       nate 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.

    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.

    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 under-
       stood,
    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-fash-
       ioned 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.

    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."

    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.

    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.

    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?