Chapter III: Part 3

At home, a mother is heard to croon
To a little babe, this simple tune:
"Heigho! for the father who toils to-day,
He thinks of us, though he's far away;
He soon will come with a happy tread,
And stooping over your trundle bed,
Your little worries he'll kiss away;
Love comes to us at the close of day."

Becoming a Dad

Old women say that men don't know The pain through which all mothers go, And maybe that is true, and yet I vow I never shall forget The night he came. I suffered, too, Those bleak and dreary long hours through; I paced the floor and mopped my brow And waited for his glad wee-ow! I went upstairs and then came down, Because I saw the doctor frown And knew beyond the slightest doubt He wished to goodness I'd clear out.

I walked into the yard for air And back again to hear her there, And met the nurse, as calm as though My world was not in deepest woe, And when I questioned, seeking speech Of consolation that would reach Into my soul and strengthen me For dreary hours that were to be: "Progressing nicely!" that was all She said and tip-toed down the hall; "Progressing nicely!" nothing more, And left me there to pace the floor.

And once the nurse came out in haste For something that had been misplaced, And I that had been growing bold Then felt my blood grow icy cold; And fear's stern chill swept over me. I stood and watched and tried to see Just what it was she came to get. I haven't learned that secret yet. I half-believe that nurse in white Was adding fuel to my fright And taking an unholy glee, From time to time, in torturing me.

Then silence! To her room I crept And was informed the doctor slept! The doctor slept! Oh, vicious thought, While she at death's door bravely fought And suffered untold anguish deep, The doctor lulled himself to sleep. I looked and saw him stretched out flat And could have killed the man for that. Then morning broke, and oh, the joy; With dawn there came to us our boy, And in a glorious little while I went in there and saw her smile!

I must have looked a human wreck, My collar wilted at the neck, My hair awry, my features drawn With all the suffering I had borne. She looked at me and softly said, "If I were you, I'd go to bed." Hers was the bitterer part, I know; She traveled through the vale of woe, But now when women folks recall The pain and anguish of it all I answer them in manner sad: "It's no cinch to become a dad."

The Test

You can brag about the famous men you know;
You may boast about the great men you have met,
Parsons, eloquent and wise; stars in histrionic skies;
Millionaires and navy admirals, and yet
Fame and power and wealth and glory vanish fast;
They are lusters that were never made to stick,
And the friends worth-while and true, are the happy smiling few
Who come to call upon you when you're sick.

You may think it very fine to know the great;
You may glory in some leader's words of praise;
You may tell with eyes aglow of the public men you know,
But the true friends seldom travel glory's ways,
And the day you're lying ill, lonely, pale and keeping still,
With a fevered pulse, that's beating double quick,
Then it is you must depend on the old-familiar friend
To come to call upon you when you're sick.

It is pleasing to receive a great man's nod,
And it's good to know the big men of the land,
But the test of friendship true, isn't merely: "Howdy-do?"
And a willingness to shake you by the hand.
If you want to know the friends who love you best,
And the faithful from the doubtful you would pick,
It is not a mighty task; of yourself you've but to ask:
"Does he come to call upon me when I'm sick?"

The Old Wooden Tub

I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone, When there were joys that never more the world will look upon, The days before inventors smoothed the little cares away And made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day; When bathrooms were exceptions, and we got our weekly scrub By standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.

We had no rapid heaters, and no blazing gas to burn, We boiled the water on the stove, and each one took his turn. Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two; The water brother Billy used for me would also do, Although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit, On winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.

We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails, And sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails, But if the nights were very cold, by closing every door We were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor. Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub, In comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.

But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun, And through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run; No little flying forms go past, too swift to see their charms, With shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms; The home's so full of luxury now, it's almost like a club, I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.

Lost Opportunities

"When I am rich," he used to say, "A thousand joys I'll give away; I'll walk among the poor I find And unto one and all be kind. I'll place a wreath of roses red Upon the bier of all my dead; I'll help the struggling youth to climb; In doing good I'll spend my time; To all in need I'll friendly be The day that fortune smiles on me."

He never guessed that being kind Depends upon the heart and mind And not upon the purse at all; That poor men's gifts, however small, Make light some weary traveler's load And smooth for him his troubled road. He never knew or understood The fellowship of doing good. Because he had not much to spare He thought it vain to give his share.

Yet many passed him, day by day, He might have helped along the way. He fancied kindness something which Belongs entirely to the rich. And so he lived and toiled for gold, Unsympathetic, harsh and cold, Intending all the time to share The burdens that his brothers bear When he possessed great wealth, and he Could well afford a friend to be.

His fortune came, but, oh, too late; The poor about him could not wait. They never guessed and never knew The things that he had meant to do. Few knew how much he'd planned to give If God had only let him live. And when at last his form was cold, All that he'd left on earth was gold. A kindly name is something which A man must earn before he's rich.

Patriotism

I think my country needs my vote, I know it doesn't need my throat, My lungs and larynx, too; And so I sit at home at night And teach my children what is right And wise for them to do; And when I'm on the job by day I do my best to earn my pay.

Though arguments may rage and roar; I grease the hinges on my door And paint the porches blue; I love this splendid land of ours, And so I plant the seeds and flowers And watch them bursting through. I never stand upon a box To say we're headed for the rocks.

My notion of a patriot Is one who guards his little cot, And keeps it up to date; Who pays his taxes when they're due, And pays his bills for groc'ries, too, And dresses well his mate; He keeps his children warmly clad And lets them know they have a dad.

The nation's safe as long as men Get to their work and back again Each day with cheerful smile; So long as there are fathers who Rejoice in what they have to do And find their homes worth while, The Stars and Stripes will wave on high And liberty will never die.

The Tramp

Eagerly he took my dime,
Then shuffled on his way,
Thick with sin and filth and grime,
But I wondered all that day
How the man had gone astray.

Not to him the dime I gave;
Not unto the man of woe,
Not to him who should be brave,
Not to him who'd sunk so low,
But the boy of long ago.

Passed his years of sin and shame
Through the filth that all could see,
Out of what he is there came
One more pitiful to me:
Came the boy that used to be.

Smiling, full of promise glad,
Stood a baby, like my own;
I beheld a glorious lad,
Someone once had loved and known
Out of which this wreck had grown!

Where, thought I, must lie the blame?
Who has failed in such a way?
As all children come he came,
There's a soul within his clay;
Who has led his feet astray?

As he shuffled down the hall
With the coin I'd never miss,
What, thought I, were fame and all
Man may gain of earthly bliss,
If my child should come to this!

The Lonely Garden

I wonder what the trees will say, The trees that used to share his play, An' knew him as the little lad Who used to wander with his dad. They've watched him grow from year to year Since first the good Lord sent him here. This shag-bark hick'ry, many a time, The little fellow tried t' climb, An' never a spring has come but he Has called upon his favorite tree. I wonder what they all will say When they are told he's marched away.

I wonder what the birds will say, The swallow an' the chatterin' jay, The robin, an' the kill-deer, too. For every one o' them, he knew, An' every one o' them knew him, An' hoppin' there from limb t' limb, Waited each spring t' tell him all They'd done an' seen since 'way last fall. He was the first to greet 'em here As they returned from year t' year; An' now I wonder what they'll say When they are told he's marched away.

I wonder how the roses there Will get along without his care, An' how the lilac bush will face The loneliness about th' place; For ev'ry spring an' summer, he Has been the chum o' plant an' tree, An' every livin' thing has known A comradeship that's finer grown, By havin' him from year t' year. Now very soon they'll all be here, An' I am wonderin' what they'll say When they find out he's marched away.

The Silver Stripes

When we've honored the heroes returning from France
And we've mourned for the heroes who fell,
When we've done all we can for the homecoming man
Who stood to the shot and the shell,
Let us all keep in mind those who lingered behind--
The thousands who waited to go--
The brave and the true, who did all they could do,
Yet have only the silver to show.

They went from their homes at the summons for men,
They drilled in the heat of the sun,
They fell into line with a pluck that was fine;
Each cheerfully shouldered a gun.
They were ready to die for Old Glory on high,
They were eager to meet with the foe;
They were just like the rest of our bravest and best,
Though they've only the silver to show.

Their bodies stayed here, but their spirits were there;
And the boys who looked death in the face,
For the cause had no fear--for they knew, waiting here,
There were many to fill up each place.
Oh, the ships came and went, till the battle was spent
And the tyrant went down with the blow!
But he still might have reigned but for those who remained
And have only the silver to show.

So here's to the soldiers who never saw France,
And here's to the boys unafraid!
Let us give them their due; they were glorious, too,
And it isn't their fault that they stayed.
They were eager to share in the sacrifice there;
Let them share in the peace that we know.
For we know they were brave, by the service they gave,
Though they've only the silver to show.

Tinkerin' at Home

Some folks there be who seem to need excitement fast and furious, An' reckon all the joys that have no thrill in 'em are spurious. Some think that pleasure's only found down where the lights are shining, An' where an orchestra's at work the while the folks are dining. Still others seek it at their play, while some there are who roam, But I am happiest when I am tinkerin' 'round the home.

I like to wear my oldest clothes, an' fuss around the yard, An' dig a flower bed now an' then, and pensively regard The mornin' glories climbin' all along the wooden fence, An' do the little odds an' ends that aren't of consequence. I like to trim the hedges, an' touch up the paint a bit, An' sort of take a homely pride in keepin' all things fit. An' I don't envy rich folks who are sailin' o'er the foam When I can spend a day or two in tinkerin' 'round the home.

If I were fixed with money, as some other people are, I'd take things mighty easy; I'd not travel very far. I'd jes' wear my oldest trousers an' my flannel shirt, an' stay An' guard my vine an' fig tree in an old man's tender way. I'd bathe my soul in sunshine every mornin', and I'd bend My back to pick the roses; Oh, I'd be a watchful friend To everything around the place, an' in the twilight gloam I'd thank the Lord for lettin' me jes' tinker 'round the home.

But since I've got to hustle in the turmoil of the town, An' don't expect I'll ever be allowed to settle down An' live among the roses an' the tulips an' the phlox, Or spend my time in carin' for the noddin' hollyhocks, I've come to the conclusion that perhaps in Heaven I may Get a chance to know the pleasures that I'm yearnin' for to-day; An' I'm goin' to ask the good Lord, when I've climbed the golden stair, If he'll kindly let me tinker 'round the home we've got up there.

When An Old Man Gets to Thinking

When an old man gets to thinking of the years he's traveled through, He hears again the laughter of the little ones he knew. He isn't counting money, and he isn't planning schemes; He's at home with friendly people in the shadow of his dreams.

When he's lived through all life's trials and his sun is in the west, When he's tasted all life's pleasures and he knows which ones were best, Then his mind is stored with riches, not of silver and of gold, But of happy smiling faces and the joys he couldn't hold.

Could we see what he is seeing as he's dreaming in his chair, We should find no scene of struggle in the distance over there. As he counts his memory treasures, we should see some shady lane Where's he walking with his sweetheart, young, and arm in arm again.

We should meet with friendly people, simple, tender folk and kind, That had once been glad to love him. In his dreaming we should find All the many little beauties that enrich the lives of men That the eyes of youth scarce notice and the poets seldom pen.

Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man. Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can; For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friend And the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end.

My Job

I wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat, And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat? And who has every day to face a finer round of care Than buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear?

Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do, And think an all-important post has been assigned to you, But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose; I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes.

I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be, And little gold or little fame may come from it to me; It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joy Than buying little breeches for a sturdy little boy.

My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks; It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks; To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout, And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out.

I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king, I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling; I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys, Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys.

A Good Name

Men talk too much of gold and fame, And not enough about a name; And yet a good name's better far Than all earth's glistening jewels are. Who holds his name above all price And chooses every sacrifice To keep his earthly record clear, Can face the world without a fear.

Who never cheats nor lies for gain, A poor man may, perhaps, remain, Yet, when at night he goes to rest, No little voice within his breast Disturbs his slumber. Conscience clear, He falls asleep with naught to fear And when he wakes the world to face He is not tainted by disgrace.

Who keeps his name without a stain Wears no man's brand and no man's chain; He need not fear to speak his mind In dread of what the world may find. He then is master of his will; None may command him to be still, Nor force him, when he would stand fast, To flinch before his hidden past.

Not all the gold that men may claim Can cover up a deed of shame; Not all the fame of victory sweet Can free the man who played the cheat; He lives a slave unto the last Unto the shame that mars his past. He only freedom here may own Whose name a stain has never known.

Alone

Strange thoughts come to the man alone;
'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God,
And views himself as a single clod
In the soil of life where the souls are grown.
'Tis then he questions the why and where,
The start and end of his years and days,
And what is blame and what is praise,
And what is ugly and what is fair.

When a man has drawn from the busy throng
To the sweet retreat of the silent hours,
Low voices whisper of higher powers.
He catches the strain of some far-off song,
And the sham fades out and his eyes can see,
Not the man he is in the day's hot strife
And the greed and grind of a selfish life,
But the soul of the man he is to be.

He feels the throbbing of life divine,
And catches a glimpse of the greater plan;
He questions the purpose and work of man.
In the hours of silence his mind grows fine;
He seeks to learn what is kept unknown;
He turns from self and its garb of clay
And dwells on the soul and the higher way.
Strange thoughts come when a man's alone.

Shut-Ins

We're gittin' so we need again To see the sproutin' seed again. We've been shut up all winter long Within our narrow rooms; We're sort o' shriveled up an' dry-- Ma's cranky-like an' quick to cry; We need the blue skies overhead, The garden with its blooms.

I'm findin' fault with this an' that! I threw my bootjack at the cat Because he rubbed against my leg-- I guess I'm all on edge; I'm fidgety an' fussy too, An' Ma finds fault with all I do; It seems we need to see again The green upon the hedge.

We've been shut up so long, it seems We've lost the glamour of our dreams. We've narrowed down as people will Till fault is all we see. We need to stretch our souls in air Where there is room enough to spare; We need the sight o' something green On every shrub an' tree.

But soon our petulance will pass-- Our feet will tread the dew-kissed grass; Our souls will break their narrow cells, An' swell with love once more. And with the blue skies overhead, The harsh an' hasty words we've said Will vanish with the snow an' ice, When spring unlocks the door.

The sun will make us sweet again With blossoms at our feet again; We'll wander, arm in arm, the ways Where beauty reigns supreme. An' Ma an' I shall smile again, An' be ourselves awhile again, An' claim, like prisoners set free, The charm of every dream.

The Cut-Down Trousers

When father couldn't wear them mother cut them down for me; She took the slack in fore and aft, and hemmed them at the knee; They fitted rather loosely, but the things that made me glad Were the horizontal pockets that those good old trousers had.

They shone like patent leather just where well-worn breeches do, But the cloth in certain portions was considered good as new, And I know that I was envied by full many a richer lad For the horizontal pockets that those good old knickers had.

They were cut along the waist line, with the opening straight and wide, And there wasn't any limit to what you could get inside; They would hold a peck of marbles, and a knife and top and string, And snakes and frogs and turtles; there was room for everything.

Then our fortune changed a little, and my mother said that she Wouldn't bother any longer fitting father's duds on me, But the store clothes didn't please me; there were times they made me sad, For I missed those good old pockets that my father's trousers had.

Dinner-Time

Tuggin' at your bottle,
An' it's O, you're mighty sweet!
Just a bunch of dimples
From your top-knot to your feet,
Lying there an' gooin'
In the happiest sort o' way,
Like a rosebud peekin' at me
In the early hours o' day;
Gloating over goodness
That you know an' sense an' clutch,
An' smilin' at your daddy,
Who loves you, O, so much!

Tuggin' at your bottle,
As you nestle in your crib,
With your daddy grinnin' at you
'Cause you've dribbled on your bib,
An' you gurgle an' you chortle
Like a brook in early Spring;
An' you kick your pink feet gayly,
An' I think you'd like to sing.
All you wanted was your dinner,
Daddy knew it too, you bet!
An' the moment that you got it
Then you ceased to fuss an' fret.

Tuggin' at your bottle,
Not a care, excepting when
You lose the rubber nipple,
But you find it soon again;
An' the gurglin' an' the gooin'
An' the chortlin' start anew,
An' the kickin' an' the squirmin'
Show the wondrous joy o' you.
But I'll bet you're not as happy
At your dinner, little tot,
As the weather-beaten daddy
Who is bendin' o'er your cot!

The Pay Envelope

Is it all in the envelope holding your pay? Is that all you're working for day after day? Are you getting no more from your toil than the gold That little enclosure of paper will hold? Is that all you're after; is that all you seek? Does that close the deal at the end of the week?

Is it all in the envelope holding his pay? Is that all you offer him day after day? Is that all he wins by his labor from you? Is that the reward for the best he can do? Would you say of your men, when the week has been turned, That all they've received is the money they've earned?

Is it all in the envelope, workman and chief? Then loyalty's days must be fleeting and brief; If you measure your work by its value in gold The sum of your worth by your pay shall be told; And if something of friendship your men do not find Outside of their envelopes, you're the wrong kind.

If all that you offer is silver and gold, You haven't a man in your plant you can hold. If all that you're after each week is your pay, You are doing your work in a short-sighted way; For the bigger rewards it is useless to hope If you never can see past the pay envelope.

The Evening Prayer

Little girlie, kneeling there, Speaking low your evening prayer, In your cunning little nightie With your pink toes peeping through, With your eyes closed and your hands Tightly clasped, while daddy stands In the doorway, just to hear the "God bless papa," lisped by you, You don't know just what I feel, As I watch you nightly kneel By your trundle bed and whisper Soft and low your little prayer! But in all I do or plan, I'm a bigger, better man Every time I hear you asking God to make my journey fair.

Little girlie, kneeling there, Lisping low your evening prayer, Asking God above to bless me At the closing of each day, Oft the tears come to my eyes, And I feel a big lump rise In my throat, that I can't swallow, And I sometimes turn away. In the morning, when I wake, And my post of duty take, I go forth with new-born courage To accomplish what is fair; And, throughout the live-long day, I am striving every way To come back to you each evening And be worthy of your prayer.

Thoughts of a Father

We've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son, The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun. And, summing up the works of God, I write with reverent pen, The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men.

Through Him we learned the ways of God and found the Father's love; The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above. The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth, He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth.

How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie? How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die? Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee, But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me.

In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine; I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine. If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead, In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.

It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame, My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim. My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan, Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.

When a Little Baby Dies

When a little baby dies And its wee form silent lies, And its little cheeks seem waxen And its little hands are still, Then your soul gives way to treason, And you cry: "O, God, what reason, O, what justice and what mercy Have You shown us by Your will?

"There are, O, so many here Of the yellow leaf and sere, Who are anxious, aye, and ready To respond unto Your call; Yet You pass them by unheeding, And You set our hearts to bleeding! "O," you mutter, "God, how cruel Do Your vaunted mercies fall!"

Yet some day, in after years, When Death's angel once more nears, And the unknown, silent river Looms as darkly as a pall, You will hear your baby saying, "Mamma, come to me, I'm staying With my arms outstretched to greet you," And you'll understand it all.

To the Boy

I have no wish, my little lad,
To climb the towering heights of fame.
I am content to be your dad
And share with you each pleasant game.
I am content to hold your hand
And walk along life's path with you,
And talk of things we understand--
The birds and trees and skies of blue.

Though some may seek the smiles of kings,
For me your laughter's joy enough;
I have no wish to claim the things
Which lure men into pathways rough.
I'm happiest when you and I,
Unmindful of life's bitter cares,
Together watch the clouds drift by,
Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.

I crave no more of life than this:
Continuance of such a trust;
Your smile, whate'er the morning is,
Until my clay returns to dust.
If but this comradeship may last
Until I end my earthly task--
Your hand and mine by love held fast--
Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.

I would not trade one day with you
To wear the purple robes of power,
Nor drop your hand from mine to do
Some great deed in a selfish hour.
For you have brought me joy serene
And made my soul supremely glad.
In life rewarded I have been;
'Twas all worth while to be your dad.

His Dog

Pete bristles when the doorbell rings.
Last night he didn't act the same.
Dogs have a way of knowin' things,
An' when the dreaded cable came,
He looked at mother an' he whined
His soft, low sign of somethin' wrong,
As though he knew that we should find
The news that we had feared so long.

He's followed me about the place
An' hasn't left my heels to-day;
He's rubbed his nose against my face
As if to kiss my grief away.
There on his plate beside the door
You'll see untouched his mornin' meal.
I never understood before
That dogs share every hurt you feel.

We've got the pride o' service fine
As consolation for the blow;
We know by many a written line
He went the way he wished to go.
We know that God an' Country found
Our boy a servant brave an' true--
But Pete must sadly walk around
An' miss the master that he knew.

The mother's bearing up as well
As such a noble mother would;
The hurt I feel I needn't tell--
I guess by all it's understood.
But Pete--his dog--that used to wait
Each night to hear his cheery call,
An' romped about him at the gate,
Has felt the blow the worst of all.

Lullaby

The golden dreamboat's ready, all her silken sails are spread, And the breeze is gently blowing to the fairy port of Bed, And the fairy's captain's waiting while the busy sandman flies With the silver dust of slumber, closing every baby's eyes.

Oh, the night is rich with moonlight and the sea is calm with peace, And the angels fly to guard you and their watch shall never cease, And the fairies there await you; they have splendid dreams to spin; You shall hear them gayly singing as the dreamboat's putting in.

Like the ripple of the water does the dreamboat's whistle blow, Only baby ears can catch it when it comes the time to go, Only little ones may journey on so wonderful a ship, And go drifting off to slumber with no care to mar the trip.

Oh, the little eyes are heavy but the little soul is light; It shall never know a sorrow or a terror through the night. And at last when dawn is breaking and the dreamboat's trip is o'er, You shall wake to find the mother smiling over you once more.

The Old-Fashioned Parents

The good old-fashioned mothers and the good old-fashioned dads, With their good old-fashioned lassies and their good old-fashioned lads, Still walk the lanes of loving in their simple, tender ways, As they used to do back yonder in the good old-fashioned days.

They dwell in every city and they live in every town, Contentedly and happy and not hungry for renown; On every street you'll find 'em in their simple garments clad, The good old-fashioned mother and the good old-fashioned dad.

There are some who sigh for riches, there are some who yearn for fame, And a few misguided people who no longer blush at shame; But the world is full of mothers, and the world is full of dads; Who are making sacrifices for their little girls and lads.

They are growing old together, arm in arm they walk along, And their hearts with love are beating and their voices sweet with song; They still share their disappointments and they share their pleasures, too, And whatever be their fortune, to each other they are true.

They are watching at the bedside of a baby pale and white, And they kneel and pray together for the care of God at night; They are romping with their children in the fields of clover sweet, And devotedly they guard them from the perils of the street.

They are here in countless numbers, just as they have always been, And their glory is untainted by the selfish and the mean. And I'd hate to still be living, it would dismal be and sad, If we'd no old-fashioned mother and we'd no old-fashioned dad.

The Fun of Forgiving

Sometimes I'm almost glad to hear when I get home that they've been bad; And though I try to look severe, within my heart I'm really glad When mother sadly tells to me the list of awful things they've done, Because when they come tearfully, forgiving them is so much fun.

I like to have them all alone, with no one near to hear or see, Then as their little faults they own, I like to take them on my knee And talk it over and pretend the whipping soon must be begun; And then to kiss them at the end--forgiving them is so much fun.

Within the world there's no such charm as children penitent and sad, Who put two soft and chubby arms around your neck, when they've been bad. And as you view their trembling lips, away your temper starts to run, And from your mind all anger slips--forgiving them is so much fun.

If there were nothing to forgive I wonder if we'd love them so; If they were wise enough to live as grown-ups do, and always go Along the pleasant path of right, with ne'er a fault from sun to sun, A lot of joys we'd miss at night--forgiving them is so much fun.

Tonsils

One day the doctor came because my throat was feeling awful sore, And when he looked inside to see he said: "It's like it was before; It's tonserlitis, sure enough. You'd better tell her Pa to-day To make his mind up now to have that little party right away."

I'd heard him talk that way before when Bud was sick, and so I knew That what they did to him that time, to me they planned to come and do. An' when my Pa came home that night Ma said: "She can't grow strong and stout Until the doctor comes an' takes her addynoids an' tonsils out."

An' then Pa took me on his knee and kissed me solemn-like an' grave, An' said he guessed it was the best, an' then he asked me to be brave. Ma said: "Don't look at her like that, it's nothing to be scared about"; An' Pa said: "True, but still I wish she needn't have her tonsils out."

Next morning when I woke, Ma said I couldn't have my breakfast then, Because the doctors and the nurse had said they would be here by ten. When they got here the doctor smiled an' gave me some perfume to smell, An' told me not to cry at all, coz pretty soon I would be well.

When I woke up Ma smiled an' said: "It's all right now"; but in my head It seemed like wheels were buzzing round and everywhere I looked was red. An' I can't eat hard cookies yet, nor use my voice at all to shout, But Pa an' Ma seem awful glad that I have had my tonsils out.

At Dawn

They come to my room at the break of the day, With their faces all smiles and their minds full of play; They come on their tip-toes and silently creep To the edge of the bed where I'm lying asleep, And then at a signal, on which they agree, With a shout of delight they jump right onto me.

They lift up my eyelids and tickle my nose, And scratch at my cheeks with their little pink toes; And sometimes to give them a laugh and a scare I snap and I growl like a cinnamon bear; Then over I roll, and with three kids astride I gallop away on their feather-bed ride.

I've thought it all over. Man's biggest mistake Is in wanting to sleep when his babes are awake; When they come to his room for that first bit of fun He should make up his mind that his sleeping is done; He should share in the laughter they bring to his side And start off the day with that feather-bed ride.

Oh they're fun at their breakfast and fun at their lunch; Any hour of the day they're a glorious bunch! When they're togged up for Sundays they're certainly fine, And I'm glad in my heart I can call them all mine, But I think that the time that I like them the best Is that hour in the morning before they are dressed.

Names and Faces

I do not ask a store of wealth,
Nor special gift of power;
I hope always for strength and health
To brave each troubled hour.
But life would be distinctly good,
However low my place is,
Had I a memory that could
Remember names and faces.

I am not troubled by the fact
That common skill is mine;
I care not that my life has lacked
The glory of the fine.
But, oh, when someone speaks to me,
My cheeks grow red with shame
Because I'm sure that he must see
That I have lost his name.

Embarrassment, where'er I go,
Pursues me night and day;
I hear some good friend's glad "Hello,"
And stop a word to say.
His voice melodiously may ring,
But that's all lost on me,
For all the time I'm wondering
Whoever can he be.

I envy no man's talent rare
Save his who can repeat
The names of men, no matter where
It is they chance to meet.
For he escapes the bitter blow,
The sorrow and regret,
Of greeting friends he ought to know
As though they'd never met.

I do not ask a store of gold,
High station here, or fame;
I have no burning wish to hold
The popular acclaim;
Life's lanes I'd gladly journey through,
Nor mind the stony places,
Could I but do as others do
And know men's names and faces!

Pleasing Dad

When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three, I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me. He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said; Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head; And when I'd done a thing worth while, the thought that made me glad Was always that I'd done my best, and that would please my dad.

I can look back to-day and see how proud he used to be When I'd come home from school and say they'd recommended me. I didn't understand it then, for school boys never do, But in a vague and general way it seems to me I knew That father took great pride in me, and wanted me to shine, And that it meant a lot to him when I'd done something fine.

Then one day out of school I went, amid the great world's hum, An office boy, and father watched each night to see me come. And I recall how proud he was of me that wondrous day When I could tell him that, unasked, the firm had raised my pay. I still can feel that hug he gave, I understand the joy It meant to him to learn that men were trusting in his boy.

I wonder will it please my dad? How oft the thought occurs When I am stumbling on the paths, beset with briars and burrs! He isn't here to see me now, alone my race I run, And yet some day I'll go to him and tell him all I've done. And oh I pray that when we meet beyond life's stormy sea That he may claim the old-time joy of being proud of me.

Living Flowers

"I'm never alone in the garden," he said. "I'm
never alone with the flowers.
It seems like I'm meeting the wonderful dead
out here with these blossoms of ours.
An' there's never a bush or a plant or a tree, but
somebody loved it of old.
An' the souls of the angels come talkin' to me
through the petals of crimson an' gold.

"The lilacs in spring bring the mother once more,
an' she lives in the midsummer rose.
She smiles in the peony clump at the door, an'
sings when the four o'clocks close.
She loved every blossom God gave us to own, an'
daily she gave it her care.
So never I walk in the garden alone, for I feel
that the mother's still there.

"These are the pinks that a baby once kissed,
still spicy with fragrance an' fair.
The years have been long since her laughter I've
missed, but her spirit is hovering there.
The roses that ramble and twine on the wall were
planted by one that was kind
An' I'm sure as I stand here an' gaze on them all,
that his soul has still lingered behind.

"I'm never alone in the garden," he said, "I
have many to talk with an' see,
For never a flower comes to bloom in its bed, but
it brings back a loved one to me.
An' I fancy whenever I'm bendin' above these
blossoms of crimson an' gold,
That I'm seein' an' hearin' the ones that I love,
who lived in the glad days of old."

The Common Joys

These joys are free to all who live,
The rich and poor, the great and low:
The charms which kindness has to give,
The smiles which friendship may bestow,
The honor of a well-spent life,
The glory of a purpose true,
High courage in the stress of strife,
And peace when every task is through.

Nor class nor caste nor race nor creed,
Nor greater might can take away
The splendor of an honest deed.
Who nobly serves from day to day
Shall walk the road of life with pride,
With friends who recognize his worth,
For never are these joys denied
Unto the humblest man on earth.

Not all may rise to world-wide fame,
Not all may gather fortune's gold,
Not all life's luxuries may claim;
In differing ways success is told.
But all may know the peace of mind
Which comes from service brave and true;
The poorest man can still be kind,
And nobly live till life is through.

These joys abound for one and all:
The pride of fearing no man's scorn,
Of standing firm, where others fall,
Of bearing well what must be borne.
He that shall do an honest deed
Shall win an honest deed's rewards;
For these, no matter race or creed,
Life unto every man affords.

His Example

There are little eyes upon you, and they're watching night and day; There are little ears that quickly take in every word you say; There are little hands all eager to do everything you do, And a little boy that's dreaming of the day he'll be like you.

You're the little fellow's idol, you're the wisest of the wise; In his little mind about you no suspicions ever rise; He believes in you devoutly, holds that all you say and do He will say and do in your way when he's grown up just like you.

Oh, it sometimes makes me shudder when I hear my boy repeat Some careless phrase I've uttered in the language of the street; And it sets my heart to grieving when some little fault I see And I know beyond all doubting that he picked it up from me.

There's a wide-eyed little fellow who believes you're always right, And his ears are always open and he watches day and night; You are setting an example every day in all you do For the little boy who's waiting to grow up to be like you.

The Change-Worker

A feller don't start in to think of himself, an'
the part that he's playin' down here,
When there's nobody lookin' to him fer support,
an' he don't give a thought to next year.
His faults don't seem big an' his habits no worse
than a whole lot of others he knows,
An' he don't seem to care what his neighbors may
say, as heedlessly forward he goes.
He don't stop to think if it's wrong or it's right;
with his speech he is careless or glib,
Till the minute the nurse lets him into the room
to see what's asleep in the crib.

An' then as he looks at that bundle o' red, an' the
wee little fingers an' toes,
An' he knows it's his flesh an' his blood that is there,
an' will be just like him when it grows,
It comes in a flash to a feller right then, there is
more here than pleasure or pelf,
An' the sort of a man his baby will be is the sort
of a man he's himself.
Then he kisses the mother an' kisses the child, an'
goes out determined that he
Will endeavor to be just the sort of a man that
he's wantin' his baby to be.

A feller don't think that it matters so much what
he does till a baby arrives;
He sows his wild oats an' he has his gay fling an'
headlong in pleasure he dives;
An' a drink more or less doesn't matter much
then, for life is a comedy gay,
But the moment a crib is put in the home, an' a
baby has come there to stay,
He thinks of the things he has done in the past,
an' it strikes him as hard as a blow,
That the path he has trod in the past is a path
that he don't want his baby to go.

I ain't much to preach, an' I can't just express
in the way that your clever men can
The thoughts that I think, but it seems to me now
that when God wants to rescue a man
From himself an' the follies that harmless appear,
but which, under the surface, are grim,
He summons the angel of infancy sweet, an' sends
down a baby to him.
For in that way He opens his eyes to himself, and
He gives him the vision to see
That his duty's to be just the sort of a man that
he's wantin' his baby to be.

A Convalescin' Woman

A convalescin' woman does the strangest sort o' things, An' it's wonderful the courage that a little new strength brings; O, it's never safe to leave her for an hour or two alone, Or you'll find th' doctor's good work has been quickly overthrown. There's that wife o' mine, I reckon she's a sample of 'em all; She's been mighty sick, I tell you, an' to-day can scarcely crawl, But I left her jes' this mornin' while I fought potater bugs, An' I got back home an' caught her in the back yard shakin' rugs.

I ain't often cross with Nellie, an' I let her have her way, But it made me mad as thunder when I got back home to-day An' found her doin' labor that'd tax a big man's strength; An' I guess I lost my temper, for I scolded her at length, 'Til I seen her teardrops fallin' an' she said: "I couldn't stand To see those rugs so dirty, so I took 'em all in hand, An' it ain't hurt me nuther--see, I'm gettin' strong again--" An' I said: "Doggone it! can't ye leave sich work as that fer men?"

Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an' weeks an' weeks, An' she wasted most to nothin', an' th' roses left her cheeks; An' one night I feared I'd lose her; 'twas the turnin' point, I guess, Coz th' next day I remember that th' doctor said: "Success!" Well, I brought her home an' told her that for two months she must stay A-sittin' in her rocker an' jes' watch th' kids at play. An' th' first week she was patient, but I mind the way I swore On th' day when I discovered 'at she'd scrubbed th' kitchen floor.

O, you can't keep wimmin quiet, an' they ain't a bit like men; They're hungerin' every minute jes' to get to work again; An' you've got to watch 'em allus, when you know they're weak an' ill, Coz th' minute that yer back is turned they'll labor fit to kill. Th' house ain't cleaned to suit 'em an' they seem to fret an' fume 'Less they're busy doin' somethin' with a mop or else a broom; An' it ain't no use to scold 'em an' it ain't no use to swear, Coz th' next time they will do it jes' the minute you ain't there.

The Doubtful To-Morrow

Whenever I walk through God's Acres of Dead I wonder how often the mute voices said: "I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow Or rise to a sacrifice splendid--to-morrow."

I wonder how many fine thoughts unexpressed Were lost to the world when they went to their rest; I wonder what beautiful deeds they'd have done If they had but witnessed to-morrow's bright sun.

Oh, if the dead grieve, it is not for their fate, For death comes to all of us early or late, But their sighs of regret and their burdens of sorrow Are born of the joys they'd have scattered to-morrow.

Do the friends they'd have cheered know the thoughts of the dead? Do they treasure to-day the last words that were said? What mem'ries would sweeten, what hearts cease to burn, If but for a day the dead friends could return!

We know not the hour that our summons shall come; We know not the time that our voice shall be dumb, Yet even as they, to our ultimate sorrow, We leave much that's fine for that doubtful to-morrow.

Tommy Atkins' Way

He was battle-scarred and ugly with the marks of shot and shell, And we knew that British Tommy had a stirring tale to tell, So we asked him where he got it and what disarranged his face, And he answered, blushing scarlet: "In a nawsty little place."

There were medals on his jacket, but he wouldn't tell us why. "A bit lucky, gettin' this one," was the sum of his reply. He had fought a horde of Prussians with his back against the wall, And he told us, when we questioned: "H'it was nothing arfter h'all."

Not a word of what he'd suffered, not a word of what he'd seen, Not a word about the fury of the hell through which he'd been. All he said was: "When you're cornered, h'and you've got no plyce to go, You've just got to stand up to it! You cawn't 'elp yourself, you know.

"H'it was just a bit unpleasant, when the shells were droppin' thick," And he tapped his leather leggins with his little bamboo stick. "What did H'I do? Nothing, really! Nothing more than just my share; Some one h'else would gladly do it, but H'I 'appened to be there."

When this sturdy British Tommy quits the battlefields of earth And St. Peter asks his spirit to recount his deeds of worth, I fancy I can hear him, with his curious English drawl, Saying: "Nothing, nothing really, that's worth mentioning at h'all."

The Right Family