THE STRENUOUS LIFE

GIVE me thy happy heart, Oh little child!Where love springs like the sweetest flower, wild,From all its virgin soil, and radiantlyReflects its fresh, unsullied purity.Give me thy heart, that knows not heat or hate,Nor passion thrills, nor grief makes desolate,When love, lone, reigned, and Life but smiled and smiled,Give me thy spotless heart, Oh little child!Give me thine artless tongue that to deceiveKnows not; but lisps to laugh and wakes to weaveIn whispered words diviner melodyOf love than speaks in grandest symphony.Give me thine eyes that see but happiness,Nor aught of else in all the hours that blessThy childhood time, nor any graver rayThan the glad sunshine of an endless day.Would we could cleanse our hearts and make them young,As when were sweeter chimes of childhood rungFrom them, and when were flowers springing wildFrom the untrampled soil, Oh little child!

GIVE me thy happy heart, Oh little child!Where love springs like the sweetest flower, wild,From all its virgin soil, and radiantlyReflects its fresh, unsullied purity.

Give me thy heart, that knows not heat or hate,Nor passion thrills, nor grief makes desolate,When love, lone, reigned, and Life but smiled and smiled,Give me thy spotless heart, Oh little child!

Give me thine artless tongue that to deceiveKnows not; but lisps to laugh and wakes to weaveIn whispered words diviner melodyOf love than speaks in grandest symphony.

Give me thine eyes that see but happiness,Nor aught of else in all the hours that blessThy childhood time, nor any graver rayThan the glad sunshine of an endless day.

Would we could cleanse our hearts and make them young,As when were sweeter chimes of childhood rungFrom them, and when were flowers springing wildFrom the untrampled soil, Oh little child!

THAT is your father, dearJust going out the door;Oh, he’s been living hereFor seven years or more!In business he’s so deepHe has no time to fretWith little girls, but keepUp hope—we’ll meet him yet!That is your mother, dear,Just getting in the car,She knows that you are hereAnd also who you are!But what with clubs to meetAnd bridge to play, you see,With hours so short and fleetShe’s turned you o’er to me.But there, my dear, don’t fret,Or let those blue eyes blur,Some time I know you’ll getAcquainted, too, with her.Why, sometimes, in the nightWhen angels vigil keep,She asks if you’re all rightAnd when you went to sleep!I think you’d like them both,I think they’d both like you,But what with “higher growth”And many things to doThey’re simply rushed to death,But there, my dear, don’t cry,If they should stop for breathWe’ll meet them bye and bye.

That is your mother, dear,Just getting in the car,She knows that you are hereAnd also who you are!But what with clubs to meetAnd bridge to play, you see,With hours so short and fleetShe’s turned you o’er to me.

But there, my dear, don’t fret,Or let those blue eyes blur,Some time I know you’ll getAcquainted, too, with her.Why, sometimes, in the nightWhen angels vigil keep,She asks if you’re all rightAnd when you went to sleep!

I think you’d like them both,I think they’d both like you,But what with “higher growth”And many things to doThey’re simply rushed to death,But there, my dear, don’t cry,If they should stop for breathWe’ll meet them bye and bye.

SEW, sew, sew! For there’s many a rent to mend;There’s a stitch to take and a dress to make,For where do her labors end?Sew, sew, sew! For a rent in a dress she spies,Then it’s needle and thread and an aching headAnd see how the needle flies!Brush, brush, brush! For there’s many a boy to clean,And start to school with a slate and rule,With a breakfast to get between.Comb, comb, comb! In the minute she has to spare,For what is so wild—unreconciledAs the wastes of a youngster’s hair?Sweep, sweep, sweep! Oh, follow the flashing broom,And with towel bound her forehead roundShe goes from room to room.Dust, dust, dust! As down on her knees she kneels,For there’s much to do in the hour or twoOf interval ’twixt meals.Bake, bake, bake! For the cookie jar piled highBut yesterday in some curious wayIs empty again, Oh my!Stir, stir, stir, in the froth of yellow and white,For well she knows how the story goesOf a small boy’s appetite.Scrub, scrub, scrub! For the floor that was spick and span,Alas, alack! has a muddy trackWhere some thoughtless youngster ran.Splash, splash, splash! For the dishes of thrice a dayAre piled up high to wash and dryAnd put on the shelves away.Patch, patch, patch! And oh for a pantaloonThat would not tear or rip or wearIn the course of an afternoon!Patch, patch, patch! And see how the needle flies,For a mother knows how the fabric goesWhere the seat of trouble lies.Toil, toil, toil! For when do her labors end,With a dress to make and a cake to bakeAnd dresses and hose to mend?Stew, stew, stew! Fret and worry and fuss,And who of us knows of the frets and woesIn the days when she mothered us?

Brush, brush, brush! For there’s many a boy to clean,And start to school with a slate and rule,With a breakfast to get between.Comb, comb, comb! In the minute she has to spare,For what is so wild—unreconciledAs the wastes of a youngster’s hair?

Sweep, sweep, sweep! Oh, follow the flashing broom,And with towel bound her forehead roundShe goes from room to room.Dust, dust, dust! As down on her knees she kneels,For there’s much to do in the hour or twoOf interval ’twixt meals.

Bake, bake, bake! For the cookie jar piled highBut yesterday in some curious wayIs empty again, Oh my!Stir, stir, stir, in the froth of yellow and white,For well she knows how the story goesOf a small boy’s appetite.

Scrub, scrub, scrub! For the floor that was spick and span,Alas, alack! has a muddy trackWhere some thoughtless youngster ran.Splash, splash, splash! For the dishes of thrice a dayAre piled up high to wash and dryAnd put on the shelves away.

Patch, patch, patch! And oh for a pantaloonThat would not tear or rip or wearIn the course of an afternoon!Patch, patch, patch! And see how the needle flies,For a mother knows how the fabric goesWhere the seat of trouble lies.

Toil, toil, toil! For when do her labors end,With a dress to make and a cake to bakeAnd dresses and hose to mend?Stew, stew, stew! Fret and worry and fuss,And who of us knows of the frets and woesIn the days when she mothered us?

DON’T you recall when apples grew,Oh, twice as big as now?When fish, however they were few,Were monster ones somehow?When Gaines’s mill-dam made a roarAs though the water hurledWere gathered in a mighty storeFrom all the wide, wide world?Don’t you remember when the trees,The oak trees and the beech,Were lost in clouds on days like theseAnd eyes could hardly reachTheir waving tops? When noonday skiesWere oh, such deeper blue?When Jack’s great bean stalk in our eyesJust grew and grew and grew?And there were bells, so more than fine,Of blue and white and red,Upon the morning glory vineThat climbed up on the shed,To be a wonder and delight,So fresh and full of dew,To bud and open in a night night—I see them now—don’t you?Don’t you remember when the cavesWere thick and full of gloom,Where captive maidens, once, like slaves,Were chained in some damp room?When twilight rustling in the brushWas some fierce beast? A cowIt was, but cows at dusk are—Hush!I think I hear one now.Come, take a little trip with me,Forget the things that fret,For you may close your eyes and seeSome things that I forget.Why, I’ve seen Bluebeard’s hidden roomAnd Cinderella’s shoe!And I have seen where violets bloom bloom—So blue! So blue! So blue!

Don’t you remember when the trees,The oak trees and the beech,Were lost in clouds on days like theseAnd eyes could hardly reachTheir waving tops? When noonday skiesWere oh, such deeper blue?When Jack’s great bean stalk in our eyesJust grew and grew and grew?

And there were bells, so more than fine,Of blue and white and red,Upon the morning glory vineThat climbed up on the shed,To be a wonder and delight,So fresh and full of dew,To bud and open in a night night—I see them now—don’t you?

Don’t you remember when the cavesWere thick and full of gloom,Where captive maidens, once, like slaves,Were chained in some damp room?When twilight rustling in the brushWas some fierce beast? A cowIt was, but cows at dusk are—Hush!I think I hear one now.

Come, take a little trip with me,Forget the things that fret,For you may close your eyes and seeSome things that I forget.Why, I’ve seen Bluebeard’s hidden roomAnd Cinderella’s shoe!And I have seen where violets bloom bloom—So blue! So blue! So blue!

WHEN you went back to the old home place had the mountain become a hill?Had the raging river your boyhood knew shrunk down to a peaceful rill?Were the monster trees in the old front yard but half of their former size?Was something gone—and you don’t know what what—from the blue of the arching skies?Was the swimming-hole but a muddy pool when once it was crystal clear?Were the apples but half as big and red as they were in that other year?When you went back to the old home place did the red barn seem so smallIt didn’t look like the one you’d known? Was the mighty waterfallThat used to roar in your boyish ears but a little dash of sprayThat fell so light you could hardly hear a dozen feet away?Were the corn rows only half as long as they were in the long ago,When you measured them with aching arms and the weight of a heavy hoe?When you went back to the old home place had the mill pond dwindled down?Was Main Street only a muddy track in the heart of a sleepy town?And the well that was fathoms, fathoms deep, with its wheel and creaking chain,Did it seem to you like a shrunken thing when you looked at it again?Was something gone of the bygone days, from the sod and the arch of skyThat we used to see when we played as boys in the old days—you and I?Nay, Heart, the mountain rises high as it did of yore; the rillWas a river once and the boys near by see a raging river still.The well is fathoms, fathoms deep and the apples ripe and red;The sod is cool and green and soft, and the sky up overheadIs blue and clear, and the days are rare and glad as they used to be—But where is the Heart of the olden time—hast thou brought it back with thee?

When you went back to the old home place did the red barn seem so smallIt didn’t look like the one you’d known? Was the mighty waterfallThat used to roar in your boyish ears but a little dash of sprayThat fell so light you could hardly hear a dozen feet away?Were the corn rows only half as long as they were in the long ago,When you measured them with aching arms and the weight of a heavy hoe?

When you went back to the old home place had the mill pond dwindled down?Was Main Street only a muddy track in the heart of a sleepy town?And the well that was fathoms, fathoms deep, with its wheel and creaking chain,Did it seem to you like a shrunken thing when you looked at it again?Was something gone of the bygone days, from the sod and the arch of skyThat we used to see when we played as boys in the old days—you and I?

Nay, Heart, the mountain rises high as it did of yore; the rillWas a river once and the boys near by see a raging river still.The well is fathoms, fathoms deep and the apples ripe and red;The sod is cool and green and soft, and the sky up overheadIs blue and clear, and the days are rare and glad as they used to be—But where is the Heart of the olden time—hast thou brought it back with thee?

NOW Memory, like a little child,Takes me by one soft hand,By dreams of keen delight beguiledWe stray through Flowerland;And like the child, sweet MemoryBy many a by-way strays,Plucks flowers and bears them back to meTo fashion my bouquets.By many sweet, secluded waysShe wanders, far or near;A rose upon my garland laysBejeweled with a tear;The rose of some far-flown ideal,A fragrance, ah, how rare!My fingers close but to revealThe ashes crumbling there.Now tinkling laughter ripples clearAs some new flower she spies,Some far-forgotten joys appearAs fairy faces rise.My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed,Heart-full, my garlands lie,While on the scented air is breathedA greeting and good-bye.Come, Child, away! The frolic ends,The flower in ashes, dead;The perfume with the air that blendsWe’ll bear away instead.Here at the hedge we kiss and part,Some sterner duties find.Bear all the sweetness in the heartBut leave the flowers behind.Thank God, thank God for Memory,Half smile and half a tear;The flowers are there eternally,And when the days are drear,In through the tangled hedge of daysWe wander, hand in hand,And I may dream, while Memory strays,A child is Flowerland.

By many sweet, secluded waysShe wanders, far or near;A rose upon my garland laysBejeweled with a tear;The rose of some far-flown ideal,A fragrance, ah, how rare!My fingers close but to revealThe ashes crumbling there.

Now tinkling laughter ripples clearAs some new flower she spies,Some far-forgotten joys appearAs fairy faces rise.My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed,Heart-full, my garlands lie,While on the scented air is breathedA greeting and good-bye.

Come, Child, away! The frolic ends,The flower in ashes, dead;The perfume with the air that blendsWe’ll bear away instead.Here at the hedge we kiss and part,Some sterner duties find.Bear all the sweetness in the heartBut leave the flowers behind.

Thank God, thank God for Memory,Half smile and half a tear;The flowers are there eternally,And when the days are drear,In through the tangled hedge of daysWe wander, hand in hand,And I may dream, while Memory strays,A child is Flowerland.

WHEN from my earliest abode in boyhood’s merry days I strode,Oh, well do I remember how my mother came—I see her now—And, standing in the old front door, repeated to me o’er and o’er:“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and William, wear your other hat.Please, William, don’t forget my note, and William, wear your overcoat.And William, hurry on your way, or you’ll be late to school today.”And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my earCame floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.When from my lessons, shirked or done, came homeward I at waning sun,Oh, well do I remember how my mother came—I see her now—And greeted me at that front door with admonitions o’er and o’er:“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat,And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please takeThis package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match,And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”;And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my earCome floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.I’m married now—at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate,My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door,And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat,And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t failTo pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so goodAs to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon forThe baby’s hair?”—and so ’tis yet—lest I forget—lest I forget!

WHEN from my earliest abode in boyhood’s merry days I strode,Oh, well do I remember how my mother came—I see her now—And, standing in the old front door, repeated to me o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and William, wear your other hat.Please, William, don’t forget my note, and William, wear your overcoat.And William, hurry on your way, or you’ll be late to school today.”And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my earCame floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.

When from my lessons, shirked or done, came homeward I at waning sun,Oh, well do I remember how my mother came—I see her now—And greeted me at that front door with admonitions o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t do this and that, and wipe your feet upon the mat,And do not slam the door and wake the baby, William, and please takeThis package down to Howe and Hatch and tell them that it doesn’t match,And don’t forget to hurry back, because the kitchen fire is slack”;And far and long as I could hear her admonitions to my earCome floating on, repeated yet, lest I forget, lest I forget.

I’m married now—at man’s estate, and yet, quite mournful to relate,My wife it is who, as before, comes with me to the new front door,And standing there, bombards me for a block or two, and o’er and o’er:

“Oh, William, don’t you wet your feet, and William, don’t forget the meat,And William, don’t forget to mail my letter promptly, and don’t failTo pay the ice bill, order wood; and William, would you be so goodAs to stop in at Jones’s store and get a bit of ribbon forThe baby’s hair?”—and so ’tis yet—lest I forget—lest I forget!

TO my fancy, idly roaming, comes a picture of the gloaming,Comes a fragrance from the blossoms of the lilac and the rose;With the yellow lamplight streaming I am sitting here and dreamingOf a half-forgotten twilight whence a mellow memory flows;To my listening ears come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,I’ve a sense of sweet contentment as the sounds are borne along;’Tis a mother who is tuning her fond heart to love and crooningTo her laddie such aSleepy little,Creepy little,Song.Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and emberThe old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow;With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender,Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago.There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roamingThrough the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along;Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleepingWhen she sings to him thatSleepy little,Creepy little,Song.I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streamingThrough the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree;On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me;And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleepingAs the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along,All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearingOnce again my mother’sSleepy little,Creepy little,Song.

Ah, how well do I remember when by crackling spark and emberThe old-fashioned oaken rocker moved with rhythmic sweep and slow;With her feet upon the fender, in a cadence low and tender,Floated forth that slumber anthem of a childhood long ago.There were goblins in the gloaming and the half-closed eyes went roamingThrough the twilight for the ghostly shapes of bugaboos along;Now the sandman’s slyly creeping and a tired lad half sleepingWhen she sings to him thatSleepy little,Creepy little,Song.

I am sitting here and dreaming with the mellow lamplight streamingThrough the vine-embowered window in a yellow filigree;On the fragrant air come winging vagrant notes of woman’s singing,’Tis the slumber song of childhood that is murmuring to me;And some subtle fancy creeping lulls my senses half to sleepingAs the misty shapes of bugaboos go dreamily along,All my sorrows disappearing, as a tired lad I’m hearingOnce again my mother’sSleepy little,Creepy little,Song.

HOW good to remember Life’s June from September,The days that were fairer than ever again;When hearts held no sorrow to last o’er the morrowAnd heads were brimful of the wisdom of ten;No skies were e’er bluer, no heart was e’er truerThan mine when I waited in sunshine or rainWith joy that enriched me for one who bewitched meAnd bade me to wait till she came down the lane.Our trysting-place gaining, my eyes they were strainingAfar down the road, and my lips hummed a tuneThat held all the sweetness of first love’s completenessThe whiles that I waited at morning and noon;For last when we parted, beloved, fond hearted,She pledged me to wait for her, sunshine or rain,And so I kept humming, I knew she was coming,A girl queen in gingham, somewhere down the lane.And there with a vision of futures ElysianI traced both our names with my toe in the dust,And not a temptation could alter my stationAs knight of the faithful heart, true to its trust.

Our trysting-place gaining, my eyes they were strainingAfar down the road, and my lips hummed a tuneThat held all the sweetness of first love’s completenessThe whiles that I waited at morning and noon;For last when we parted, beloved, fond hearted,She pledged me to wait for her, sunshine or rain,And so I kept humming, I knew she was coming,A girl queen in gingham, somewhere down the lane.

And there with a vision of futures ElysianI traced both our names with my toe in the dust,And not a temptation could alter my stationAs knight of the faithful heart, true to its trust.

LOVER’S LANE

WITH ecstasy thrilling, I heard a far trillingSo sweeter than bird song, and heard it again,The heart of the maiden, care-free and joy-laden,Was borne on the music I heard down the lane.Ah, who knows the story of Life and its glory,The unending bliss of the days that were then;And who knows the sweetness of first love’s completenessWho has not the wisdom of thirteen and ten?For back went a trilling to her that was spillingIts burden of gladness through all of the air,With infinite yearning her message returningTo show I was true and awaited her there.Oh, hearts that are older, what secrets I told her!What dreams of the future, of grown girl and boy!For what of the weather, when two walk togetherThe pathway to school in the heyday of joy?When hours are but measures of innocent pleasures,When days brim with gladness, as winecups to drain,When Life learns the sweetness of first love’s completenessIn waiting for Her as she comes down the lane!

WITH ecstasy thrilling, I heard a far trillingSo sweeter than bird song, and heard it again,The heart of the maiden, care-free and joy-laden,Was borne on the music I heard down the lane.

Ah, who knows the story of Life and its glory,The unending bliss of the days that were then;And who knows the sweetness of first love’s completenessWho has not the wisdom of thirteen and ten?For back went a trilling to her that was spillingIts burden of gladness through all of the air,With infinite yearning her message returningTo show I was true and awaited her there.

Oh, hearts that are older, what secrets I told her!What dreams of the future, of grown girl and boy!For what of the weather, when two walk togetherThe pathway to school in the heyday of joy?When hours are but measures of innocent pleasures,When days brim with gladness, as winecups to drain,When Life learns the sweetness of first love’s completenessIn waiting for Her as she comes down the lane!

LET us dry our tears now, laddie,Let us put aside our woes;Let us go and talk to daddy,For I’m sure that daddy knows.Let us take him what we’ve broken,Be it heart or hope or toy,And the tale may bide unspoken,For he used to be a boy.He has been through all the sorrowsOf a lad at nine or ten;He has seen the dawn of morrowsWhen the sun shone bright again;His own heart has been near breaking,Oh, more times than I can tell,And has often known the achingThat a boy’s heart knows so well.I am sure he well remembers,In his calendar of days,When the boy-heart was December’s,Though the sun and flowers were May’s.He has lived a boy’s life, laddie,And he knows just how it goes;Let us go and talk to daddy,For I’m sure that daddy knows.Let us tell him all about it,How the sting of it is there,And I have not any doubt itWill be easier to bear;For he’s trodden every byway,He has fathomed every joy,He has traveled every highwayIn the wide world of a boy.He will put aside the worriesThat his day may follow through,For the great heart of him hurriesAt the call for help from you.He will help us mend the brokenHeart of ours or hope or toy,And the tale may bide unspoken—For he used to be a boy.

He has been through all the sorrowsOf a lad at nine or ten;He has seen the dawn of morrowsWhen the sun shone bright again;His own heart has been near breaking,Oh, more times than I can tell,And has often known the achingThat a boy’s heart knows so well.

I am sure he well remembers,In his calendar of days,When the boy-heart was December’s,Though the sun and flowers were May’s.He has lived a boy’s life, laddie,And he knows just how it goes;Let us go and talk to daddy,For I’m sure that daddy knows.

Let us tell him all about it,How the sting of it is there,And I have not any doubt itWill be easier to bear;For he’s trodden every byway,He has fathomed every joy,He has traveled every highwayIn the wide world of a boy.

He will put aside the worriesThat his day may follow through,For the great heart of him hurriesAt the call for help from you.He will help us mend the brokenHeart of ours or hope or toy,And the tale may bide unspoken—For he used to be a boy.

IT is you, my dears, and the gladnessYou bring to the tasks to do,Who can lessen this old world’s sadnessBy as much as the joy of you.It is you, my dears, and your gloryOf sunshine and word and songWho can make life a sweeter storyWherever you smile along.It is you, my dears, with your beautyAnd freshness of mind and heartWho must offer your share of dutyAnd play yet a nobler part.For the world, it has need of beautyAnd youth that is fine and new,And the call you may hear to dutyIs for you, my dears—just you.It is you, my dears, that the sagesHave written their counsels to,It is you, my dears, that the agesLeave legacies to—just you.And remember that every letterThat Wisdom has graven throughThe years, so the world be better,Is for you, my dears—just you.It is you who must be the bravestTo fight, if the cause be true;It is you who must be the gravestIn word and in deed—just you.It is you who must be the strongestTo stand till the battle’s through,And you who must smile the longestAnd never despair—just you.It is you, my dears, and your gloryOf gladness and youth and smile,Who shall help to say if the storyOf life and the world’s worth while.For the years of all time have shaped us,And the lore of the Ages, too,And to say if the Truth’s escaped usIs for you, my dears—just you.

It is you, my dears, with your beautyAnd freshness of mind and heartWho must offer your share of dutyAnd play yet a nobler part.For the world, it has need of beautyAnd youth that is fine and new,And the call you may hear to dutyIs for you, my dears—just you.

It is you, my dears, that the sagesHave written their counsels to,It is you, my dears, that the agesLeave legacies to—just you.And remember that every letterThat Wisdom has graven throughThe years, so the world be better,Is for you, my dears—just you.

It is you who must be the bravestTo fight, if the cause be true;It is you who must be the gravestIn word and in deed—just you.It is you who must be the strongestTo stand till the battle’s through,And you who must smile the longestAnd never despair—just you.

It is you, my dears, and your gloryOf gladness and youth and smile,Who shall help to say if the storyOf life and the world’s worth while.For the years of all time have shaped us,And the lore of the Ages, too,And to say if the Truth’s escaped usIs for you, my dears—just you.

HE knows the vagrant country roadsWhere sleepily they wind;He has his pockets full of toads,His smile is broad and kind;His dreams of lands and seas—who knows?His joys are never still,And whistling through the world he goes,The rugged small boy—Bill!His world is full of song and shine,His days are all his own;His nights are full of plans so fineThat youngsters all have known;With all the joy that health can giveHis ruddy pulses thrill,And, bless me, how he loves to live,This rugged small boy—Bill!His trousers know the ample patch,His shoes gape at the toes,But see him gladly toe the scratchFor any chum he knows;The heart of him is good as gold,And songs of gladness spillFrom his red lips, this sunny-souledAnd rugged small boy—Bill!His scratch-scarred legs are never tired,His eyes bright-souled and starred,His heart with hopeful youth is fired,His sunny soul unscarred;The world is his, the fields, the trees,The brook, the wood, the hill,To do his will, as he may please,This rugged small boy—Bill!He knows the song of life by heart,In fancy he may weaveSuch dreams as make the pulses start,A King of Make-Believe;And when I speak with him I hearTruth ripple like a rillFrom him, and gladness and good cheer,This rugged small boy—Bill!Oh, bide thee, bide thee, overlong,Health, happiness, and youth;Be glad thy heart and light thy songAnd pure and clear thy truth!Nor cloud to dim thy sunny ways,Nor aught to bring thee ill,And year on year of perfect days,My rugged small boy—Bill!

His world is full of song and shine,His days are all his own;His nights are full of plans so fineThat youngsters all have known;With all the joy that health can giveHis ruddy pulses thrill,And, bless me, how he loves to live,This rugged small boy—Bill!

His trousers know the ample patch,His shoes gape at the toes,But see him gladly toe the scratchFor any chum he knows;The heart of him is good as gold,And songs of gladness spillFrom his red lips, this sunny-souledAnd rugged small boy—Bill!

His scratch-scarred legs are never tired,His eyes bright-souled and starred,His heart with hopeful youth is fired,His sunny soul unscarred;The world is his, the fields, the trees,The brook, the wood, the hill,To do his will, as he may please,This rugged small boy—Bill!

He knows the song of life by heart,In fancy he may weaveSuch dreams as make the pulses start,A King of Make-Believe;And when I speak with him I hearTruth ripple like a rillFrom him, and gladness and good cheer,This rugged small boy—Bill!

Oh, bide thee, bide thee, overlong,Health, happiness, and youth;Be glad thy heart and light thy songAnd pure and clear thy truth!Nor cloud to dim thy sunny ways,Nor aught to bring thee ill,And year on year of perfect days,My rugged small boy—Bill!

ONE time in vacation we boys all left townTo stay in the country for Sunday; and downBy Deacon Gray’s pasture a rabbit came outRight close to the highway and looked all aboutUntil it saw us and it started to runRight down the highroad like a shot from a gun;So Billy Beggs threw off his coat and his hatAnd chased it till both of its ears were down flat,And, my, it just ran as if it saw a ghost,And Bill ran so fast that he caught it—almost!And under the bridge where it crosses the creekWe saw some fish swimming and darting as quickAs a flash in the water, and one fish would flopHimself till he almost would come to the top;So then we got down on the bridge and we tiedA pin on a string and dropped it down the sideWith a bug on the pin, and the fishes would lookWhile Billy Beggs wiggled the bug on the hook;And one fish was hungry and came up so closeThat Bill gave a jerk and he caught it—almost!And over by Skinner’s a big hawk flew byAnd lit on a stump that was not very high,But didn’t see us and we crawled up quite slowThrough the grass to the stump with a big stone to throw;And Billy Beggs said that the hawk was asleepFor it never stirred once; and the grass was so deepThat we got to within a few feet from the stump,And Billy Beggs peeked, and his heart gave a thump;And when he got ever and ever so closeHe stood up and threw and he hit it—almost!And then it got cloudy and thundered and thenIt lightened just awful and thundered again;It rained some big drops and we started to runTo get in the barn till the shower was done;And lightning just spattered and crackled and flashedAnd we were all scared as could be, and we splashedAll through mud and water, and then a big crackOf lightning came down and Bill Beggs hollered backFrom ’way up ahead, just as pale as a ghost,And said that last lightning had struck him—almost!And over by Griggs’s somebody came outAnd hollered to us when we’re all just aboutSo tired we could drop, and they took us right inBy the big kitchen fire ’cause we’re wet to the skin;And Mrs. Griggs gave us some blankets to wearWhile all of our clothes were hung over a chair;And she made some tea till she got us warmed throughAnd then the storm stopped and the sky got all blue;And Billy Beggs told her the flash came so closeThat he ’membered the whole of the Lord’s Prayer—almost!

And under the bridge where it crosses the creekWe saw some fish swimming and darting as quickAs a flash in the water, and one fish would flopHimself till he almost would come to the top;So then we got down on the bridge and we tiedA pin on a string and dropped it down the sideWith a bug on the pin, and the fishes would lookWhile Billy Beggs wiggled the bug on the hook;And one fish was hungry and came up so closeThat Bill gave a jerk and he caught it—almost!

And over by Skinner’s a big hawk flew byAnd lit on a stump that was not very high,But didn’t see us and we crawled up quite slowThrough the grass to the stump with a big stone to throw;And Billy Beggs said that the hawk was asleepFor it never stirred once; and the grass was so deepThat we got to within a few feet from the stump,And Billy Beggs peeked, and his heart gave a thump;And when he got ever and ever so closeHe stood up and threw and he hit it—almost!

And then it got cloudy and thundered and thenIt lightened just awful and thundered again;It rained some big drops and we started to runTo get in the barn till the shower was done;And lightning just spattered and crackled and flashedAnd we were all scared as could be, and we splashedAll through mud and water, and then a big crackOf lightning came down and Bill Beggs hollered backFrom ’way up ahead, just as pale as a ghost,And said that last lightning had struck him—almost!

And over by Griggs’s somebody came outAnd hollered to us when we’re all just aboutSo tired we could drop, and they took us right inBy the big kitchen fire ’cause we’re wet to the skin;And Mrs. Griggs gave us some blankets to wearWhile all of our clothes were hung over a chair;And she made some tea till she got us warmed throughAnd then the storm stopped and the sky got all blue;And Billy Beggs told her the flash came so closeThat he ’membered the whole of the Lord’s Prayer—almost!

SCHOOL’S out, and homeward with the ebbing dayThey come—Tom Jones, Jim Brooks and Eddie Gray;And half a million others far or near,Not much unlike the boys I know right here;With empty dinnerpails and schoolbooks slungAcross their shoulders by a strap. The tongueOf boyhood at the kitchen door gives cry:“Ma, can’t I have a doughnut, or some pie?”For, say, the appetite of boys is primeAnd cannot be content till suppertime.’Tis four o’clock, and I can hear them go—A million youngsters—homeward, fast and slow;The drowsy schoolroom clock has dragged its handsAcross its face until Time’s signal standsAt long-awaited four—that blessed hourWhen schoolbooks close and teachers lose the powerThat despot rulers have—and flags unfurledLead schoolboy armies to a waiting world!And up the back steps bound returning feet:“Ma, can’t I go and get a bite to eat?”School’s out—what ransacking of cooky jars!What letting down of pantry gates and bars!What dipping into barrels here and there,With heads far down and feet high up in air,For Winesaps, Baldwins, Pippins! What a chargeUpon the jars of jam and loaves baked largeAnd round and brown—what a tumultuous cry:“Ma, can’t I have a little piece of pie?”And so this schoolboy army waxes fatUpon its foraged commissariat!

’Tis four o’clock, and I can hear them go—A million youngsters—homeward, fast and slow;The drowsy schoolroom clock has dragged its handsAcross its face until Time’s signal standsAt long-awaited four—that blessed hourWhen schoolbooks close and teachers lose the powerThat despot rulers have—and flags unfurledLead schoolboy armies to a waiting world!And up the back steps bound returning feet:“Ma, can’t I go and get a bite to eat?”

School’s out—what ransacking of cooky jars!What letting down of pantry gates and bars!What dipping into barrels here and there,With heads far down and feet high up in air,For Winesaps, Baldwins, Pippins! What a chargeUpon the jars of jam and loaves baked largeAnd round and brown—what a tumultuous cry:“Ma, can’t I have a little piece of pie?”And so this schoolboy army waxes fatUpon its foraged commissariat!

THANKS are due to the Editors of The Saturday Evening Post, The Century Magazine, The New York Times, and The Youth’s Companion, in which papers the greater number of these verses originally appeared, for permission to reprint.

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