The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAll That Matters

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAll That MattersThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: All That MattersAuthor: Edgar A. GuestRelease date: May 21, 2009 [eBook #28903]Most recently updated: January 5, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THAT MATTERS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: All That MattersAuthor: Edgar A. GuestRelease date: May 21, 2009 [eBook #28903]Most recently updated: January 5, 2021Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

Title: All That Matters

Author: Edgar A. Guest

Release date: May 21, 2009 [eBook #28903]Most recently updated: January 5, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THAT MATTERS ***

byEDGAR A. GUEST

With PicturesbyW. T. BENDA M. L. BOWERF. X. LEYENDECKERF. C. YOHN H. C. PITZROBERT E. JOHNSTONHARVEY EMRICHPRUETT CARTER

THE REILLY & LEE CO.Chicago

Printed in the United States of AmericaCopyright, 1922byThe Reilly & Lee Co.All Rights ReservedIllustrations Copyrighted, 1920, 1921, 1922by The International Magazine Companyand reproduced by specialarrangement withthe Cosmopolitan MagazineSecond Printing—August, 1922Third Printing—October, 1922All That Matters

"All That Matters" From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker."All That Matters"From a painting byFrank X. Leyendecker.

"All That Matters"Is DedicatedTo My WifeWho IsAll To MeE. A. G.

When all that matters shall be written downAnd the long record of our years is told,Where sham, like flesh, must perish and grow cold;When the tomb closes on our fair renownAnd priest and layman, sage and motleyed clownMust quit the places which they dearly hold,What to our credit shall we find enscrolled?And what shall be the jewels of our crown?I fancy we shall hear to our surpriseSome little deeds of kindness, long forgot,Telling our glory, and the brave and wiseDeeds which we boasted often, mentioned not.God gave us life not just to buy and sell,And all that matters is to live it well.

Until she died we never knewThe beauty of our faith in God.We'd seen the summer roses nodAnd wither as the tempests blew,Through many a spring we'd lived to seeThe buds returning to the tree.We had not felt the touch of woe;What cares had come, had lightly flown;Our burdens we had borne alone—The need of God we did not know.It seemed sufficient through the daysTo think and act in worldly ways.And then she closed her eyes in sleep;She left us for a little while;No more our lives would know her smile.And oh, the hurt of it went deep!It seemed to us that we must fallBefore the anguish of it all.Our faith, which had not known the test,Then blossomed with its comfort sweet,Promised that some day we should meetAnd whispered to us: "He knows best."And when our bitter tears were dried,We found our faith was glorified.

Until she died we never knewThe beauty of our faith in God.We'd seen the summer roses nodAnd wither as the tempests blew,Through many a spring we'd lived to seeThe buds returning to the tree.

We had not felt the touch of woe;What cares had come, had lightly flown;Our burdens we had borne alone—The need of God we did not know.It seemed sufficient through the daysTo think and act in worldly ways.

And then she closed her eyes in sleep;She left us for a little while;No more our lives would know her smile.And oh, the hurt of it went deep!It seemed to us that we must fallBefore the anguish of it all.

Our faith, which had not known the test,Then blossomed with its comfort sweet,Promised that some day we should meetAnd whispered to us: "He knows best."And when our bitter tears were dried,We found our faith was glorified.

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree, and the birds a-wing,Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king;I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet,Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool,Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard,Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook;I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm weary of reading a printed book;I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel,And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.

I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool,Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard,Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.

Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook;I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm weary of reading a printed book;I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel,And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.

Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair,For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there;And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms,The picture they present is one with never-fading charms.Mother and the baby—and the mother's eye aglowWith joys that only mothers see and only mothers know!And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame,And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came.I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother singThe lullabies of babyhood, but I start wonderingHow much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or braveIs of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave.

Mother and the baby—and the mother's eye aglowWith joys that only mothers see and only mothers know!And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame,And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came.

I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother singThe lullabies of babyhood, but I start wonderingHow much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or braveIs of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave.

""Mother And The Baby" From a drawing by W. T. Benda.""Mother And The Baby"From a drawing byW. T. Benda.

"Just like a mother!" Oh, to be so tender and so true,No man has reached so high a plane with all he's dared to do.And yet, I think she understands, with every step she takesAnd every care that she bestows, it is the man she makes.Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can seeHer life being given gladly to the man that is to be,And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies,She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise.

Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can seeHer life being given gladly to the man that is to be,And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies,She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise.

Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!And nobody writes them now;Never at all comes in the scrawlOn the written pages which told us allThe news of town and the folks we knew,And what they had done or were going to do.It seems we've forgotten howTo spend an hour with our pen in handTo write in the language we understand.Old-fashioned letters we used to getAnd ponder each fond line o'er;The glad words rolled like running gold,As smoothly their tales of joy they told,And our hearts beat fast with a keen delightAs we read the news they were pleased to writeAnd gathered the love they bore.But few of the letters that come to-dayAre penned to us in the old-time way.Old-fashioned letters that told us allThe tales of the far away;Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen;And better than any fine magazineWas the writing too, for it bore the styleOf a simple heart and a sunny smile,And was pure as the breath of May.Some of them oft were damp with tears,But those were the letters that lived for years.Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!And, oh, how we watched the mails;But nobody writes of the quaint delightsOf the sunny days and the merry nightsOr tells us the things that we yearn to know—That art passed out with the long ago,And lost are the simple tales;Yet we all would happier be, I think,If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.

Old-fashioned letters we used to getAnd ponder each fond line o'er;The glad words rolled like running gold,As smoothly their tales of joy they told,And our hearts beat fast with a keen delightAs we read the news they were pleased to writeAnd gathered the love they bore.But few of the letters that come to-dayAre penned to us in the old-time way.

Old-fashioned letters that told us allThe tales of the far away;Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen;And better than any fine magazineWas the writing too, for it bore the styleOf a simple heart and a sunny smile,And was pure as the breath of May.Some of them oft were damp with tears,But those were the letters that lived for years.

Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!And, oh, how we watched the mails;But nobody writes of the quaint delightsOf the sunny days and the merry nightsOr tells us the things that we yearn to know—That art passed out with the long ago,And lost are the simple tales;Yet we all would happier be, I think,If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.

Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort o' skyWhich seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' byOn a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist,With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insistThat the Lord that made us humans an' the birds in every treeKnows my special sort o' weather an' He made this day fer me.This is jes' my style o' weather—sunshine floodin' all the place,An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face.An' the woods chock-full o' singin' till you'd think birds never hadA single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

This is jes' my style o' weather—sunshine floodin' all the place,An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face.An' the woods chock-full o' singin' till you'd think birds never hadA single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

"God Made This Day For Me" From a painting by M. L. Bower."God Made This Day For Me"From a painting byM. L. Bower.

It's my day, sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze.Here's the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please—Beauty dancin' all around me, music ringin' everywhere,Like a weddin' celebration. Why, I've plumb fergot my careAn' the tasks I should be doin' fer the rainy days to be,While I'm huggin' the delusion that God made this day fer me.

My Pa says that he used to beA bright boy in geography;An' when he went to school he knewThe rivers an' the mountains, too,An' all the capitals of statesAn' bound'ry lines an' all the datesThey joined the union. But last nightWhen I was studyin' to reciteI asked him if he would explainThe leading industries of Maine—He thought an' thought an' thought a lot,An' said, "I knew, but I've forgot."My Pa says when he was in schoolHe got a hundred as a rule;An' grammar was a thing he knewBecoz he paid attention toHis teacher, an' he learned the wayTo write good English, an' to sayThe proper things, an' I should beAs good a boy in school as he.But once I asked him could he giveMe help with the infinitive—He scratched his head and said: "Great Scott!I used to know, but I've forgot."My Pa says when he was a boyArithmetic was just a toy;He learned his tables mighty fastAn' every term he always passed,An' had good marks, an' teachers said:"That youngster surely has a head."But just the same I notice nowMost every time I ask him howTo find the common multiple,He says, "That's most unusual!Once I'd have told you on the spot,But somehow, sonny, I've forgot."I'm tellin' you just what is what,My Pa's forgot an awful lot!

My Pa says when he was in schoolHe got a hundred as a rule;An' grammar was a thing he knewBecoz he paid attention toHis teacher, an' he learned the wayTo write good English, an' to sayThe proper things, an' I should beAs good a boy in school as he.But once I asked him could he giveMe help with the infinitive—He scratched his head and said: "Great Scott!I used to know, but I've forgot."

My Pa says when he was a boyArithmetic was just a toy;He learned his tables mighty fastAn' every term he always passed,An' had good marks, an' teachers said:"That youngster surely has a head."But just the same I notice nowMost every time I ask him howTo find the common multiple,He says, "That's most unusual!Once I'd have told you on the spot,But somehow, sonny, I've forgot."I'm tellin' you just what is what,My Pa's forgot an awful lot!

I wonder if he'll stop to think,When the long years have traveled by,Who heard his plea: "I want a drink!"Who was the first to hear him cry?I wonder if he will recallThe patience of her and the smile,The kisses after every fall,The love that lasted all the while?I wonder, as I watch them there,If he'll remember, when he's grown,How came the silver in her hairAnd why her loveliness has flown?Yet thus my mother did for me,Night after night and day by day,For such a care I used to be,As such a boy I used to play.I know that I was always sureOf tenderness at mother's knee,That every hurt of mine she'd cure,And every fault she'd fail to see.But who recalls the tears she shed,And all the wishes gratified,The eager journeys to his bed,The pleas which never she denied?

I wonder, as I watch them there,If he'll remember, when he's grown,How came the silver in her hairAnd why her loveliness has flown?Yet thus my mother did for me,Night after night and day by day,For such a care I used to be,As such a boy I used to play.

I know that I was always sureOf tenderness at mother's knee,That every hurt of mine she'd cure,And every fault she'd fail to see.But who recalls the tears she shed,And all the wishes gratified,The eager journeys to his bed,The pleas which never she denied?

"Motherhood" From a painting by Robert E. Johnston."Motherhood"From a painting byRobert E. Johnston.

I took for granted, just as he,The boundless love that mother gives,But watching them I've come to seeTime teaches every man who livesHow much of him is not his own;And now I know the countless waysBy which her love for me was shown,And I recall forgotten days.Perhaps some day a little chapAs like him as he's now like me,Shall climb into his mother's lap,For comfort and for sympathy,And he shall know what now I know,And see through eyes a trifle dim,The mother of the long agoWho daily spent her strength for him.

Perhaps some day a little chapAs like him as he's now like me,Shall climb into his mother's lap,For comfort and for sympathy,And he shall know what now I know,And see through eyes a trifle dim,The mother of the long agoWho daily spent her strength for him.

I've watched him change from his bibs and things, from bonnets known as "cute,"To little frocks, and later on I saw him don a suit;And though it was of calico, those knickers gave him joy,Until the day we all agreed 'twas time for corduroy.I say I've seen the changes come, it seems with bounds and leaps,But here's another just arrived—he's playing mibs for keeps!The guide posts of his life fly by. The boy that is to-day,To-morrow morning we may wake to find has gone away,And in his place will be a lad we've never known before,Older and wiser in his ways, and filled with new-found lore.Now here's another boy to-day, counting his marble heapsAnd proudly boasting to his dad he's playing mibs for keeps!His mother doesn't like this change. She says it is a shame—That since he plays with larger boys, he's bound to lose the game.But little do I mind his loss; I'm more concerned to knowThe way he acts the times when he must see his marbles go.And oh, I hope he will not be the little boy who weepsToo much when he has failed to win while playing mibs for keeps.Playing for keeps! Another step toward manhood's broad estate!This is what some term growing up, or destiny, or fate.Yet from this game with marbles, played with youngsters on the street,I hope will come a larger boy, too big to lie or cheat,And by these mibs which from his clutch another madly sweeps,I hope he'll learn the game of life which must be played for keeps.

The guide posts of his life fly by. The boy that is to-day,To-morrow morning we may wake to find has gone away,And in his place will be a lad we've never known before,Older and wiser in his ways, and filled with new-found lore.Now here's another boy to-day, counting his marble heapsAnd proudly boasting to his dad he's playing mibs for keeps!

His mother doesn't like this change. She says it is a shame—That since he plays with larger boys, he's bound to lose the game.But little do I mind his loss; I'm more concerned to knowThe way he acts the times when he must see his marbles go.And oh, I hope he will not be the little boy who weepsToo much when he has failed to win while playing mibs for keeps.

Playing for keeps! Another step toward manhood's broad estate!This is what some term growing up, or destiny, or fate.Yet from this game with marbles, played with youngsters on the street,I hope will come a larger boy, too big to lie or cheat,And by these mibs which from his clutch another madly sweeps,I hope he'll learn the game of life which must be played for keeps.

When I was just a little tadNot more than eight or nine,One special treat to make me gladWas set apart as "mine."On baking days she granted meThe small boy's dearest wish,And when the cake was finished, sheGave me the frosting dish.I've eaten chocolate many ways,I've had it hot and cold;I've sampled it throughout my daysIn every form it's sold.And though I still am fond of it,And hold its flavor sweet,The icing dish, I still admit,Remains the greatest treat.Never has chocolate tasted so,Nor brought to me such joyAs in those days of long agoWhen I was but a boy,And stood beside my mother fair,Waiting the time when sheWould gently stoop to kiss me thereAnd hand the plate to me.

I've eaten chocolate many ways,I've had it hot and cold;I've sampled it throughout my daysIn every form it's sold.And though I still am fond of it,And hold its flavor sweet,The icing dish, I still admit,Remains the greatest treat.

Never has chocolate tasted so,Nor brought to me such joyAs in those days of long agoWhen I was but a boy,And stood beside my mother fair,Waiting the time when sheWould gently stoop to kiss me thereAnd hand the plate to me.

"The Frosting Dish" From a painting by H. C. Pitz."The Frosting Dish"From a painting byH. C. Pitz.

Now there's another in my placeWho stands where once I stood.And watches with an upturned faceAnd waits for "something good."And as she hands him spoon and plateI chuckle low and wishThat I might be allowed to waitTo scrape the frosting dish.

When the umpire calls you out,It's no use to stamp and shout,Wildly kicking dust about—Play the game!And though his decision mayEnd your chances for the day,Rallies often end that way—Play the game!When the umpire shouts: "Strike two!"And the ball seems wide to you,There is just one thing to do:Play the game!Keep your temper at the plate,Grit your teeth and calmly wait,For the next one may be straightPlay the game!When you think the umpire's wrong,Tell him so, but jog along;Nothing's gained by language strong—Play the game!For his will must be obeyedWheresoever baseball's played,Take his verdict as it's made—Play the game!Son of mine, beyond a doubt,Fate shall often call you "out,"But keep on, with courage stout—Play the game!In the battlefield of menThere'll come trying moments whenYou shall lose the verdict—thenPlay the game!There's an umpire who shall sayYou have missed your greatest play,And shall dash your hopes away—Play the game!You must bow unto his willThough your chance it seems to kill,And you think he erred, but stillPlay the game!For the Great Umpire aboveSees what we see nothing of,By His wisdom and His love—Play the game!Keep your faith in Him althoughHis grim verdicts hurt you so,At His Will we come and go—Play the game!

When the umpire shouts: "Strike two!"And the ball seems wide to you,There is just one thing to do:Play the game!Keep your temper at the plate,Grit your teeth and calmly wait,For the next one may be straightPlay the game!

When you think the umpire's wrong,Tell him so, but jog along;Nothing's gained by language strong—Play the game!For his will must be obeyedWheresoever baseball's played,Take his verdict as it's made—Play the game!

Son of mine, beyond a doubt,Fate shall often call you "out,"But keep on, with courage stout—Play the game!In the battlefield of menThere'll come trying moments whenYou shall lose the verdict—thenPlay the game!

There's an umpire who shall sayYou have missed your greatest play,And shall dash your hopes away—Play the game!You must bow unto his willThough your chance it seems to kill,And you think he erred, but stillPlay the game!

For the Great Umpire aboveSees what we see nothing of,By His wisdom and His love—Play the game!Keep your faith in Him althoughHis grim verdicts hurt you so,At His Will we come and go—Play the game!

Once the house was lovely, but it's lonely here to-day,For time has come an' stained its walls an' called the young away;An' all that's left for mother an' for me till life is throughIs to sit an' tell each other what the children used to do.We couldn't keep 'em always an' we knew it from the start;We knew when they were babies that some day we'd have to part.But the years go by so swiftly, an' the littlest one has flown,An' there's only me an' mother now left here to live alone.Oh, there's just one consolation, as we're sittin' here at night,They've grown to men an' women, an' we brought 'em up all right;We've watched 'em as we've loved 'em an' they're splendid, every one,An' we feel the Lord won't blame us for the way our work was done.

We couldn't keep 'em always an' we knew it from the start;We knew when they were babies that some day we'd have to part.But the years go by so swiftly, an' the littlest one has flown,An' there's only me an' mother now left here to live alone.

Oh, there's just one consolation, as we're sittin' here at night,They've grown to men an' women, an' we brought 'em up all right;We've watched 'em as we've loved 'em an' they're splendid, every one,An' we feel the Lord won't blame us for the way our work was done.

"When The Young Are Grown" From a painting by Robert E. Johnston."When The Young Are Grown"From a painting byRobert E. Johnston.

They're clean, an' kind an' honest, an' the world respects 'em, too;That's the dream of parents always, an' our dreams have all come true.So although the house is lonely an' sometimes our eyes grow wet,We are proud of them an' happy an' we've nothing to regret.

I must be fit for a child to play with,Fit for a youngster to walk away with;Fit for his trust and fit to beReady to take him upon my knee;Whether I win or I lose my fight,I must be fit for my boy at night.I must be fit for a child to come to,Speech there is that I must be dumb to;I must be fit for his eyes to see,He must find nothing of shame in me;Whatever I make of myself, I mustSquare to my boy's unfaltering trust.I must be fit for a child to follow,Scorning the places where loose men wallow;Knowing how much he shall learn from me,I must be fair as I'd have him be;I must come home to him, day by day,Clean as the morning I went away.I must be fit for a child's glad greeting,His are eyes that there is no cheating;He must behold me in every test,Not at my worst, but my very best;He must be proud when my life is doneTo have men know that he is my son.

I must be fit for a child to come to,Speech there is that I must be dumb to;I must be fit for his eyes to see,He must find nothing of shame in me;Whatever I make of myself, I mustSquare to my boy's unfaltering trust.

I must be fit for a child to follow,Scorning the places where loose men wallow;Knowing how much he shall learn from me,I must be fair as I'd have him be;I must come home to him, day by day,Clean as the morning I went away.

I must be fit for a child's glad greeting,His are eyes that there is no cheating;He must behold me in every test,Not at my worst, but my very best;He must be proud when my life is doneTo have men know that he is my son.

Grandmother says when I pass her the cake:"Just half of that, please."If I serve her the tenderest portion of steak:"Just half of that, please."And be the dessert a rice pudding or pie,As I pass Grandma's share she is sure to reply,With the trace of a twinkle to light up her eye:"Just half of that, please."I've cut down her portions but still she tells me:"Just half of that, please."Though scarcely a mouthful of food she can see:"Just half of that, please."If I pass her the chocolates she breaks one in two,There's nothing so small but a smaller will do,And she says, perhaps fearing she's taking from you:"Just half of that, please."When at last Grandma leaves us the angels will hear:"Just half of that, please."When with joys for the gentle and brave they appear:"Just half of that, please."And for fear they may think she is selfish up there,Or is taking what may be a young angel's share,She will say with the loveliest smile she can wear:"Just half of that, please."

I've cut down her portions but still she tells me:"Just half of that, please."Though scarcely a mouthful of food she can see:"Just half of that, please."If I pass her the chocolates she breaks one in two,There's nothing so small but a smaller will do,And she says, perhaps fearing she's taking from you:"Just half of that, please."

When at last Grandma leaves us the angels will hear:"Just half of that, please."When with joys for the gentle and brave they appear:"Just half of that, please."And for fear they may think she is selfish up there,Or is taking what may be a young angel's share,She will say with the loveliest smile she can wear:"Just half of that, please."

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