If It's Worth While
If it's worth while, then it's worth a few blows,Worth a few setbacks and worth a few bruises;If it's worth while—and it is, I suppose—It's worth keeping on, though the first struggle loses.
If it's worth while, then it's worth a good fight,Worth a few bouts with the demon, Disaster,Worth going after with courage and might,Worth keeping on till you've proved you are master.
If it's worth while, then it's worth a few pains,Worth a few heartaches and worth a few sorrows,Worth clinging fast to the hope that remains,Worth going on through the doubtful to-morrows.
Stand to the battle and see the test through,Pay all you have in endurance and might for it;If it's worth while and a good thing to do,Then it is worth all it costs in the fight for it.
The Letter
The postman whistled down the streetAnd seemed to walk on lighter feet,And as he stepped inside her gateHe knew he carried precious freight;He knew that day he carried joy—He had the letter from her boy.
Day after day he'd kept his paceAnd seen her careworn, gentle face.She watched for him to come and tookThe papers with an anxious look,But disappointment followed hope—She missed the one glad envelope.
He stopped to chat with her awhileAnd saw the sadness of her smile,He fancied he could hear her sighThe morning that he traveled by;He knew that when to-morrow cameShe would be waiting just the same.
The boy who was so far awayCould never hear her gently say:"Well, have you brought good news to me?"Her eager face he could not see,Or note the lines of anxious careAs every day she waited there.
But when he wrote, on lighter feetThe happy postman walked the street."Well, here it is, at last," he'd shout,"To end the worry and the doubt."The robin on the maple limbBegan to sing: "She's heard from him."
Her eyes with joy began to glow,The neighbors round her seemed to knowThat with the postman at the doorSweet peace had come to her once more.When letters bring so much delight,Why do the sons forget to write?
The Tower Clock
Day after day the clock in the towerStrikes on its resonant bell, the hour.Telling the throngs in the city blockOnce again it's ten o'clock!Day after day, and the crowds pass on,Till they and another hour have gone.
I heard it first as an eager lad,The largest clock which the city had,And it rang the hour in the self-same wayThat it rings it out for the town to-day,And many who heard it then have gone,Gone like the days that have journeyed on.
Mighty and many the throngs have grown,Many the changes the town has known,But the old clock still in its tower stands,Telling the hour with its silent hands;And the great pass by and they come no more,But the bell still rings as it did of yore.
And I think to-day as I hear it ringThat the fame men crave is a fleeting thing.Unchanged, unswayed by the pomps men praise,The old clock high in its tower stays,Sounding the hours for the great and lowAs it sounded them in the long ago.
So when the throngs that are here pass byAnd the pride of to-day in the dust shall lie,When the new crowds come in their search for power,The self-same clock in the self-same towerShall still ring out in the city block,For them, as for us, it is ten o'clock.
The Busy Summer Cottage
Our friends have automobiles now. The summer cottage where we wentTo rest beside the water's blue in peace and indolent contentIs but an hour's swift ride away. So bright and early Sunday mornBefore the breakfast eggs are cooked, we hear the honking of the horn.
We must have bathing suits for ten, although our family numbers four;Beds must be made for all who come, though father sleeps upon the floor;Dishes and knives and forks and spoons are gathered in one huge display,For we must be prepared to feed the visitors who come our way.
From Friday noon till Monday morn full many a weary trip I take,Rowing the women and their babes upon the bosom of the lake;And by that law which rules a host I'm at the mercy of the crew,I must, until they say good-bye, do everything they wish to do.
The chef in yonder large hotel is not a busier man than I,The fish for fifteen hungry mouths it is my duty now to fry,And thus my glad vacation time from dawn to dusk is filled with chores,For friends have made our resting spot the busiest place in all outdoors.
Good Enough
My son, beware of "good enough,"It isn't made of sterling stuff;It's something any man can do,It marks the many from the few,It has no merit to the eye,It's something any man can buy,Its name is but a sham and bluff,For it is never "good enough."
With "good enough" the shirkers stopIn every factory and shop;With "good enough" the failures restAnd lose to men who give their best;With "good enough" the car breaks downAnd men fall short of high renown.My son, remember and be wise,In "good enough" disaster lies.
With "good enough" have ships been wrecked,The forward march of armies checked,Great buildings burned and fortunes lost;Nor can the world compute the costIn life and money it has paidBecause at "good enough" men stayed.Who stops at "good enough" shall findSuccess has left him far behind.
There is no "good enough" that's shortOf what you can do and you ought.The flaw which may escape the eyeAnd temporarily get by,Shall weaken underneath the strainAnd wreck the ship or car or train,For this is true of men and stuff—Only the best is "good enough."
The Chimney Piece
I would not, if I could, recall some customs that are gone.I'm glad that wreath of immortelles I need not look upon—That cold, imperishable thing of wax, in colors gay.Which hung upon the parlor wall in Grandma's earlier day,No longer shrieks its warning grim that mortal life must cease—And yet I'm sorry we have lost the old-time chimney piece.
The modern mantel, I admit, is striking to the eye,And yet it lacks the wealth of charm we knew in days gone by;For on the little marble shelf above the grate fire's glowWere all the sacred treasures of the homestead in a row,The pictures and the onyx clock, the globe of native birds,Which told the things we loved the most in clearer speech than words.
There Mother kept in tenderness the trinkets of the years,The tokens of her happier days, the symbols of her tears;The glossy cabinet photographs, the candlesticks of brass,The picture of Niagara Falls blown into heavy glass,And there above the grate fire's glow, for every eye to see,Were all the sacred treasures from her book of memory.
But Time has swept these things away, the mantel now is bare.The attic dust lies thick upon the joys once valued there;The photographs are stored away, the birds long since have flown,Nor is it now good form to show the treasured things we own,For when the newer customs come, the ones of old must cease,And yet I'm sorry that we had to lose the chimney piece.
The Crocus
A yellow crocus bloomed today.Where all is dead and bleak and bare,It flashed its light along the wayAnd radiantly twinkled there.
Out of the darkness and the gloom,Braving the blizzard's bitter sting,There came this golden bit of bloomTo herald the advancing spring.
"Hold out! Hold out!" it seemed to say,"Soon must the siege of winter fall,The daffodils are on their way,The hyacinths have heard you call.
"Behind me comes a countless throngOf bigger, braver blooms than I;The woods shall shortly ring with song,Spring's glorious army draweth nigh."
A yellow crocus flashed todayIts torch of faith for all to see—The troops of spring are on the way,The captive earth will soon be free.
My Goals
A little braver when the skies are gray,A little stronger when the road seems long,A little more of patience through the day,And not so quick to magnify a wrong.
A little kinder, both of thought and deed,A little gentler with the old and weak,Swifter to sense another's pressing need,And not so fast the hurtful phrase to speak.
These are my goals—not flung beyond my power,Not dreams of glory, beautiful but vain,Not the great heights where buds of genius flower,But simple splendors which I ought to gain.
These I can do and be from day to dayAlong the humble pathway where I plod,So that at last when I am called awayI need not make apologies to God.
The Carpet on the Stairs
Let others sing in modern ways, it's joy enough for meTo sing in good old-fashioned rhyme the days that used to be.The page of boyhood's scribbled full with things we used to do,The fun we had, the games we played, the little tasks we knew,And back to mind there comes today the hardest of our cares,That springtime job of putting down the carpet on the stairs.
Housecleaning time meant weary legs and hands and aching backs,For no more tedious job there is than driving carpet tacks.Then mother told us what to do, and on our hands and kneesWe stretched and hauled and pulled and tugged and did our best to please;But, oh! I well remember now one task which patience wears,That awkward, muscle straining job of carpeting the stairs.
We'd start upon the topmost step and let the carpet roll,But then began a feat of strength to try the bravest soul.The corners must be folded so and stretched and firmly tacked,With mother watching every move as down the stairs we backed;And many a time we've reached the end, discovering there and thenIt wouldn't do at all that way and must be laid again.
No more we break our finger nails and set our knees on fireIn stretching carpets on the floors, no more our muscles tire;No more the mother stands above our bended forms to seeThat every tack is driven home the way it ought to be.The times are very different now, and no one ever sharesThe joy and pain of long ago, while carpeting the stairs.
Horse and Cutter Days
Winters are not what they used to be in the cities of haste and rush;The snow is white for a little while, then turns to an ugly slush.And the rapid wheels of the motor cars grind all of its beauty down—But I long for the horse and cutter days we knew in the little town.
Then the world stayed white for a month or two and the snow drifts higher grewAnd cheeks were pink with the glow of health and the joys we youngsters knew,Then sleigh bells added a merry lilt to the cold and crispy airAnd youth and maid in an open sleigh were always a happy pair.
We hitched a ride to the runners strong and the snow flew from our feet,But it's dangerous now to hitch a ride on the dark and crowded street,And the raucous honk of the motor horn has banished the sleigh bell's song,For winter days are cheerless now and winter nights are long.
Perhaps it's well that our customs change and good that we travel on,But blent with the smiles of our newer joys are sighs for the pleasures gone,And I sometimes long for the drifted snow and the white and frosty ways,For the cheeks of pink and the laughter gay of our horse and cutter days.
The Old-Time Lilac Bush
A lilac bush is a lovely thingWherever it blossoms in early spring,But I have a tenderer regardFor the old-time bush in an old-time yard,With the house near-by and the youngsters flown,And the old folks living there all alone,For always I fancy I can seeThe visions that cling to the lilac tree.
The house still stands, but the walls are still,And the storms have battered each window sill;There's a tired, worn look on the humble place,Like the weary look on the mother's face,Yet somehow or other I seem to knowThat joy reigned here in the long ago,And somehow or other I seem to seeThe dreams which cling to the lilac tree.
Time was those feeble hands were strongAnd the faltering footsteps danced along;Time was youth romped in that lonely place,But never the years will halt their pace,And the young must go, but the old will clingTo the home they've loved to the final Spring,For they hear the laughter that used to be,When the bloom comes back to the lilac tree.
A lilac bush is a lovely thingWherever it blossoms in early spring,But, bent with age and the smiles and tearsWhich come to all with the passing years,It seems to me that it wears the glowOf the golden days of the long ago,For all that remains of the youth long goneIs the lilac tree still blossoming on.
A Boy's Feet
I got a cowlick, an' it standsUp straight, an' I got dirty hands,An' if it shows a single speckI have to go an' wash my neck,An' every day Ma squints an' peersTo see if I have washed my ears;But I ain't ever really neatAll on account of havin' feet.
These feet of mine are always wrong,I mustn't shuffle 'em alongOr kick a stone that's in the way,Or if I do someone will say:"I wish you'd lift your feet a bit;The way you walk gives me a fit!Those shoes were new a week agoAn' now you've busted out the toe."
They're always peckin' at me, too,For standin' like the fellers do.An' just because my toes turn in,The teacher makes the pupils grinBy tellin' me ten times a day:"Please turn your toes the other way!"An' even when I'm in my seatShe kicks if I just swing my feet.
If I get nervous an' I putOne shoe upon the other foot,Or scrape the floor, they say: "My land!Is that the way a boy should stand?"An' if I rest 'em on a chair,Ma says: "Don't put your feet up there!"An' if I sit on them they roar:"Please put your feet upon the floor!"
I'm gettin' tired of all this talkAbout the way I stand or walk,An' anyhow it seems to me,At least as far as I can see,My feet aren't any different thanThe other fellers 'round here, an'Some day my temper will explode—It ain't my fault I'm pigeon-toed.
Old-Fashioned Remedies
Taking medicine to-day isn't what it used to be.Castor oil is castor oil, but they've banished senna tea,And they've sugar coated now all the bitter things we took,Mother used to brew for us from the family doctor book.Now I tell that boy of mine when he starts to make a fuss,He is lucky not to be taking what they gave to us.
Seems the kitchen stove back then always had a pan or twoBrewing up a remedy for the ailments which we knew,Something mother said we'd need surely in a little while,Senna tea for stomach ills and its brother, camomile;But I vow the worst of all remedies they gave to meWas that gummy, sticky stuff known and served as flaxseed tea.
Boy, put down that little pill, take your powders and be gladYou're not getting what they gave when your father was a lad.Mother's hand was gentle, but rough and hard it seemed to beWhen she sat beside my bed rubbing goose-grease into me.Getting well is easy now. Take your medicine and smile,You are lucky that it's not senna tea or camomile.
The Tumbler at the Sink
The houses of the rich folks are very fine to see,But after all I fancy they'd never do for me—For a butler guards the doorway, and a staff of servants waitTo gratify your slightest wish, like messengers of state.They're there to do your bidding, and should you want a drinkThey'll never let you get it from the tumbler at the sink.
Now it may be I'm old fashioned, but to really feel at home,I like to be permitted all around the house to roam,And I like to find the kitchen, with the towel upon the door,And the gayly colored picture from the corner grocery store.There's a comfortable feeling which the great folks miss, I think,In drinking, when you're thirsty, from the tumbler at the sink.
There's a charm about the kitchen which no other room can boast,And when you think about it, it's the one we need the most.It is there we find her smiling when we come back home at night,There the children dance about her as they're pleading for a bite,And it's there that eyes are brightest, cheeks the pinkest of the pink,And it's there, for all the thirsty, there's the tumbler at the sink.
The Garden Catalogue
There's never frost nor blight nor weeds,Nor neighbor's chickens, cats or dogs,To ruin all the tender seedsThat flourish in the catalogues;The humblest vine that's planted thereBlossoms without the slightest care.
There are no withered stalks to see,No pitiful attempts to thrive,No shrub that struggles desperatelyTo catch the sun and stay alive.In catalogues the larkspur seemsTo match the gardener's fondest dreams.
The red geranium is strong,Its clump of blossom full and round,No windstorm ever comes alongTo sweep the cosmos to the ground,No youngster ever bats a ballAmong the roses, straight and tall.
I turn the pages o'er and o'erAnd see the pansies dark as wine,And think, as I have thought before,These are superior to mine;In my poor garden, never yetHas bloomed such lovely mignonette.
Since pansies have the storms to faceAnd men must battle day by day,They cannot wear the charm and graceTheir printed catalogues display;Life is much sterner than it looksAnd scars are seldom shown in books.
Here on the Earth
Here is where the blows are struck,Here is where the wrong is done,Here are toilers in the muck;Here beneath the shining sun,Pain and hurt and sin abide,Here is where our souls are tried.
What's beyond I cannot say,Save my faith that all is well;There the wrongs are cast away,There in peace the angels dwell,But this life on earth and seaHolds so much that need not be.
I would not remain afarThinking only of my soul;Here where hungry children are,Here where hatred mars the scroll,Thought and time and strength I'd giveBettering this life we live.
Not to-morrow, but to-day,I would serve another's need,I would smooth another's way,Bind the cruel wounds that bleed;Death will soothe the weary brow,But my hand would smooth it now.
Life has need of kindly men,Just, courageous, true and brave,But that need is ended whenComes the sexton to the grave;Let me, then, my duty face,Making earth a happier place.
Let me serve the living here,Not the dead across the bar,Let me carry hope and cheerWhere the sad and hopeless are;Angels wait upon the dead—Let me smooth the path men tread.
I Mustn't Forget
I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old—That's the worst thing ever a man can do.I must keep in mind without bein' toldThat old ideas must give way to new.Let me be always upon my guardNever a crabby old man to be,Youth is too precious to have it marredBy the cranky whims of a man like me.
I must remember that customs changeAn' I've had my youth an' my hair is gray,Mustn't be too surprised at strangeOr startlin' things that the youngsters say;Mustn't keep the bit in their mouths too tight,Which is something old people are apt to do.What used to be wrong may to-day be rightAn' it may not be wrong just becoz it's new.
Want 'em to like me an' want 'em to knowThat I need their laughter an' mirth an' song,An' I want 'em near, 'coz I love 'em so,An' home is the place where their smiles belong.They're growin' up, an' it seems so queerTo hear them talk of the views they hold,But age with youth shouldn't interfereAn' I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old.
Old-Fashioned Dinners
It wasn't too much work for her in the days of long agoTo get a dinner ready for a dozen friends or so;The mother never grumbled at the cooking she must doOr the dusting or the sweeping, but she seemed to smile it through,And the times that we were happiest, beyond the slightest doubt,Were when good friends were coming and we stretched the table out.
We never thought, when we were young, to take our friends awayAnd entertain them at a club or in some swell cafe;When mother gave a dinner, she would plan it all herselfAnd feed the people that she liked, the best things on the shelf.Then one job always fell to me, for I was young and stout,I brought the leaves to father when he stretched the table out.
That good old-fashioned table. I can see it still to-dayWith its curious legs of varnished oak round which I used to play;It wasn't much to look at, not as stylish or refinedOr as costly or as splendid as the oval, modern kind,But it always had a welcome for our friends to sit about,And though twenty guests were coming, we could always stretch it out.
I learned it from my mother—it is foolish pride to roam,The only place to entertain your friends is right at home.Just let them in by dozens, let them laugh and sing and playAnd come to love and know them in the good old-fashioned way;Home's the place for fun and friendship, home's the place where joy may shout,And if you crowd our dining room, we'll stretch the table out.
The Dreamer
The road lay straight before him, but the by-paths smiled at himAnd the scarlet poppies called him to the forests cool and dim,And the song birds' happy chorus seemed to lure him further on;'Twas a day of wondrous pleasure—but the day was quickly gone.
He could not resist the laughter and the purling of a brookAny more than gray old sages can resist some dusty book,And though stern-faced duty bade him march the highway straight ahead,"The trees are better company than busy men," he said.
We wondered at his dreaming and his wanderings far astray,But we were counting values by the gold and silver way,And sometimes as I saw him gazing idly at the sky,I fancied he had pleasures of a sort I couldn't buy.
I fancy he saw something in the clouds above the treesWhich the gold and glory seeker passes by and never sees,And I think he gathered something from the woods and running streamsWhich is just as good as money to the man of many dreams.
Hot Mince Pie
I stood upon the coping of the tallest building knownAnd tried to walk that dangerous ledge, bare-footed and alone.I started very bravely, then I turned to look behindAnd saw a demon coming of the most ferocious kind;He bade me get a move on, and I started in to runAnd I slipped and lost my balance, and I knew that I was done.
I had a wild encounter with a mad and awful beast,His eyes were bulged with malice, for he'd picked me for a feast.I tried to scream, but couldn't. Then he growled a fearful noteAnd gave one spring towards me and his fangs sank in my throat,One gulp and it was over—it was much too black to see,But I knew beyond all question that the end had come for me.
I tumbled from an aeroplane and looped and looped around,And was twenty-seven minutes on my journey to the ground;I bumped a dozen steeples on my perilous descentAnd left as many flagstaffs either snapped in two or bent—But when I woke, in terror, I discovered with a sighHow much of real excitement lurks in mother's hot mince pie.
The Laughing Boy
Always seeing the funny side,That's the glorious way of him.Rollin' his head, with his mouth stretched wide,As quick to laugh as a duck to swim;Whatever you say or whatever you do,He'll answer you back with a chuckle or two.
Laughing from mornin' till night, it seems,Just chock full of the gift o' fun,An' the angels send him their comic dreamsSo's he can grin for 'em every one,An' his grandma says when he laughs her down,He's the disrespectfullest boy in town.
Laughed at the prayer that the preacher spokeThe night Ma asked him to come for tea;Seemed to think it was all a joke,An' he actually winked his eye at me.His ears are keen an' his mind is quickAn' his grin is ready for every trick.
"What'll we do?" says Ma to me,"With a boy like that who won't behave?"An' I answer back: "We'll let him be.Old folks' faces are far too grave,An' it's good for us all to have the joyAn' the rollickin' mirth of a laughin' boy."
Apples Ripe for Eating
Apples ripe for eating, and the grate fire blazing high,And outside the moon of autumn fairly swimming in the sky;The cellar packed with good things from the vine and field and tree—Oh, the speech of man can't tell it, but it somehow seems to meWith such warmth and cheer around us, we should all burst into songAnd store enough of gladness now to last our whole lives long.
Apples ripe for eating—there's a joy beyond compareTo pay for all our trouble and the burdens we must bear!The bowl upon the table filled with round and rosy cheeks,And enough down in the cellar to last all the winter weeks,So that when the bowl is empty we can fill it up again—And in spite of that we grumble and we bitterly complain.
I sometimes sit and wonder as we pack life's fruits awayAnd hoard them in the cellar for the bleak and wintry day,Why the mind of man has never tried to store a stock of cheerIn the cellar of his memory for the barren time of year,So that when joy's bowl is emptied and he thinks that life is vain,He can seek his hoard of pleasures and just fill it up again.
Apples ripe for eating and a stock of them belowFor the long cold nights of winter we shall shortly come to know,So that when we need a pleasure that will seem to soothe the soulWe can wander to the cellar and fill up the apple bowl;So we could, if we were mindful, when our hearts with grief are sad,Refresh our faltering courage with the pleasures we have had.
When There's Company for Tea
When there's company for teaThings go mighty hard with me;Got to sit an' wait an' waitTill the last guest's cleaned his plate,An' I mustn't ask Ma whatKind of pie it is she's got,Mustn't crunch my napkin upOr dip cookies in my cup.
When there's company for teaHome don't seem like home to me;Got to wash my ears an' neckTill they do not show a speck;Got to brush my hair an' thenGot to change my waist again,Then walk slowly down stairs an'Try to be a gentleman.
When there's company for teaMa spends hours instructing meHow to eat an' what to say,An' I can't go out to playWhen I've finished, but must stayTill Ma whispers: "Now you may!"Sittin' still is not much funWhen you've got your supper done.
When there's company for tea,Then the servant waits on meLast instead of first, an' IMustn't talk when she comes by;If the boys outside should call,I don't answer 'em at all;You'd never know that it was meWhen there's company for tea.
When I Get Home
When I get home at night they runTo meet me down the street;The duties of the day are doneAnd joy is mine to meet.Here is a welcome warm and true,Worth every task a man can do.
I stoop to catch them in my armsAnd nestle face to face;The finest of this old world's charmsIs naught to this embrace;Thus to be greeted, I declare,Is worth a thousand years of care.
The toiling of the day is o'er,No more I need to roam,They shout this through the open door:"Oh, Mother! Daddy's home!"Who would not toil where engines hissTo earn so glad an hour as this?
When I get home at night and seeThe little place aglowWith love and laughter all for me,The table set just so,I tell myself, just one glad smileMakes all the care of day worth while.
Oh, we have grieved and we have weptAnd bitter were our tears,Yet when the long faith we have keptThrough all the lonely years,There will be glad souls in the gloamTo welcome us when we get home.
Living with the People
Living with the people, the good, the brave, the strong,Glad to pass the time of day with all who come along.Lord, it's good to meet Your children as they trudge life's thoroughfare,And learn the hopes they cherish and the dreams they see out there.
Living with the people here upon the kindly earth,And finding in the strangest garb the messengers of mirth,For many a stirring tale of life the passer-by can tell,And every man is worth your while if but you know him well.
Living with the people, the rich, the poor, the wise,The same breeze blowing over them, the same sun in their eyes;And this you learn from high and low, throughout life's stretch of years,We're brothers in the joys we take and brothers in our tears.
I'm sorry for the haughty man who holds his head in air,And passes by in cold disdain the garbs of toil and care,For though he may be rich and great, 'tis lonely he must live,He misses all the glorious joys his fellows have to give.
Oh, walk with them and talk with them and hear the tales they tell,The passers-by would be your friends if but you knew them well.The children of the Lord are they, and as they come and go,There is not one among them all that is not good to know.
The Carving Knife
When I was but a little lad, my father carved what meat we had;With grace and skill he'd cut and slice the roast of beef or veal,With dexterous hand he'd wield the blade, no false or awkward move he made,And deftly he could whet the knife upon his shining steel.But now and then I'd hear him say: "Who's used my carving knife today?What woman's used this blade of mine for cutting wire or tin?"And on this special point he'd harp: "a carving weapon must be sharp,Or one can never cut a roast and have the slices thin."
"That knife must not be used on string, or bread or boards or anything—Hands off my carving blade," he'd cry, and yet I grieve to say,In spite of all his warnings grim, the women paid no heed to him,They used his sacred carving knife a dozen times a day.They'd use that knife for cutting soap, old carpets, leather belts and rope,They'd use it too, for pulling tacks and leave it dulled and nicked,And every time a meal began, my father was an angry man,But vain was every oath he swore and every kick he kicked.
Now like my good old dad I stand, and take the carving knife in handAnd run my thumb along its edge and find it dulled and nicked,And like my good old dad I vow some day there'll be a healthy row,But I'm as unsuccessful as my father when he kicked.The maid, the youngsters and the wife still take that sacred carving knifeAnd use it as a handy tool on wood or lead or stone;In spite of all I do or say, the blade is dulled from day to day,I cannot get the women folks to leave that knife alone!
Take a Boy Along With You
Take a boy along with youAnd you'll learn before you're throughThat this world is full of wondersYou'd forgotten all about;Song birds nesting in a treeThat you pass and never see,Strange and curious mysteriesThe lad keeps pointing out.
He will question how and why,With his bright and eager eyeHe'll discover curious sightsAll along the way;He'll show novelties to youWhich were hidden from your view,And will fill with ecstasyJust a common day.
What to you is dull and old,He will wonderingly behold,Marvelous your dreary worldWill appear to him;And at every bend and turnFrom that youngster you will learnJust how much a man may missWhen his eyes grow dim.
Who should say the world is bare,Commonplace and filled with care?Tired age may utter this,Blinded to its joy;Sage and cynic, grown severe,May have lost the magic here,But the world is gloriousTo a little boy.
If you fancy life is justBearing burdens, as you must,City streets and buildings tallAnd the moving throng,If you've lost the power to seeSplendors as they used to be,Some day when you're starting outTake a boy along.
When the Soap Gets in Your Eye
My father says that I ought to beA man when anything happens to me.An' he says that a man will take a blowAn' never let on it hurts him so;He'll grit his teeth an' he'll set his chinAn' bear his pain with a manly grin.But I'll bet that the bravest man would cryIf ever the soap gets into his eye.
I'm brave enough when I'm playin' ball,An' I can laugh when I've had a fall.With the girls around I'd never showThat I was scared if the blood should flowFrom my banged up nose or a battered knee.As brave as the bravest I can be,But it's different pain, an' I don't know why,Whenever the soap gets into your eye.
I can set my teeth an' I can grinWhen I scrape my cheek or I bark my shin,An' once I fell from our apple treeAn' the wind was knocked right out of me,But I never cried an' the gang all saidThat they thought for sure I was really dead.But it's worse than thinking you're going to dieWhenever the soap gets into your eye.
When your mother's holding your neck, and youCouldn't get away if you wanted to,An' she's latherin' hard with her good right hand,It's more than the bravest man could stand.If you open your mouth to howl, you getA taste of the wash rag, cold and wet,But you got to yell till your face gets dryWhenever the soap gets into your eye.
"Our Little House"
I'd like to have them think of meAs one with whom they liked to be;I'd like to make my home so fairThat they would all be happy there;To have them think, when life is done,That here they had their finest fun.
Within these walls with love aglow,They live to-morrow's "Long Ago."Nor is the time so far awayWhen now shall be their yesterday,And they shall turn once more to seeThe little home which used to be.
When comes that time I want them thenTo wish they could be here again;I want their memories to beA picture of a kindly me,To have them say how very gladTheir youthful lives were made by dad.
I want them to recall this placeAs one of charm and tender grace,To love these walls of calm contentWherein their youthful years were spent,And feel through each succeeding year,They lived their happiest moments here.
I feel I shall have failed unlessThis house shall shelter happiness.Save they shall find their truest mirthAround their father's humble hearth,And here life's finest joys attain,I shall have lived my life in vain.
Spring Fever
When the blue gets back in the skies once moreAnd the vines grow green 'round the kitchen door,When the roses bud and the robins come,I stretch myself and I say: "Ho-hum!I ought to work but I guess I won't;Though some want riches to-day, I don't;This looks to me like the sort of dayThat was made to idle and dream away."
When the sun is high and the air just right,With the trees all blossomy, pink and white,And the grass, as soft as a feather bedWith the white clouds drifting just overhead,I stretch and yawn like a school boy then,And turn away from the walks of menAnd tell myself in a shamefaced way:"I'm going to play hookey from work to-day!"
"Here is a morning too rare to miss,And what is gold to a day like this,And what is fame to the things I'll seeThrough the lattice-work of a fine old tree?There is work to do, but the work can wait;There are goals to reach, there are foes to hate,There are hurtful things which the smart might say,But nothing like that shall spoil to-day."
"To-day I'll turn from the noisy townAnd just put all of my burdens down;I'll quit the world and its common sense,And the things men think are of consequence,To chum with birds and the friendly treesAnd try to fathom their mysteries,For here is a day which looks to beThe kind I can fritter away on me."
Father Song
It's oh, my little laddie, as you're romping at your playThere's an old heart running with you every minute of the day;And though you cannot see me when you're wrapped up in a game,But it's I that am beside you in your striving just the same.
It is oh, my little laddie, there is much you cannot know,But it's I that follow proudly everywhere you chance to go;There's a hand upon your shoulder, wheresoever you may be,That would help you out of danger, and that hand belongs to me.
It is oh, my little laddie, though you cannot hear me call,I am always there to help you every time you chance to fall;I am with you in the school room and I'm with you on the street,And though you may not know it, I am dogging at your feet.
It's oh, my little laddie, all my life belongs to you,All the dreams that I have cherished through the years depend on you;And though now you cannot know it, you shall some day come to seeHow this old heart loved to hover 'round a boy that used to be.
The Boy
A possible man of affairs,A possible leader of men,Back of the grin that he wearsThere may be the courage of ten;Lawyer or merchant or priest,Artist or singer of joy,This, when his strength is increased,Is what may become of the boy.
Heedless and mischievous now,Spending his boyhood in play,Yet glory may rest on his browAnd fame may exalt him some day;A skill that the world shall admire,Strength that the world shall employAnd faith that shall burn as a fire,Are what may be found in the boy.
He with the freckles and tan,He with that fun-loving grin,May rise to great heights as a manAnd many a battle may win;Back of the slang of the streetsAnd back of the love of a toy,It may be a Great Spirit beats—Lincoln once played as a boy.
Trace them all back to their youth,All the great heroes we sing,Seeking and serving the Truth,President, poet and king,Washington, Caesar and Paul,Homer who sang about Troy,Jesus, the Greatest of all,Each in his time was a boy.
I Don't Want to Go to Bed
World wide over this is said:"I don't want to go to bed."Dads and mothers, far and near,Every night this chorus hear;Makes no difference where they are,Here or off in Zanzibar,In the igloos made of snowOf the fur-clad Eskimo,In this blistering torrid zone,This one touch of nature's known;In life's various tongues it's said:"I don't want to go to bed!"
This has ever been the wayOf the youngsters at their play.Laughter quickly dries their tears,Trouble swiftly disappears,Joy is everywhere about,Here and there and in and out;Yet when night comes on they cryThat so glad a day should die,And they think that they will missSomething more of precious bliss,So shouts every curly-head:"I don't want to go to bed!"
Age is glad to put awayAll the burdens of the day,Glad to lay the worries down,Quit the noises of the town,And in slumber end the careThat has met them here and there.But the children do not knowLife is freighted down with woe;They would run until they drop,Hoping day would never stop,Calling back when it has fled:"I don't want to go to bed."
Morning Brigands
There may be happier times than this,But if there are I've never known them,When youngsters jump in bed to kissAnd wake the pa's and ma's who own them.What if the sun be up or not,Another perfect day is dawning,And is it not a happy lotWith such delight to greet the morning?
Sometimes I hear them quit their bedAnd catch their bare-foot pitter-patter,And other times they're at my headBefore I know what is the matter.Brigands to rob us of our sleepThey come—their weapons love and laughter,And though we're locked in slumber deep,They always get the joy they're after.
Some days there are when we would lieAnd dream our dreams a little longer,Then "back to bed awhile," we cry—But oh, our love for them is stronger,Yes, stronger than our wish to sleepAnd so we countermand the orderAnd let that pair of brigands leapWith wild delight across love's border.
There may be happier times than this,But if there are I've never known them,When youngsters jump in bed to kissAnd wake the pa's and ma's who own them.They miss a lot, the man and wifeWho never feel those glad hands shake them,Who rise by day to toil and strife,But have no little tots to wake them.
Grief's Only Master
Into the lives of allThe tears of sorrow fall.Into the happiest heartsGrief drives her darts;No door however stoutCan shut Death's angel out.
Vain are the things we prize,Treasure and pomp's disguise;They cannot stay the tearWhen the true griefs appear.Where Death will strike to-dayGold cannot bar the way.
There is no joy secure,No peace that shall endure,No smile that man shall keep.God wills that he must weep,And in his darkest hourVain is all earthly power.
What, then, should guard the gate?How shall a man be great?Through the dark days and long,What power shall make him strong?Wherein does courage lie,Since all he loves must die?
When sorrow binds his hands,Helpless the strong man stands.One master only griefBows to, and that's belief—Faith that he'll some day knowWhy God hath willed it so!
A fairy and a robin metA lilac bush is a lovely thingA little braver when the skies are grayAlways seeing the funny sideA possible man of affairsApples ripe for eating, and the grate fire blazing highA yellow crocus bloomed to-day
Behind full many a gift there liesBill and I went fishingBill and Jim drove into townBill is a mushroom expert
Day after day the clock in the towerDishes to wash and clothes to mendDown the lanes of AugustDresses high and dresses low
From newsboy to the millionaire
Giuseppe Tomassi ees stylisha chapGive me a book and my cozy chair
He'd been delivering a load of coalHe must come back a better manHere is where the blows are struck"Here's how I figure it out," says heHigh chair days are best of allHis eye was wild and his face was tautHow many times we've said good night
I am not much at the gameI cherish the picture of a manI'd like to have them think of meI'd rather fancied it would comeI envy him his care-free wayIf it's worth while, then it's worth a few blowsIf I were a boss I would like to sayIf I were sending my boy afarI have to wash myself at nightI'll tell you it's a problem, when a youngster's nineI met him in a college townI mustn't forget that I'm getting old—Into the lives of allI stood upon the coping of the tallest building.It happened that I came along as school was letting out"It is all for the best," so they saidIt seemed an unimportant taskIt's Oh, my little laddie, as you're rompingIt's wanting keeps us young and fitIt was a little yellow dogIt wasn't too much work for her in the days of long agoIt was thick with Prussian troopersI used to want a lovely lawnI've eaten chicken a la king"I will gather some flowers for our friend"I would not, if I could, recall some customs
Jimmie McBride was a common sense lad
Last night the baby criedLet others sing in modern ways, it's joy enough for meLet's be brave when the laughter diesLiving with the people, the good, the brave, the strong
My father says that I ought to be a manMy son, beware of "good enough"
Nellie made a cup of tea
October and the crimsoned treesOur friends have automobiles nowOver the crib where the baby lies
Pa never gets a story straightPeter's the fellow I go to whenever Paul presses his claim
She wasn't hungry, so she saidSince Pa put in the radioSit here on my knee, little girl, and I'll tell a storySome folks pray for a boyStick to it, boy
Take a boy along with youTaking medicine to-day isn't what it used to beTeach the children of the FlagTender, gentle, brave and trueThe hills are in the mist to-dayThe houses of the rich folks are very fine to seeThe little clothes line by the kitchen doorThe ordinary fellow does an ordinary taskThe other night 'bout two o'clockThe postman whistled down the streetThere is a reason, I suppose, for every thing.There is a song in every thingThere isn't any pay for you, you serve without rewardThere is one critic a man should heedThere is so much that we can doThere may be happier times than thisThere's a smile on the face of the mother to-dayThere's never frost nor blight nor weedsThe road lay straight before him but the by-paths smiled at himThe time I played with VardonThe white oak keeps its leaves till springThey found the great stone rolled awayThey laughed when I came home last nightThey put his spotless surplice onThey're waiting for us over thereThis is the tale of a mortgage and a dead manTo-day, if I were free, I think I'd wander
Used to think I'd like to go
We found the car beneath a treeWe nodded as we passed each dayWe've had a lot of visitors, it seemsWhen all is said and doneWhen I get home at night they run to meet meWhen I was but a little lad, my father carvedWhen melancholy rides the skyWhen Pa came home last nightWhen the blue gets back in the skies once moreWhen there's company for teaWhere is the road to ArcadyWho's dat knockin' at de do'Wife o' Mine, day after dayWinters are not what they used to beWorld wide over this is said
You know your mother—that's plain as dayYou shall wonder as you meetYou would take my girl away