A Heap O' Livin', by Edgar A. GuestPart 2 out of 3Of 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
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