The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe Passing ThrongThis 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: The Passing ThrongAuthor: Edgar A. GuestRelease date: July 10, 2019 [eBook #59894]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSING THRONG ***
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: The Passing ThrongAuthor: Edgar A. GuestRelease date: July 10, 2019 [eBook #59894]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: The Passing Throng
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Author: Edgar A. Guest
Release date: July 10, 2019 [eBook #59894]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PASSING THRONG ***
By
Edgar A. Guest
The Reilly & Lee Co.Chicago
Printed in the U. S. A.Copyright, 1923byThe Reilly & Lee Co.All Rights ReservedThe Passing Throng
ByEdgar A. Guest
Verse—The Light of FaithA Heap o' Livin'Just FolksPoems of PatriotismThe Path to HomeWhen Day Is DoneThe Passing ThrongRhymes of ChildhoodHarbor Lights of HomeThe Friendly WayLife's Highway
Illustrated—All That Matters
Prose—What My Religion Means to MeMaking the House a HomeMy Job as a FatherWhy I Go to ChurchYou Can't Live Your Own Life
Gift Books—MotherFatherHomeFriendsYouFaith
ToW. F. L.Whose friendship needs neithersymbol nor token,this book is affectionately dedicated
INDEX
Abe LincolnApples Ripe for EatingArcady
Ballad of the Indifferent Whist Player, TheBattle of Belleau WoodBeing Brave at NightBeneath the DirtBill and I Went FishingBook and a Pipe, ABoy or Girl?Boy's Feet, ABoy, TheBread and ButterBroken Wheel, TheBusy Summer Cottage, The
Callers, TheCarpet on the Stairs, TheCarving Knife, TheCertain Man, AChimney Piece, TheChoir Boy, TheConsolationCrocus, TheCup of Tea, A
Dirty HandsDown the Lanes of AugustDreamer, TheDriver of the Truck, The
Easter
Fairy and the Robin, TheFairy Story, AFather SongFootball
Garden Catalogue, TheGood EnoughGood NightGrass and ChildrenGrief's Only MasterGuiseppe Tomassi
Here on the EarthHigh Chair DaysHills of Faith, TheHis WorkHorse and Cutter DaysHot Mince Pie
I Don't Want to Go to BedIf It's Worth WhileIf I Were a BossIf I Were Sending My Boy AfarI Mustn't ForgetInspiration of the Past, The
Last Night the Baby CriedLaughing Boy, TheLay of the Troubled Golfer, TheLesson of the Crate, TheLet's Be BraveLetter, TheLife Needs Us AllLife's EquipmentLittle Clothes Line, TheLiving with the PeopleLuckless Fisherman, The
Making of a Friend, TheMan Must Want, AMan Who Gets Promoted, TheMorning BrigandsMortgage and the Man, TheMother and the StylesMother's WayMushroom Expert, TheMy Goals
OctoberOld-Fashioned DinnersOld-Fashioned RemediesOld-Time Lilac Bush, The"Our Little House"Out-Doors Man, TheOver the Crib
Partridge TimePassing Throng, ThePeter and PaulProud Father
Questioning
Radio, The
SacrificesScoutmaster, TheShe Never Gave Me a ChanceShipsShoesSong in Everything, ASpirit of the Home, TheSpring FeverStick to It
Take a Boy Along With YouTeach Them of the FlagTender Blossoms, TheThey're Waiting Over ThereTime I Played With Vardon, TheTo the Little BabyTower Clock, TheTown of Used to Be, TheTraining of Jimmy McBride, TheTriumphTrue Critic, TheTumbler at the Sink, The
Visitors
Waiter, TheWay of a Wife, TheWhat a Father Wants to KnowWhen Father Broke His ArmWhen I Get HomeWhen There's Company for TeaWhen the Soap Gets in Your EyeWhite Oak, TheWhooping CoughWife o' Mine
Yellow Dog, The
The Passing Throng
From newsboy to the millionaireThe passing throng goes by each day;The old man with his weight of care,The maiden in her colors gay,The mother with her babe in arms,The dreamer and the man of might,Grief's cruel scars and laughter's charmsPass by the window, day and night.
Now slowly rides a corpse to findThe grave and its unbroken sleep,And in the carriages behindA score of sorrowing loved ones weep;But scarcely has the hearse passed byUpon its journey to the tomb,When, wreathed with smiles of love, we spyThe faces of a bride and groom.
We cannot understand it all,We cannot know why this is so;From dawn until night's curtains fall,We see the people come and go.Hope lights the eyes of youth to-day,To-morrow care has left them dim;Once this man proudly walked his way,But now defeat has broken him.
Could we but watch, as God must do,We'd see the struggling youth arise,We'd see him brave his dangers through,And reach his goal and claim the prize.And we might judge with gentler sightThe broken lives, which come and go,And better choose 'twixt wrong and right—If we could know what God must know.
Wife o' Mine
Wife o' Mine, day after dayCheering me along the way;Patient, tender, smiling, true,Always ready to renewFaltering courage and to shareAll the day may bring of care;Dreaming dreams wherein you seeBrighter years that are to be;Calling paltry pleasures fine—That's you always, Wife o' Mine.
Wife o' Mine, we've shed some tearsWith the passing of the years,Mourned beside our lovely dead;But somehow you've always saidYou and I could bear the blowKnowing God had willed it so;And you've smiled to show to meJust how brave you meant to be,Smiled to keep my faith in line—That's you, always, Wife o' Mine.
Wife o' Mine, long years agoOnce I promised you would knowLuxuries and costly things,Gowns of silk and jeweled rings,And you laughed as though you knewDreams like that could not come true;Now perhaps they never will,But I see you laughing still,Welcoming me with eyes that shine—That's you always, Wife o' Mine.
Let's Be Brave
Let's be brave when the laughter diesAnd the tears come into our troubled eyes,Let's cling to the faith and the old beliefWhen the skies grow gray with the clouds of grief,Let's bear the sorrow and hurt and painAnd wait till the laughter comes again.
Let's be brave when the trials comeAnd our hearts are sad and our lips are dumb,Let's strengthen ourselves in the times of testBy whispering softly that God knows best;Let us still believe, though we cannot know,We shall learn sometime it is better so.
Let's be brave when the joy departsTill peace shall come to our troubled hearts,For the tears must fall and the rain come downAnd each brow be pressed to the thorny crown;Yet after the dark shall the sun arise,So let's be brave when the laughter dies.
Boy or Girl?
Some folks pray for a boy, and someFor a golden-haired little girl to come.Some claim to think there is more of joyWrapped up in the smile of a little boy,While others pretend that the silky curlsAnd plump, pink cheeks of the little girlsBring more of bliss to the old home placeThan a small boy's queer little freckled face.
Now which is better, I couldn't sayIf the Lord should ask me to choose to-day;If He should put in a call for meAnd say: "Now what shall your order be,A boy or girl? I have both in store—Which of the two are you waiting for?"I'd say with one of my broadest grins:"Send either one, if it can't be twins."
I've heard it said, to some people's shame,They cried with grief when a small boy came,For they wanted a girl. And some folks I knowWho wanted a boy, just took on soWhen a girl was sent. But it seems to meThat mothers and fathers should happy beTo think, when the Stork has come and gone,That the Lord would trust them with either one.
Boy or girl? There can be no choice;There's something lovely in either voice.And all that I ask of the Lord to doIs to see that the mother comes safely throughAnd guard the baby and have it well,With a perfect form and a healthy yell,And a pair of eyes and a shock of hair.Then, boy or girl—and its dad won't care.
They're Waiting Over There
They're waiting for us over there;The young, the beautiful and fairWho left us, oh, so long ago,Lonely and hurt on earth below,Are waiting bravely, never fear,Until our faces shall appear.
Then, when our journey here is done,And we set out to follow onThrough the great, heavy mantled doorWhich leads to rest forevermore,They will be there to laugh awayThe loneliness we feel to-day.
They'll welcome us with wondrous grace,And show us all about the place;They'll take us gently by the handAnd guide us through that radiant land;They'll tell us all they've learned and seenThrough the long absence that has been.
We'll meet the friends who have been kindTo them the while we stayed behind—Angels who long have dwelt above,Who welcomed them with arms of love,And sheltered them the long years through,Just as we'd prayed for them to do.
Though now you mourn, who stay behind,How sad 'twould be to leave, and findUpon that distant other shoreNo loved one who had gone before—The gates of Heaven to enter throughWith no one there to welcome you.
As now, when some long journey endsAnd we're received by smiling friendsWho've watched and waited for our train,So shall they welcome us again;The young, the beautiful and fairWill all be waiting for us there.
Visitors
We've had a lot of visitors, it seems, for weeks an' weeks,And Pa is gettin' all run down. Ma says that when he speaksHe isn't civil any more. He mopes around the placeAnd always seems to wear a look of sadness on his face.And yesterday he said to Ma when she began to fuss:"I wonder when they're going to quit an' leave the home to us.
"It's nice to have your people come, but some of them should go;Instead of that they're sticking here like bull dogs at a show.'The more the merrier,' they shout, as other ones drop in.I'm getting so I cannot stand to see your cousins grinAnd, what is more, I'm getting tired of driving folks aboutAnd mighty tired of visitors who must be taken out.
"Night after night when I've come home I've hauled them near and far,You'd think I was the driver of a town sight-seeing car.I've hauled them up to factories and monuments and parks,Museums and aquariums; I've shown 'em seals and sharksAnd bears and wolves and elephants; and now I want to quit.I know they'd do the same for me, but I am sick of it.
"I wouldn't say a word at all about your folks, I knowThey're just as nice as they can be, but still I wish they'd go.I'm tired of all the buzz and talk, the tales of those who've died;I'm tired of seeing all our chairs forever occupied.""And I am tired myself," said Ma, "as tired as I can be,You're only on the job at night, but it's all day long for me."
When Father Broke His Arm
Pa never gets a story straight.He's always mixed about the date,Or where it was, or what occurred,Or who related what he heard;And every time he starts to tellSome little story he knows well,Ma says: "No, Pa, as I recall,That isn't how it was at all."
"Remember when I broke my arm,"Says Pa, "when we were on the farmAnd I went out that slippery mornA few days after Bud was born,To get some wood"—and Ma says then:"Oh, Pa, don't tell that tale again!And anyhow, I know right wellBud wasn't born the day you fell."
"'Twas months before he came," says Ma."'Twas after he was born," says Pa;"I rather think I ought to knowJust when it was I suffered so.""Maybe you ought," says Ma, "but still,I saw you tumble down the hill,And it was March with snow drifts high—Bud wasn't born till next July."
"I'd walk him round the floor," says Pa."You're all mixed up again," says Ma."We'll ask Aunt Lizzie, she was there,She'd come to help." Says Ma: "I swearYou're just as crazy as a loon,Aunt Lizzie didn't come till June.To argue on is most absurd,Bud wasn't born when that occurred."
I wish I knew just what is whatOr whether I was born or not,But I'll just have to sit and waitUntil Pa gets his story straight;And I have never heard at allJust how it was he chanced to fall,For Pa and Ma can't yet agreeWhich one came first—the fall or me.
The Spirit of the Home
Dishes to wash and clothes to mend,And always another meal to plan,Never the tasks of a mother endAnd oh, so early her day began!Floors to sweep and the pies to bake,And chairs to dust and the beds to make.
Oh, the home is fair when you come at nightAnd the meal is good and the children gay,And the kettle sings in its glad delightAnd the mother smiles in her gentle way;So great her love that you seldom seeOr catch a hint of the drudgery.
Home, you say, when the day is done,Home to comfort and peace and rest;Home, where the children romp and run—There is the place that you love the best!Yet what would the home be like if youHad all of its endless tasks to do?
Would it be home if she were not there,Brave and gentle and fond and true?Could you so fragrant a meal prepare?Could you the numberless duties do?What were the home that you love so much,Lacking her presence and gracious touch?
She is the spirit of all that's fair;She is the home that you think you build;She is the beauty you dream of there;She is the laughter with which it's filled—She, with her love and her gentle smile,Is all that maketh the home worth while.
If I Were Sending My Boy Afar
If I were sending my boy afarTo live and labor where strangers are,I should hold him close till the time to go,Telling him things which he ought to know;I should whisper counsel and caution wise,Hinting of dangers which might arise,And tell him the things I have learned from life,Of its bitter pain and its cruel strifeAnd the sore temptations which men beset,And then add this: "Boy, don't forgetWhen your strength gives out and your hope grows dim,Your father will help if you'll come to him."
If I were sending a boy away,I should hold him close on the parting dayAnd give him my trust. Through thick and thinI should tell him I counted on him to win,To keep his word at whatever cost,To play the man though his fight be lost.But beyond all that I should whisper low:"If trouble comes, let your father know;Come to him, son, as you used to doWhen you were little—he'll see you through.I am trusting you in a distant land.You trust your father to understand.
"Trust me wherever you chance to be,Know there is nothing to hide from me,Tell me it all—your tale of woe,The sting of failure that hurts you so.Never, whatever your plight may be,Think it something to hide from me;Come to me first in your hour of need,Come though you know that my heart will bleed!Boy, when the shadows of trouble fall,Come to your father first of all."
The White Oak
The white oak keeps its leaves till spring when other trees are bare,And who will take the time to look, will find the young bud there;The young bud nestled snug and warm against the winter's cold;The young bud being sheltered by the knowledge of the old.
And when the spring shall come again—and gentle turns the day,The youthful bud will swell with strength and thrust the old away;The youthful bud will seek the breeze and hunger for the sun,And down to earth will fall the old with all its duty done.
Then, heedless of the parent leaf, the youthful bud will growAnd watch the robins build their nests and watch the robins go.Then something strange will come to it when that young leaf grows old,It, too, will want to shield its babe against the winter's cold.
It, too, will cling unto the tree through many a dreary dayUntil the spring-time comes again and it is thrust away;Then it will flutter down to earth with all its duty done,And leave behind its happy child to drink the morning sun.
How like man's life from birth to close! How like the white oak treeWhich keeps a shelter for its young against the storms, are we!We guard our children through the night and watch them through the day,And when at last our work is done, like leaves, we fall away.
Dirty Hands
I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed,An' wash again when I get up, and wash before I'm fed,An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands an' shirt—They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond of dirt.But Bill—my chum—an' I agree that we have never seenA feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean.
Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him in from playTo make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times a day.Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber comesTo fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs his thumbs;His clothes are always thick with grease, his face is smeared with dirt,An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt.
The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse than mine,An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in every line.The carpenter who works around our house can mend a chairOr put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother doesn't careThat he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferesAn' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash his ears.
The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see.Have hands and necks and ears that are as dirty as can be.The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go,Most always has a smudgy face—his hands aren't white as snow.But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knowsThe most important men in town have dirty hands and clo'es.
If I Were a Boss
If I were a boss I would like to say:"You did a good job here yesterday."I'd look for a man, or a girl, or boyWhose heart would leap with a thrill of joyAt a word of praise, and I'd pass it outWhere the crowd could hear as I walked about.
If I were the boss I would like to findThe fellow whose work is the proper kind;And whenever to me a good thing came,I'd ask to be told the toiler's name,And I'd go to him and I'd pat his backAnd I'd say: "That was perfectly splendid, Jack!"
Now a bit of praise isn't much to give,But it's dear to the hearts of all who live;And there's never a man on this good old earthBut is glad to be told that he's been of worth;And a kindly word when the work is fairIs welcomed and wanted everywhere.
If I were a boss, I am sure I shouldSay a kindly word whenever I could,For the man who has given his best by dayWants a little more than his weekly pay;He likes to know, with the setting sun,That his boss is pleased with the work he's done.
To the Little Baby
You know your mother—that's plain as day,But those wide blue eyes of you seem to sayWhen I bend over your crib: "Now whoAre you?"It's little figure I cut, I know,And faces trouble a baby so,But I'm the gladdest of all the glad—Your dad!
You're two months old, and you see us smile,And I know you are wondering all the whileWhoever on earth can these people beYou see.You've learned your mother; you know her wellWhen hunger rattles the dinner bell,But somehow or other you cannot placeMy face.
As yet, I'm but one of the passing throng,The curious people who come alongAnd pause at your crib, and you seem to sayEach day:"I know one voice that is sweet to hear,I know her step when my mother's near,I know her wonderful smile—but whoAre you?
"You always come with the same old grin,Your finger's rough when you tickle my chin,But you run away when I start to cry,And IDon't understand when visitors callWhy you're so afraid they will let me fall.You are the queerest of all the queerFolks here!"
It's true that over your crib I standAnd tickle your chin with my rough old hand.And I run away when you start to cry,But IHave a right to my queer little funny ways,To boast your worth and to sound your praise,For I am the gladdest of all the glad—Your dad.
His Work
There isn't much fame on a farm, an' the farm doesn't pile up the wealth;It gives you an appetite early an' late, an' it's usually lavish with health.The world travels by in its cars, but the men and the women don't seeAny reason to cheer anything that I do or pin any medals on me;But I'm doin' my work just the same an' at night-time the Lord an' I knowThat the wheat's lookin' fine in the acres out there, and I—well, I helped it to grow.
Sometimes I get gloomy an' blue an' wish I could rise with the great,An' wish I could point something out which my hands have builded or helped to create;Then the orchard looks over to me an' the fruit-laden trees seem to say,"If it were not for you an' the care that you've given, we wouldn't be bearin' today."An' the acres of corn over there, I planted 'em all, row by row,"The good gift o' nature," the poets declare—but the Lord knows I helped it to grow.
I reckon I'm fillin' my place, though workin' all day on the soilAn' standin' the heat of the merciless sun isn't listed as glorious toil.There's little of brilliance here, an' there's nothin' to brag of; I guessA farmer's a farmer, an' that's all he is—an' his crops are his only success.But the Lord knows, an' I know it, too, as I plough or I harrow or hoe,That these fields would be barren of wheat an' of corn, if I hadn't helped 'em to grow.
Bread and Butter
I've eaten chicken a la kingAnd many a fancy dish,I think I've tasted everythingThe heart of man can wish;But nightly when we dine alone,My grateful praise I utterUnto that good old stand-by, knownAs mother's bread and butter.
Some think it very common fareAnd may be they are right,But I can take that wholesome pairAt morning, noon and night;And there's a happy thrill I feelThat sets my heart a-flutterAs I sit down to make a mealOf mother's bread and butter.
Though poets sing their favorite foodsIn lilting lines and sweet,And each unto his different moodsTells what he likes to eat,I still remain the little boyWho gleefully would mutterA youngster's gratitude and joyFor mother's bread and butter.
So now, for all the joy I've hadFrom such a wholesome pairSince first I was a little ladIn hunger's deep despair,I hold the finest food of all—Though epicures may sputterAnd sneer me from the banquet hall—Is mother's bread and butter.
The Little Clothes Line
The little clothes line by the kitchen door!My mother stretched it once when I was young,And there the garments which the baby wore,Each morning, very carefully, she hung.
Square bits of flannel fluttered in the breeze,White stockings very delicate and small,Long flowing dresses and the glad bootees,A little blanket and a knitted shawl.
Then came the day when mother took it down,And we forgot what symbols fluttered there;We'd grown to breast the current of the town,To fight for conquest and to stand to care.
Ten years ago she smiled and said to me:"I want a little clothes line by the door."And there she hung, for all the world to see,The various bits of raiment which he wore.
Even the ragman on his alley roundKnew, by the symbols fluttering on that line,That there a little baby would be found,And day by day he saw that glorious sign.
Then boyhood came and called our babe away,Muscled him strong and turned his cheeks to brown,Gave him the strength to run and romp and play,And then she took the little clothes line down.
To-day I sat beside her bed, and sheSmiled the sweet smile of motherhood once more."When I get up again," she said to me,"I'll want a little clothes line by the door."
The Ballad of the Indifferent Whist Player
I am not much at the game,Careless the things that I do;Those whose approval I claimWhen I attempt it, are few;Bridge players look in dismayAfter a hand I have played,Always they icily say:"Why did you lead me a spade?"
I, who am gentle and tame,Am scorned by a merciless crew;I bear the brunt and the blameWhenever they mutter, "Down two!"No matter what card I may play,No matter that whist's not my trade,Always they sneeringly say:"Why did you lead me a spade?"
Matron, young maiden or dame,Brown eyes or gray eyes or blue,Angrily treat me the sameRecalling the cards that I drew.Be it December or May,Ever she starts this tiradeWith a look that's intended to slay:"Why did you lead me a spade?"
L'Envoi
Prince, when my soul flies awayAnd my form in the cold ground is laid,Let me rest where nobody will say:"Why did you lead me a spade?"
The Broken Wheel
We found the car beneath a tree."The steering knuckle broke," said he;"The driver's dead; they say his wifeWill be an invalid for life.I wonder how the man must feelWho made that faulty steering wheel."
It seemed a curious thought, and ISat thinking, as the cars went by,About the man who made the wheelAnd shaped that knuckle out of steel;I tried to visualize the scene—The man, the steel and the machine.
Perhaps the workman never sawAn indication of the flaw;Or, seeing it, he fancied itWould not affect his work a bit,And said: "It's good enough to go—I'll pass it on. They'll never know."
"It's not exactly to my bestBut it may pass the final test;And should it break, no man can knowIt was my hand that made it so.The thing is faulty, but perhapsWe'll never hear it when it snaps."
Of course the workman couldn't seeThe mangled car beneath the tree,The dead man, and the tortured wifeDoomed to a cripple's chair for life—His chief concern was getting byThe stern inspector's eager eye.
Perhaps he whistles on his wayInto the factory to-dayAnd doesn't know the ruin wroughtBy just one minute's careless thought.Yet human life is held at stakeBy nearly all that toilers make.
The Tender Blossoms
"I will gather some flowers for our friend," she said,So into the garden with her I wentAnd stood for awhile at the rose's bedAs she stooped to her labor of sentiment.
"Why not the full blown blossom there?Why do you leave it and pass it by?"Those were the questions I asked of her.And she answered me: "It is soon to die."
"Here is a withered and blasted rose,Better without it the plant would be;Cut it and mingle it now with thoseYou are taking away for your friend to see."
"Here is a peony stained and torn,Take it and cling to your choicest bloom."But she answered me with a look of scorn:"These flowers are to brighten a sick friend's room."
"Only the tenderest bud I'll take.Never the withered and worn and old;Of my fairest flowers is the gift I makeBy which my love for my friend is told."
"So, when the angels call," said I,"And fold in their arms a little child,Passing the old and the broken by,Think of this and be reconciled.
"Always the tenderest buds they take,Pure and lovely and undefiled.When a gift of love unto God they'd make,Always they come for a little child."
Questioning
You shall wonder as you meetDrunkards reeling down the street,Helpless cripples and the blind,Human wrecks of every kindLiving on from day to day,Why your loved one couldn't stay.
These are thoughts which always comeWhen the heart with grief is numb."Why," the anguished mother cries,With the tears still in her eyes,"Must my baby go awayAnd some sinful creature stay?"
Thus, rebellious in your grief,You may falter in beliefAnd your blinded eyes will seeNo just cause why this should be;But the passing years will showWisely was it ordered so.
Hold your faith and bear the pain—Questioning your God is vain.None of us has power to knowWho should stay and who should go.Hold this everlasting truth—Heaven has need of lovely youth.
Think of this when you are tried:If the wretched only died,Then would death to us be sentAlways as a punishment?But the passing from the earthIs more beautiful than birth.
The Choir Boy
They put his spotless surplice onAnd tied his flowing tie,And he was fair to look uponAs he went singing by.He sang the hymns with gentle grace,That little lad of nine,For there was something in his faceWhich seemed almost divine.
His downcast eye was good to see,His brow was smooth and fair,And no one dreamed that there could beA rascal plotting there;Yet when all heads in prayer were bowed,God's gracious care to beg,The boy next to him cried aloud:"Quit pinching o' my leg!"
A pious little child he seemed,An angel born to sing;Beholding him, none ever dreamedHe'd do a naughty thing;Yet many a sudden "ouch!" proclaimedThat he had smuggled inFor mischief-making, unashamed,A most disturbing pin.
And yet, I think, from high above,The Father looking down,Knows everything he's thinking ofAnd smiles when mortals frown,For in the spotless surplice whiteWhich is his mother's joy,He knows he's not an angel bright,But just a healthy boy.
The Lay of the Troubled Golfer
His eye was wild and his face was taut with anger and hate and rage,And the things he muttered were much too strong for the ink of the printed page.I found him there when the dusk came down, in his golf clothes still was he,And his clubs were strewn around his feet as he told his grief to me:"I'd an easy five for a seventy-nine—in sight of the golden goal—An easy five and I took an eight—an eight on the eighteenth hole!
"I've dreamed my dreams of the 'seventy men,' and I've worked year after year,I have vowed I would stand with the chosen few ere the end of my golf career;I've cherished the thought of a seventy score, and the days have come and goneAnd I've never been close to the golden goal my heart was set upon.But today I stood on the eighteenth tee and counted that score of mine,And my pulses raced with the thrill of joy—I'd a five for a seventy-nine!
"I can kick the ball from the eighteenth tee and get this hole in five,But I took the wood and I tried to cross that ditch with a mighty drive—"Let us end the quotes, it is best for all to imagine his language rich,But he topped that ball, as we often do, and the pill stopped in the ditch.His third was short and his fourth was bad and his fifth was off the line,And he took an eight on the eighteenth hole with a five for a seventy-nine.
I gathered his clubs and I took his arm and alone in the locker roomI left him sitting upon the bench, a picture of grief and gloom;And the last man came and took his shower and hurried upon his way,But still he sat with his head bowed down like one with a mind astray,And he counted his score card o'er and o'er and muttered this doleful whine:"I took an eight on the eighteenth hole, with a five for a seventy-nine!"
Peter and Paul
Peter's the fellow I go to whenever Paul presses his claim.Peter is easy to deal with, Peter's not ready with blame;Paul has a way of insisting I shall be true to my word,And hints of a final accounting whenever a debt is incurred.
Peter is pleasant and smiling and ready to lend when he can;Paul offers counsel and caution and talks of the ways of a man,And whenever Paul's debts must be settled and I must return what I oweAnd haven't the money I promised, to borrow from Peter I go.
But the more that I think about Peter, the greater my fancy for Paul,I know he'd be first to defend me if ever disaster should fall,For Peter thinks only of money and smilingly reckons his fee,While Paul, when he whispers of caution, thinks not of himself but of me.
Paul would defend me from trouble, would shield and protect my renown,But Peter would add to my burdens and smilingly let me go down.Yes, Peter the pleasant would wreck me, and gloat when I rode to my fall,So the more that I learn about Peter, the greater my fondness for Paul.
Life's Equipment
"Here's how I figure it out," says he,"With my ears to hear and my eyes to see,And my legs to walk and my hands to work,And a head to bow and a cap to jerkWhenever a woman I know goes by—It's well-equipped for this life, am I.
"Kings and princes and high and lowHave noses to smell when the blossoms blow.And eyes to see, but I don't supposeA king smells more with his royal noseOr sees more charm with his kingly eyeIn the pink of the orchard blooms, than I.
"But eyes and ears and legs and handsDon't always follow the same commands,And some find beauty in dollar bills,And some in the streams and the misty hills;Some people hear nothing but mortal words,And some are tuned to the songs of birds.
"Some grapple with facts that are stiff and cold,And some see visions all tipped with gold;Some hands are tender and others rough,And some are gentle and some are gruff;But each must follow life's pathway through,Doing the things which he likes to do.
"Now I find joy when I tramp about,Up hill and down, for my legs are stoutAnd my ears and eyes can pick up thingsThat are maybe lost to the wisest kings;And I'm always grateful, when day is through,That I'm built for the things which I like to do."
A Fairy Story
Sit here on my knee, little girl, and I'll tellA story to youOf a fairy I knewWho lived in a garden when I was a child.She was lovely to see and whenever she smiledThe sunbeams came dancing around just to knowWhatever it was that was pleasing her so.
She lived in a poppy and used to peek outAnd shout: "Oh, Yoo-hoo!I've been waiting for you!"And then I'd go over to her house and playAnd she'd saddle a bee and we'd both ride away,Or sometimes we'd take a most wonderful tripWith the sky for the sea and a cloud for our ship.
Oft my father and mother would look out and say:"The glad little elfPlays there all by himself,And he comes in and tells us of things he has seenAnd the marvelous places to which he has been;He tells us of dining with princes and kings—It's a curious boy who can think up such things."
Now this all occurred in the long years ago,And the fairy has fled,And the poppies are dead,And never again may I ride on a bee,Or sail on a cloud with the sky for the sea.But that fairy has promised, when poppies are fair,To come back again and to wait for you there.
Yes, you can go out when the skies are all blueAnd see what I've seen,And go where I've been.You can have fairies to lead you away,To show you strange sights and to share in your play;And the grown-ups may say that your fancies are wild,But fairies are real to an innocent child.
Shoes
I'll tell you it's a problem, when a youngster's nine years old,To keep his feet in leather and to keep him heeledand soled; Just about the time I fancy I've some money I can use,His mother comes and tells me that he needs a pair of shoes.
Now I can wear a pair of shoes for several months or more,But Bud, it seems, is working for the man who keeps the store,And the rascal seems to fancy that his duty is to showHow fast a healthy, rugged boy can wreck a leather toe.
But shoes are made for romping in, for climbing and for fun,For kicking bricks and empty cans, and I am not the oneTo make him walk sedately in the way that grown-ups do—There's time enough for that, I say, when all his boyhood's through.
So let him wreck them, heels and toes, and scuff their soles away,I'll not begrudge the bill for shoes that I'm compelled to pay,For I rejoice that it's my lot, when mother breaks the news,To have a healthy, roguish boy who's always needing shoes.
Football
I'd rather fancied it would come, a healthy boy who's ten years oldForecasts the things he'll want to do without his secrets being told;And so last night when I got home and found his mother strangely still,I guessed somehow that mother love had battled with a youngster's will."You'll have to settle it," said she; "there's nothing more that I can say,The game of football's calling him and he insists he wants to play."
We've talked it over many a time; we've hoped he wouldn't choose the game,And I suppose there's not a boy whose parents do not feel the same.They dread, as we, the rugged sport; they wonder, too, just what they'll sayWhen son of theirs comes home, as ours, and begs to be allowed to play.And now the question's up to me, a question that I can't evade,But football is a manly game and I am glad he's not afraid.
He wants to play, he says to me; he knows the game is rough and grim,But worse than hurt and broken bones is what his friends will think of him;"They'd call me yellow," he explained, "if I stay out." Of all things hereThere's nothing quite so hard to bear as is the heartless gibe or jeer,And though I cannot spare him pain or hurt when tackles knock him flat,Being his father, I've said "yes," because I choose to spare him that.
She Never Gave Me a Chance
It happened that I came along as school was letting outAnd laughing boys and smiling girls raced everywhere about;But two there were who walked along the road in front of meAnd one young head was bowed to earth, a troubled lad was he;And as I stepped around the pair to hasten on my way:"She never gave a chance to me!" I heard the youngster say.
Oh, I have been a boy myself, and I have been to schoolAnd I have suffered punishment for breaking many a rule;I've worn the brand of mischief and been written down as bad,So I could reconstruct the scene—the teacher and the lad,The swift avenging punishment, the stern and angry glance,The blot of shame upon a boy sent home without a chance.
I did not stop to ask the lad his little tale to tell,There was no need of that because I knew the story well—"She never gave a chance to me!" that sentence held it all.A hundred times I'd lived the scene in days when I was small,A broken rule, a teacher vexed, hot rage where calm belonged,A guilty judgment blindly made—a youngster sadly wronged.
I still can see that little chap upon his homeward way,"She never gave a chance to me," I still can hear him say,And so I write this verse for him, and all the girls and boysWho shall their tutors now and then disturb with needless noise.Be fair, you teachers of our land, in every circumstance;Don't let some little fellow say he never had a chance.
Down the Lanes of August
Down the lanes of August—and the bees upon the wing—All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing;Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold,Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.
Mother Nature's brushes now with paints are dripping wet,Gorgeous is her canvas with the tints we can't forget;Here's a yellow wheat field—purple asters there—Riotous the colors that she's splashing everywhere.
Red the cheeks of apples and pink the peaches' bloom,Redolent the breezes with the sweetness of perfume;Everything is beauty, crowned by skies of clearest blue;Mother Earth is at her best once more for me and you.
Down the lanes of August, with her blossoms at our feet,Rich with gold and scarlet, dripping wet with honey sweet.Rich or poor, no matter, here are splendors spread—Down the lanes of August, for all who wish to tread.
Arcady
Where is the road to Arcady,Where is the path that leads to peace,Where shall I find the bliss to be,Where shall the weary wanderings cease?These are the questions that come to me—Where is the road to Arcady?
Is there a mystic time and placeTo which some day shall the traveler fare,Where there is never a frowning faceAnd never a burden hard to bear,Where we as children shall romp and race?Is there a mystic time and place?
For Arcady is an earthly sphere,Where only the gentlest breezes blow,A port of rest for the weary here,Where the velvet grass and the clover grow.I question it oft, is it far or near?For Arcady is an earthly sphere.
And the answer comes—it is very near,It's there at the end of a little street,Where your children's voices are ringing clearAnd you catch the patter of little feet.Where is the spot that is never drear?And the answer comes—it is very near.
For each man buildeth his Arcady,And each man fashions his Port of Rest;And never shall earth spot brighter beThan the little home that with peace is blessed.So seek it not o'er the land and sea—For each man buildeth his Arcady.
Sacrifices
Behind full many a gift there liesA splendid tale of sacrifice.
On Christmas morn a mother's handAbout a young girl's neck will placeA trinket small, and she will standWith radiant smiles upon her faceTo see her daughter decked in gold—Nor will she think, nor will she careThat she may suffer from the coldBecause that bauble glistens there.
A child will wake on Christmas dayAnd find his stocking filled with toys;The home will ring with laughter gay—That boy be glad as richer boys.And there a mother fond will singA song of joy to hear his shout—Forgetting every needed thingThat she will have to do without.
A heart that's brimming o'er with loveWill suffer gladly for a friend,And take no time in thinking ofHow much it can afford to spend.And suddenly on Christmas mornWill gladness beam from shining eyes—A gladness that alone was bornOf someone's willing sacrifice.
Let cynics scoff howe'er they willAnd say but fools such presents give,There'll be such sacrifices tillAll human love shall cease to live.'Twould be a dreary world of thrift,Of barren ways, and sunless skies,If no one ever gave a giftThat was not born of sacrifice.
The brightest gifts that us rewardAre those the givers can't afford.
The Callers
Who's dat knockin' at de do',Who's dat callin' here ter-day?What yo' want to see me fo'?Tell me what yo' got to say.What yo' name an' what yo' mean,Standin' out there in de gloam?Trouble, waitin' to come in?No sir, no sir, I ain't home!
Who's dat ringin' of de bell,Wakin' me in dead of night,When Ah was a-sleepin' well,Rousin' me wid such a fright?What yo' name and what yo' hurry?Seems to me yo're actin' queer.What's dat? Yo' is Mister Worry?No sir, no sir, I ain't here!
Who's dat waitin' at my do'?What yo' want a-hangin' round?Ain't yo' nebber gwine ter go?Jes' yo' quit dat knockin' sound.Tell me now jes' what yo' meantCallin' out my name dat way.What's dat? Yo' is Discontent?No sir, I ain't home ter-day!
Mornin'! Howdy, Mister Smile!Mornin' Sunshine, how yo' do?Ah'se been waitin' all de whileJes' ter get a call from you.Walk right in an' take a seat,Where's yo' brudder, Joy, ter-day?Jes' a-comin' down de street?Enter! Here's de place ter stay.
Giuseppe Tomassi
Giuseppe Tomassi ees stylisha chap,He wear da white collar an' cuff;He says: "For expanse I no giva da rap,Da basta ees not good enough."When out weeth hees Rosa he wear da silk hat,An' carry da cane lik' da lord;He spenda hees money lik' dees, an' lik' dat,For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.
He smoke da seegar with da beega da band,Da tree-for-da-quart' ees da kind;Da diamond dat flash from da back of hees handEes da beegest Giuseppe could find.He dress up hees Rosa in satin an' lace,She no longer scrub at da board,But putta da paint on de leeps an' da face,For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.
Giuseppe, ees strutta about lik' da king,An' laugh at da hard-worka manWho grinda da org' a few neekels to bring,Or sella da ripa banan'.Each morning he waxa da blacka moustache,Then walk up an' down through da ward;You betta he gotta da playnta da cash,For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.
Battle of Belleau Wood
This poem was chosen by Major General John A. Lejeune, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, as his favorite of all the Marine Corps verse written during the war.
It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns;Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns.Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field,And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed;Uncle Sam's Marines had orders: "Drive the Boche from where they're hid.For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!" And so they did.
I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told—None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold—How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat,With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle heat.It's a tale too big for writing; it's beyond the voice or pen,But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of men.