Chapter II: Part 2

An' so it's been a-goin' on, Her dress fer other things has gone; Some one in need or some one sick Has always touched her to th' quick; Or else, about th' time 'at she Could get th' dress, she'd always see The children needin' somethin' new; An' she would go an' get it, too. An' when we frowned at her, she'd smile An' say: "The dress can wait awhile." Although her mind is set on laces, Her heart goes out to other places; An' somehow, too, her money goes In ways that only mother knows. While there are things her children lack She won't put money on her back; An' that is why she hasn't got A party dress of silk, an' not Because she can't afford it.

Little Fishermen

A little ship goes out to sea As soon as we have finished tea; Off yonder where the big moon glows This tiny little vessel goes, But never grown-up eyes have seen The ports to which this ship has been; Upon the shore the old folks stand Till morning brings it back to land.

In search of smiles this little ship Each evening starts upon a trip; Just smiles enough to last the day Is it allowed to bring away; So nightly to some golden shore It must set out alone for more, And sail the rippling sea for miles Until the hold is full of smiles.

By gentle hands the sails are spread; The stars are glistening overhead And in that hour when tiny ships Prepare to make their evening trips The sea becomes a wondrous place, As beautiful as mother's face; And all the day's disturbing cries Give way to soothing lullabies.

No clang of bell or warning shout Is heard on shore when they put out; The little vessels slip away As silently as does the day. And all night long on sands of gold They cast their nets, and fill the hold With smiles and joys beyond compare, To cheer a world that's sad with care.

The Cookie-Lady

She is gentle, kind and fair, And there's silver in her hair; She has known the touch of sorrow, But the smile of her is sweet; And sometimes it seems to me That her mission is to be The gracious cookie-lady To the youngsters of the street.

All the children in the block Daily stand beside the crock, Where she keeps the sugar cookies That the little folks enjoy; And no morning passes o'er That a tapping at her door Doesn't warn her of the visit Of a certain little boy.

She has made him feel that he Has a natural right to be In her kitchen when she's baking Pies and cakes and ginger bread; And each night to me he brings All the pretty, tender things About little by-gone children That the cookie-lady said.

Oh, dear cookie-lady sweet, May you beautify our street With your kind and gentle presence Many more glad years, I pray; May the skies be bright above you, As you've taught our babes to love you; You will scar their hearts with sorrow If you ever go away.

Life is strange, and when I scan it, I believe God tries to plan it, So that where He sends his babies In that neighborhood to dwell, One of rare and gracious beauty Shall abide, whose sweetest duty Is to be the cookie-lady That the children love so well.

Pleasure's Signs

There's a bump on his brow and a smear on his cheek
That is plainly the stain of his tears;
At his neck there's a glorious sun-painted streak,
The bronze of his happiest years.
Oh, he's battered and bruised at the end of the day,
But smiling before me he stands,
And somehow I like to behold him that way.
Yes, I like him with dirt on his hands.

Last evening he painfully limped up to me
His tale of adventure to tell;
He showed me a grime-covered cut on his knee,
And told me the place where he fell.
His clothing was stained to the color of clay,
And he looked to be nobody's lad,
But somehow I liked to behold him that way,
For it spoke of the fun that he'd had.

Let women-folk prate as they will of a boy
Who is heedless of knickers and shirt;
I hold that the badge of a young fellow's joy
Are cheeks that are covered with dirt.
So I look for him nightly to greet me that way,
His joys and misfortunes to tell,
For I know by the signs that he wears of his play
That the lad I'm so fond of is well.

Snooping 'Round

Last night I caught him on his knees and looking underneath the bed, And oh, the guilty look he wore, and oh, the stammered words he said, When I, pretending to be cross, said: "Hey, young fellow, what's your game?" As if, back in the long ago, I hadn't also played the same; As if, upon my hands and knees, I hadn't many a time been found When, thinking of the Christmas Day, I'd gone upstairs to snoop around.

But there he stood and hung his head; the rascal knew it wasn't fair. "I jes' was wonderin'," he said, "jes' what it was that's under there. It's somepin' all wrapped up an' I thought mebbe it might be a sled, Becoz I saw a piece of wood 'at's stickin' out all painted red." "If mother knew," I said to him, "you'd get a licking, I'll be bound, But just clear out of here at once, and don't you ever snoop around."

And as he scampered down the stairs I stood and chuckled to myself, As I remembered how I'd oft explored the topmost closet shelf. It all came back again to me--with what a shrewd and cunning way I, too, had often sought to solve the mysteries of Christmas Day. How many times my daddy, too, had come upstairs without a sound And caught me, just as I'd begun my clever scheme to snoop around.

And oh, I envied him his plight; I envied him the joy he feels Who knows that every drawer that's locked some treasure dear to him conceals; I envied him his Christmas fun and wished that it again were mine To seek to solve the mysteries by paper wrapped and bound by twine. Some day he'll come to understand that all the time I stood and frowned, I saw a boy of years ago who also used to snoop around.

Bud Discusses Cleanliness

First thing in the morning, last I hear at night, Get it when I come from school: "My, you look a sight! Go upstairs this minute, an' roll your sleeves up high An' give your hands a scrubbing and wipe 'em till they're dry! Now don't stand there and argue, and never mind your tears! And this time please remember to wash your neck and ears."

Can't see why ears grow on us, all crinkled like a shell, With lots of fancy carvings that make a feller yell Each time his Ma digs in them to get a speck of dirt, When plain ones would be easy to wash and wouldn't hurt. And I can't see the reason why every time Ma nears, She thinks she's got to send me to wash my neck and ears.

I never wash to suit her; don't think I ever will. If I was white as sister, she'd call me dirty still. At night I get a scrubbing and go to bed, and then The first thing in the morning, she makes me wash again. That strikes me as ridiklus; I've thought of it a heap. A feller can't get dirty when he is fast asleep.

When I grow up to be a man like Pa, and have a wife And kids to boss around, you bet they'll have an easy life. We won't be at them all the time, the way they keep at me, And kick about a little dirt that no one else can see. And every night at supper time as soon as he appears, We will not chase our boy away to wash his neck and ears.

Tied Down

"They tie you down," a woman said, Whose cheeks should have been flaming red With shame to speak of children so. "When babies come you cannot go In search of pleasure with your friends, And all your happy wandering ends. The things you like you cannot do, For babies make a slave of you."

I looked at her and said: "'Tis true That children make a slave of you, And tie you down with many a knot, But have you never thought to what It is of happiness and pride That little babies have you tied? Do you not miss the greater joys That come with little girls and boys?

"They tie you down to laughter rare, To hours of smiles and hours of care, To nights of watching and to fears; Sometimes they tie you down to tears And then repay you with a smile, And make your trouble all worth while. They tie you fast to chubby feet, And cheeks of pink and kisses sweet.

"They fasten you with cords of love To God divine, who reigns above. They tie you, whereso'er you roam, Unto the little place called home; And over sea or railroad track They tug at you to bring you back. The happiest people in the town Are those the babies have tied down.

"Oh, go your selfish way and free, But hampered I would rather be, Yes rather than a kingly crown I would be, what you term, tied down; Tied down to dancing eyes and charms, Held fast by chubby, dimpled arms, The fettered slave of girl and boy, And win from them earth's finest joy."

Our Country

God grant that we shall never see
Our country slave to lust and greed;
God grant that here all men shall be
United by a common creed.
Here Freedom's Flag has held the sky
Unstained, untarnished from its birth;
Long may it wave to typify
The happiest people on the earth.

Beneath its folds have mothers smiled
To see their little ones at play;
No tyrant hand, by shame defiled,
To them has barred life's rosy way.
No cruel wall of caste or class
Has bid men pause or turn aside;
Here looms no gate they may not pass--
Here every door is opened wide.

Here at the wells of Freedom all
Who are athirst may drink their fill.
Here fame and fortune wait to call
The toiler who has proved his skill.
Here wisdom sheds afar its light
As every morn the school bells ring,
And little children read and write
And share the knowledge of a king.

God grant that we shall never see
Our country slave to lust and greed;
God grant that men shall always be
United for our nation's need.
Here selfishness has never reigned,
Here freedom all who come may know;
By tyranny our Flag's unstained!
God grant that we may keep it so.

Fatherhood

Before you came, my little lad,
I used to think that I was good;
Some vicious habits, too, I had,
But wouldn't change them if I could.
I held my head up high and said:
"I'm all that I have need to be,
It matters not what path I tread--"
But that was ere you came to me.

I treated lightly sacred things,
And went my way in search of fun;
Upon myself I kept no strings,
And gave no heed to folly done.
I gave myself up to the fight
For worldly wealth and earthly fame,
And sought advantage, wrong or right--
But that was long before you came.

But now you sit across from me,
Your big brown eyes are opened wide,
And every deed I do you see,
And, O, I dare not step aside.
I've shaken loose from habits bad,
And what is wrong I've come to dread,
Because I know, my little lad,
That you will follow where I tread.

I want those eyes to glow with pride;
In me I want those eyes to see,
The while we wander side by side,
The sort of man I'd have you be.
And so I'm striving to be good
With all my might, that you may know,
When this great world is understood,
What pleasures are worth while below.

I see life in a different light
From what I did before you came;
Then anything that pleased seemed right--
But you are here to bear my name,
And you are looking up to me
With those big eyes from day to day,
And I'm determined not to be
The means of leading you astray.

A Choice

Sure, they get stubborn at times; they worry and
fret us a lot,
But I'd rather be crossed by a glad little boy
and frequently worried than not.
There are hours when they get on my nerves
and set my poor brain all awhirl,
But I'd rather be troubled that way than to be
the man who has no little girl.

There are times they're a nuisance, that's true,
with all of their racket and noise,
But I'd rather my personal pleasures be lost than
to give up my girls and my boys.
Not always they're perfectly good; there are
times when they're wilfully bad,
But I'd rather be worried by youngsters of mine
than lonely and childless and sad.

So I try to be patient and calm whenever they're
having their fling;
For the sum of their laughter and love is more
than the worry they bring.
And each night when sweet peace settles down
and I see them asleep in their cot,
I chuckle and say: "They upset me to-day, but
I'd rather be that way than not."

What Father Knows

My father knows the proper way
The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
Just what should now be done.
He knows the way to fix the trusts,
He has a simple plan;
But if the furnace needs repairs
We have to hire a man.

My father, in a day or two,
Could land big thieves in jail;
There's nothing that he cannot do,
He knows no word like "fail."
"Our confidence" he would restore,
Of that there is no doubt;
But if there is a chair to mend
We have to send it out.

All public questions that arise
He settles on the spot;
He waits not till the tumult dies,
But grabs it while it's hot.
In matters of finance he can
Tell Congress what to do;
But, O, he finds it hard to meet
His bills as they fall due.

It almost makes him sick to read
The things law-makers say;
Why, father's just the man they need;
He never goes astray.
All wars he'd very quickly end,
As fast as I can write it;
But when a neighbor starts a fuss
'Tis mother has to fight it.

In conversation father can
Do many wondrous things;
He's built upon a wiser plan
Than presidents or kings.
He knows the ins and outs of each
And every deep transaction;
We look to him for theories,
But look to ma for action.

Back Home

Glad to get back home again, Where abide the friendly men; Glad to see the same old scenes And the little house that means All the joys the soul has treasured-- Glad to be where smiles aren't measured, Where I've blended with the gladness All the heart has known of sadness, Where some long-familiar steeple Marks my town of friendly people.

Though it's fun to go a-straying Where the bands are nightly playing And the throngs of men and women Drain the cup of pleasure brimmin', I am glad when it is over That I've ceased to play the Rover. And when once the train starts chugging Towards the children I'd be hugging, All my thoughts and dreams are set there; Fast enough I cannot get there.

Guess I wasn't meant for bright lights, For the blaze of red and white lights, For the throngs that seems to smother In their selfishness, each other; For whenever I've been down there, Tramped the noisy, blatant town there, Always in a week I've started Yearning, hungering, heavy-hearted, For the home town and its spaces Lit by fine and friendly faces.

Like to be where men about me Do not look on me to doubt me; Where I know the men and women, Know why tears some eyes are dimmin', Know the good folks an' the bad folks An' the glad folks an' the sad folks; Where we live with one another, Meanin' something to each other. An' I'm glad to see the steeple, Where the crowds aren't merely people.

The Dead Return

The dead return. I know they do; The glad smile may have passed from view, The ringing voice that cheered us so In that remembered long ago Be stilled, and yet in sweeter ways It speaks to us throughout our days. The kindly father comes again To guide us through the haunts of men, And always near, their sons to greet Are lingering the mothers sweet.

About us wheresoe'er we tread Hover the spirits of our dead; We cannot see them as we could In bygone days, when near they stood And shared the joys and griefs that came, But they are with us just the same. They see us as we plod along, And proudly smile when we are strong, And sigh and grieve the self-same way When thoughtlessly we go astray.

I sometimes think it hurts the dead When into sin and shame we're led, And that they feel a thrill divine When we've accomplished something fine. And sometimes thoughts that come at night Seem more like messages that might Have whispered been by one we love, Whose spirit has been called above. So wise the counsel, it must be That all we are the dead can see.

The dead return. They come to share Our laughter and our bit of care; They glory, as they used to do, When we are splendid men and true, In all the joy that we have won, And they are proud of what we've done. They suffer when we suffer woe; All things about us here they know. And though we never see them here Their spirits hover very near.

My Soul and I

When winter shuts a fellow in and turns the lock upon his door, There's nothing else for him to do but sit and dream his bygones o'er. And then before an open fire he smokes his pipe, while in the blaze He seems to see a picture show of all his happy yesterdays. No ordinary film is that which memory throws upon the screen, But one in which his hidden soul comes out and can be plainly seen.

Now, I've been dreaming by the grate. I've seen myself the way I am, Stripped bare of affectation's garb and wisdom's pose and folly's sham. I've seen my soul and talked with it, and learned some things I never knew. I walk about the world as one, but I express the wish of two. I've come to see the soul of me is wiser than my selfish mind, For it has safely led me through the tangled paths I've left behind.

I should have sold myself for gold when I was young long years ago, But for my soul which whispered then: "You love your home and garden so, You never could be quite content in palace walls. Once rise to fame And you will lose the gentler joys which now so eagerly you claim. I want to walk these lanes with you and keep the comradeship of trees, Let you and I be happy here, nor seek life's gaudy luxuries."

Mine is a curious soul, I guess; it seemed so, smiling in my dreams; It keeps me close to little folks and birds and flowers and running streams, To Mother and her friends and mine; and though no fortune we possess, The years that we have lived and loved have all been rich with happiness. I'm glad the snowdrifts shut me in, for I have had a chance to see How fortunate I've been to have that sort of soul to counsel me.

Aunty

I'm sorry for a feller if he hasn't any aunt, To let him eat and do the things his mother says he can't. An aunt to come a visitin' or one to go and see Is just about the finest kind of lady there could be. Of course she's not your mother, an' she hasn't got her ways, But a part that's most important in a feller's life she plays.

She is kind an' she is gentle, an' sometimes she's full of fun, An' she's very sympathetic when some dreadful thing you've done. An' she likes to buy you candy, an' she's always gettin' toys That you wish your Pa would get you, for she hasn't any boys. But sometimes she's over-loving, an' your cheeks turn red with shame When she smothers you with kisses, but you like her just the same.

One time my father took me to my aunty's, an' he said: "You will stay here till I get you, an' be sure you go to bed When your aunty says it's time to, an' be good an' mind her, too, An' when you come home we'll try to have a big surprise for you." I did as I was told to, an' when Pa came back for me He said there was a baby at the house for me to see.

I've been visitin' at aunty's for a week or two, an' Pa Has written that he's comin' soon to take me home to Ma. He says they're gettin' lonely, an' I'm kind o' lonely, too, Coz an aunt is not exactly what your mother is to you. I am hungry now to see her, but I'm wondering to-day If Pa's bought another baby in the time I've been away.

Bread and Jam

I wish I was a poet like the men that write in books The poems that we have to learn on valleys, hills an' brooks; I'd write of things that children like an' know an' understand, An' when the kids recited them the folks would call them grand. If I'd been born a Whittier, instead of what I am, I'd write a poem now about a piece of bread an' jam.

I'd tell how hungry children get all afternoon in school, An' sittin' at attention just because it is the rule, An' lookin' every now an' then up to the clock to see If that big hand an' little hand would ever get to three. I'd tell how children hurry home an' give the door a slam An' ask their mothers can they have a piece of bread an' jam.

Some poets write of things to eat an' sing of dinners fine, An' praise the dishes they enjoy, an' some folks sing of wine, But they've forgotten, I suppose, the days when they were small An' hurried home from school to get the finest food of all; They don't remember any more how good it was to cram Inside their hungry little selves a piece of bread an' jam.

I wish I was a Whittier, a Stevenson or Burns, I wouldn't write of hills an' brooks, or mossy banks or ferns, I wouldn't write of rolling seas or mountains towering high, But I would sing of chocolate cake an' good old apple pie, An' best of all the food there is, beyond the slightest doubt, Is bread an' jam we always get as soon as school is out.

The Little Woman

The little woman, to her I bow
And doff my hat as I pass her by;
I reverence the furrows that mark her brow,
And the sparkling love light in her eye.
The little woman who stays at home,
And makes no bid for the world's applause;
Who never sighs for a chance to roam,
But toils all day in a grander cause.

The little woman, who seems so weak,
Yet bears her burdens day by day;
And no one has ever heard her speak
In a bitter or loud complaining way.
She sings a snatch of a merry song,
As she toils in her home from morn to night.
Her work is hard and the hours are long
But the little woman's heart is light.

A slave to love is that woman small,
And yearly her burdens heavier grow,
But somehow she seems to bear them all,
As the deep'ning lines in her white cheeks show.
Her children all have a mother's care,
Her home the touch of a good wife knows;
No burden's too heavy for her to bear,
But, patiently doing her best, she goes.

The little woman, may God be kind
To her wherever she dwells to-day;
The little woman who seems to find
Her joy in toiling along life's way.
May God bring peace to her work-worn breast
And joy to her mother-heart at last;
May love be hers when it's time to rest,
And the roughest part of the road is passed.

The little woman--how oft it seems
God chooses her for the mother's part;
And many a grown-up sits and dreams
To-day of her with an aching heart.
For he knows well how she toiled for him
And he sees it now that it is too late;
And often his eyes with tears grow dim
For the little woman whose strength was great.

The Father of the Man

I can't help thinkin' o' the lad!
Here's summer bringin' trees to fruit,
An' every bush with roses clad,
An' nature in her finest suit,
An' all things as they used to be
In days before the war came on.
Yet time has changed both him an' me,
An' I am here, but he is gone.

The orchard's as it was back then
When he was just a little tyke;
The lake's as calm an' fair as when
We used to go to fish for pike.
There's nothing different I can see
That God has made about the place,
Except the change in him an' me,
An' that is difficult to trace.

I only know one day he came
An' found me in the barn alone.
To some he might have looked the same,
But he was not the lad I'd known.
His soul, it seemed, had heard the call
As plainly as a mortal can.
Before he spoke to me at all,
I saw my boy become a man.

I can't explain just what occurred;
I sat an' talked about it there;
The dinner-bell I never heard,
Or if I did, I didn't care.
But suddenly it seemed to me
Out of the dark there came a light,
An' in a new way I could see
That I was wrong an' he was right.

I can't help thinkin' o' the lad!
He's fightin' hate an' greed an' lust,
An' here am I, his doting dad,
Believin' in a purpose just.
Time was I talked the joy o' play,
But now life's goal is all I see;
The petty thoughts I've put away--
My boy has made a man o' me.

When Mother Made An Angel Cake

When mother baked an angel cake we kids would gather round An' watch her gentle hands at work, an' never make a sound; We'd watch her stir the eggs an' flour an' powdered sugar, too, An' pour it in the crinkled tin, an' then when it was through She'd spread the icing over it, an' we knew very soon That one would get the plate to lick, an' one would get the spoon.

It seemed no matter where we were those mornings at our play, Upstairs or out of doors somewhere, we all knew right away When Ma was in the kitchen, an' was gettin' out the tin An' things to make an angel cake, an' so we scampered in. An' Ma would smile at us an' say: "Now you keep still an' wait An' when I'm through I'll let you lick the spoon an' icing plate."

We watched her kneel beside the stove, an' put her arm so white Inside the oven just to find if it was heatin' right. An' mouths an' eyes were open then, becoz we always knew The time for us to get our taste was quickly comin' due. Then while she mixed the icing up, she'd hum a simple tune, An' one of us would bar the plate, an' one would bar the spoon.

Could we catch a glimpse of Heaven, and some snow-white kitchen there, I'm sure that we'd see mother, smiling now, and still as fair; And I know that gathered round her we should see an angel brood That is watching every movement as she makes an angel food; For I know that little angels, as we used to do, await The moment when she lets them lick the icing spoon and plate.

The Gift of Play

Some have the gift of song and some possess the gift of silver speech, Some have the gift of leadership and some the ways of life can teach. And fame and wealth reward their friends; in jewels are their splendors told, But in good time their favorites grow very faint and gray and old. But there are men who laugh at time and hold the cruel years at bay; They romp through life forever young because they have the gift of play.

They walk with children, hand in hand, through daisy fields and orchards fair, Nor all the dignity of age and power and pomp can follow there; They've kept the magic charm of youth beneath the wrinkled robe of Time, And there's no friendly apple tree that they have grown too old to climb. They have not let their boyhood die; they can be children for the day; They have not bartered for success and all its praise, the gift of play.

They think and talk in terms of youth; with love of life their eyes are bright; No rheumatism of the soul has robbed them of the world's delight; They laugh and sing their way along and join in pleasures when they can, And in their glad philosophy they hold that mirth becomes a man. They spend no strength in growing old. What if their brows be crowned with gray? The spirits in their breasts are young. They still possess the gift of play.

The richest men of life are not the ones who rise to wealth and fame-- Not the great sages, old and wise, and grave of face and bent of frame, But the glad spirits, tall and straight, who 'spite of time and all its care, Have kept the power to laugh and sing and in youth's fellowship to share. They that can walk with boys and be a boy among them, blithe and gay, Defy the withering blasts of Age because they have the gift of play.

Toys and Life

You can learn a lot from boys By the way they use their toys; Some are selfish in their care, Never very glad to share Playthings with another boy; Seem to want to hoard their joy. And they hide away the drum For the days that never come; Hide the train of cars and skates, Keeping them from all their mates, And run all their boyhood through With their toys as good as new.

Others gladly give and lend, Heedless that the tin may bend, Caring not that drum-heads break, Minding not that playmates take To themselves the joy that lies In the little birthday prize. And in homes that house such boys Always there are broken toys, Symbolizing moments glad That the youthful lives have had. There you'll never find a shelf Dedicated unto self.

Toys are made for children's fun, Very frail and quickly done, And who keeps them long to view, Bright of paint and good as new, Robs himself and other boys Of their swiftly passing joys. So he looked upon a toy When our soldier was a boy; And somehow to-day we're glad That the tokens of our lad And the trinkets that we keep Are a broken, battered heap.

Life itself is but a toy Filled with duty and with joy; Not too closely should we guard Our brief time from being scarred; Never high on musty shelves Should we hoard it for ourselves. It is something we should share In another's hour of care-- Something we should gladly give That another here may live; We should never live it through Keeping it as good as new.

Being Dad on Christmas Eve

They've hung their stockings up with care, And I am in my old arm chair, And mother's busy dragging out The parcels hidden all about. Within a corner, gaunt to see, There stands a barren Christmas tree, But soon upon its branches green A burst of splendor will be seen. And when the busy tongues grow still, That now are wagging with a will Above me as I sit and rest, I shall be at my happiest. The greatest joy man can receive Is being Dad on Christmas eve.

Soon I shall toil with tinsel bright; Place here and there a colored light, And wheresoe'er my fingers lie To-morrow shall a youngster spy Some wonder gift or magic toy, To fill his little soul with joy. The stockings on the mantle piece I'll bulge with sweets, till every crease That marks them now is stretched away. There will be horns and drums to play And dolls to love. For it's my task To get for them the joys they ask. What greater charm can fortune weave Than being Dad on Christmas eve?

With all their pomp, great monarchs miss The happiness of scenes like this. Rich halls to-night are still and sad, Because no little girl or lad Shall wake upon the morn to find The joys that love has left behind. Oh, I have had my share of woe-- Known what it is to bear a blow-- Shed sorrow's tears and stood to care When life seemed desolate and bare, Yet here to-night I smile and say Worth while was all that came my way. For this one joy, all else I'd leave: To be their Dad on Christmas eve.

Little Girls

God made the little boys for fun, for rough and tumble times of play; He made their little legs to run and race and scamper through the day. He made them strong for climbing trees, he suited them for horns and drums, And filled them full of revelries so they could be their father's chums. But then He saw that gentle ways must also travel from above. And so, through all our troubled days He sent us little girls to love.

He knew that earth would never do, unless a bit of Heaven it had. Men needed eyes divinely blue to toil by day and still be glad. A world where only men and boys made merry would in time grow stale, And so He shared His Heavenly joys that faith in Him should never fail. He sent us down a thousand charms, He decked our ways with golden curls And laughing eyes and dimpled arms. He let us have His little girls.

They are the tenderest of His flowers, the little angels of His flock, And we may keep and call them ours, until God's messenger shall knock. They bring to us the gentleness and beauty that we sorely need; They soothe us with each fond caress and strengthen us for every deed. And happy should that mortal be whom God has trusted, through the years, To guard a little girl and see that she is kept from pain and tears.

United States

He shall be great who serves his country well.
He shall be loved who ever guards her fame.
His worth the starry banner long shall tell,
Who loves his land too much to stoop to shame.

Who shares the splendor of these sunny skies
Has freedom as his birthright, and may know
Rich fellowship with comrades brave and wise;
Into the realms of manhood he may go.

Who writes, "United States" beside his name
Offers a pledge that he himself is true;
Gives guarantee that selfishness or shame
Shall never mar the work he finds to do.

He is received world-wide as one who lives
Above the sordid dreams of petty gain,
And is reputed as a man who gives
His best to others in their hours of pain.

This is the heritage of Freedom's soil:
High purposes and lofty goals to claim.
And he shall be rewarded for his toil
Who loves his land too much to stoop to shame.

When My Ship Comes In

You shall have satin and silk to wear, When my ship comes in; And jewels to shine in your raven hair, When my ship comes in. Oh, the path is dreary to-day and long, And little I've brought to your life of song, But the dream still lives and the faith is strong, When my ship comes in.

Gold and silver are pledged to you, When my ship comes in; I pay with this promise for all you do, When my ship comes in. Oh, fairest partner man ever had, It's little I've brought you to make you glad Save the whispered suggestion in moments sad, When my ship comes in.

Though crowded with treasures should be her hold, When my ship comes in, I never can pay for the charms of old, When my ship comes in. The strength I have taken from you has fled, The time for the joys that you craved has sped, I must pay for your gold with the dullest lead, When my ship comes in.

Too late, too late will the treasures be, When my ship comes in. For Age shall stand with us on the quay, When my ship comes in. For the love you've given and the faith you've shown, But a glimpse of the joys that you might have known Will it then be yours on that day to own, When my ship comes in.

The Children

The children bring us laughter, and the children bring us tears; They string our joys, like jewels bright, upon the thread of years; They bring the bitterest cares we know, their mothers' sharpest pain, Then smile our world to loveliness, like sunshine after rain.

The children make us what we are; the childless king is spurned; The children send us to the hills where glories may be earned; For them we pledge our lives to strife, for them do mothers fade, And count in new-born loveliness their sacrifice repaid.

The children bring us back to God; in eyes that dance and shine Men read from day to day the proof of love and power divine; For them are fathers brave and good and mothers fair and true, For them is every cherished dream and every deed we do.

For children are the furnace fires of life kept blazing high; For children on the battle fields are soldiers pleased to die; In every place where humans toil, in every dream and plan, The laughter of the children shapes the destiny of man.

The Comedian

Whatever the task and whatever the risk, wherever
the flag's in air,
The funny man with his sunny ways is sure to
be laughing there.
There are men who fret, there are men who
dream, men making the best of it,
But whether it's hunger or death they face,
Or burning thirst in a desert place,
There is always one, by the good Lord's grace,
Who is making a jest of it.

He travels wherever his brothers go and he leaves
his home behind him,
The need for smiles he seems to know; in the
ranks of death you'll find him.
When some are weary and sick and faint, and
all with the dust are choking,
He dances there with a spirit gay,
And tints with gold what is drab and gray,
And into the gloom of the night and day
He scatters his mirthful joking.

He wins to courage the soul-tried men; he lightens
their hours of sorrow;
He turns their thoughts from the grief that is to
the joy that may come to-morrow.
He mocks at death and he jests at toil, as one
that is never weary;
He japes at danger and discipline,
Or the muddy trench that he's standing in;
There's nothing can banish his merry grin,
Or dampen his spirits cheery.

The honors of war to its heroes go; for them are
the pomp and glory,
But seldom it is that the types relate a victory's
inside story.
And few shall know when the strife is done and
the history's made hereafter,
How much depended on him who stirred
The souls of men with a cheerful word,
And kept them brave by a jest absurd,
And brightened their days with laughter.

Faith

It is faith that bridges the land of breath
To the realms of the souls departed,
That comforts the living in days of death,
And strengthens the heavy-hearted.
It is faith in his dreams that keeps a man
Face front to the odds about him,
And he shall conquer who thinks he can,
In spite of the throngs who doubt him.

Each must stand in the court of life
And pass through the hours of trial;
He shall tested be by the rules of strife,
And tried for his self-denial.
Time shall bruise his soul with the loss of friends,
And frighten him with disaster,
But he shall find when the anguish ends
That of all things faith is master.

So keep your faith in the God above,
And faith in the righteous truth,
It shall bring you back to the absent love,
And the joys of a vanished youth.
You shall smile once more when your tears are dried,
Meet trouble and swiftly rout it,
For faith is the strength of the soul inside,
And lost is the man without it.

The Burden Bearer

Oh, my shoulders grow aweary of the burdens I am bearin', An' I grumble when I'm footsore at the rough road I am farin', But I strap my knapsack tighter till I feel the leather bind me, An' I'm glad to bear the burdens for the ones who come behind me. It's for them that I am ploddin', for the children comin' after; I would strew their path with roses and would fill their days with laughter.

Oh, there's selfishness within me, there are times it gets to talkin', Times I hear it whisper to me, "It's a dusty road you're walkin'; Why not rest your feet a little; why not pause an' take your leisure? Don't you hunger in your strivin' for the merry whirl of pleasure?" Then I turn an' see them smilin' an' I grip my burdens tighter, For the joy that I am seekin' is to see their eyes grow brighter.

Oh, I've sipped the cup of sorrow an' I've felt the gad of trouble, An' I know the hurt of trudgin' through a field o'errun with stubble; But a rougher road to travel had my father good before me, An' I'm owin' all my gladness to the tasks he shouldered for me. Oh, I didn't understand it, when a lad I played about him, But he labored for my safety in the days I'd be without him.

Oh, my kindly father never gave himself a year of leisure-- Never lived one selfish moment, never turned aside for pleasure-- Though he must have grown aweary of the burdens he was bearin'; He was tryin' hard to better every road I'd soon be farin'. Now I turn an' see them smilin' an' I hear their merry laughter, An' I'm glad to bear the burdens for the ones that follow after.

"It's a Boy"

The doctor leads a busy life, he wages war with death; Long hours he spends to help the one who's fighting hard for breath; He cannot call his time his own, nor share in others' fun, His duties claim him through the night when others' work is done. And yet the doctor seems to be God's messenger of joy, Appointed to announce this news of gladness: "It's a boy!"

In many ways unpleasant is the doctor's round of cares, I should not like to have to bear the burdens that he bears; His eyes must look on horrors grim, unmoved he must remain, Emotion he must master if he hopes to conquer pain; Yet to his lot this duty falls, his voice he must employ To speak to man the happiest phrase that's sounded: "It's a boy!"

I wish 'twere given me to speak a message half so glad As that the doctor brings unto the fear-distracted dad. I wish that simple words of mine could change the skies to blue, And lift the care from troubled hearts, as those he utters do. I wish that I could banish all the thoughts that man annoy, And cheer him as the doctor does, who whispers: "It's a boy."

Whoever through the hours of night has stood outside her door, And wondered if she'd smile again; whoe'er has paced the floor, And lived those years of fearful thoughts, and then been swept from woe Up to the topmost height of bliss that's given man to know, Will tell you there's no phrase so sweet, so charged with human joy As that the doctor brings from God--that message: "It's a boy!"

The Finest Fellowship

There may be finer pleasures than just tramping with your boy, And better ways to spend a day; there may be sweeter joy; There may be richer fellowship than that of son and dad, But if there is, I know it not; it's one I've never had.

Oh, some may choose to walk with kings and men of pomp and pride, But as for me, I choose to have my youngster at my side. And some may like the rosy ways of grown-up pleasures glad, But I would go a-wandering with just a little lad.

Yes, I would seek the woods with him and talk to him of trees, And learn to know the birds a-wing and hear their melodies; And I would drop all worldly care and be a boy awhile; Then hand-in-hand come home at dusk to see the mother smile.

Grown men are wearisome at times, and selfish pleasures jar, But sons and dads throughout the world the truest comrades are. So when I want a perfect day with every joy that's fine, I spend it in the open with that little lad o' mine.

Different

The kids at our house number three, As different as they can be; And if perchance they numbered six Each one would have particular tricks, And certain little whims and fads Unlike the other girls and lads. No two glad rascals can you name Whom God has fashioned just the same.

Bud's tough and full of life and fun And likes to race about and run, And tease the girls; the rascal knows The slyest ways to pinch a nose, And yank a curl until it hurts, And disarrange their Sunday skirts. Sometimes he trips them, heads o'er heels, To glory in their frenzied squeals.

And Marjorie: She'd have more joy, She thinks, if she'd been born a boy; She wants no ribbons on her hair, No fancy, fussy things to wear. The things in which Sylvia delights To Marjorie are dreadful frights. They're sisters, yet I'd swear the name Is all they own that is the same.

Proud Sylvia, beautiful to see, A high-toned lady wants to be; She'll primp and fuss and deck her hair And gorgeous raiment wants to wear; She'll sit sedately by the light And read a fairy tale at night; And she will sigh and sometimes wince At all the trials of the prince.

If God should send us children nine To follow our ancestral line, I'd vow that in the lot we'd strike No two among them just alike. And that's the way it ought to be; The larger grows the family, The more we own of joy and bliss, For each brings charms the others miss.

There Will Always Be Something to Do

There will always be something to do, my boy;
There will always be wrongs to right;
There will always be need for a manly breed
And men unafraid to fight.
There will always be honor to guard, my boy;
There will always be hills to climb,
And tasks to do, and battles new
From now to the end of time.

There will always be dangers to face, my boy;
There will always be goals to take;
Men shall be tried, when the roads divide,
And proved by the choice they make.
There will always be burdens to bear, my boy;
There will always be need to pray;
There will always be tears through the future years,
As loved ones are borne away.

There will always be God to serve, my boy,
And always the Flag above;
They shall call to you until life is through
For courage and strength and love.
So these are things that I dream, my boy,
And have dreamed since your life began:
That whatever befalls, when the old world calls,
It shall find you a sturdy man.

A Boy at Christmas

If I could have my wish to-night it would not be for wealth or fame, It would not be for some delight that men who live in luxury claim, But it would be that I might rise at three or four a. m. to see, With eager, happy, boyish eyes, my presents on the Christmas tree. Throughout this world there is no joy, I know now I am growing gray, So rich as being just a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.

I'd like once more to stand and gaze enraptured on a tinseled tree, With eyes that know just how to blaze, a heart still tuned to ecstasy; I'd like to feel the old delight, the surging thrills within me come; To love a thing with all my might, to grasp the pleasure of a drum; To know the meaning of a toy--a meaning lost to minds blase; To be just once again a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.

I'd like to see a pair of skates the way they looked to me back then, Before I'd turned from boyhood's gates and marched into the world of men; I'd like to see a jackknife, too, with those same eager, dancing eyes That couldn't fault or blemish view; I'd like to feel the same surprise, The pleasure, free from all alloy, that has forever passed away, When I was just a little boy and had my faith in Christmas Day.

Oh, little, laughing, roguish lad, the king that rules across the sea Would give his scepter if he had such joy as now belongs to thee! And beards of gray would give their gold, and all the honors they possess, Once more within their grasp to hold thy present fee of happiness. Earth sends no greater, surer joy, as, too soon, thou, as I, shall say, Than that of him who is a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.

Best Way to Read a Book

Best way to read a book I know Is get a lad of six or so, And curl him up upon my knee Deep in a big arm chair, where we Can catch the warmth of blazing coals, And then let two contented souls Melt into one, old age and youth, Sharing adventure's marvelous truth.

I read a page, and then we sit And talk it over, bit by bit; Just how the pirates looked, and why They flung a black flag to the sky. We pass no paragraph without First knowing what it's all about, And when the author starts a fight We join the forces that are right.

We're deep in Treasure Island, and From Spy Glass Hill we've viewed the land; Through thickets dense we've followed Jim And shared the doubts that came to him. We've heard Cap. Smollett arguing there With Long John Silver, gaunt and spare, And mastering our many fears We've battled with those buccaneers.

Best way to read a book I've found Is have a little boy around And take him up upon your knee; Then talk about the tale, till he Lives it and feels it, just as you, And shares the great adventure, too. Books have a deep and lasting joy For him who reads them to his boy.

The Song of Loved Ones

The father toils at his work all day,
And he hums this song as he plods away:
"Heigho! for the mother and babe of three
Who watch at the window each night for me.
Their smiles are ever before my eyes,
And never the sound of their voices dies,
But ever and ever they seem to say,
'Love waits for you at the close of day.'"