KindnessOne never knowsHow far a word of kindness goes;One never seesHow far a smile of friendship flees.Down, through the years,The deed forgotten reappears.One kindly wordThe souls of many here has stirred.Man goes his wayAnd tells with every passing day,Until life's end:"Once unto me he played the friend."We cannot sayWhat lips are praising us to-day.We cannot tellWhose prayers ask God to guard us well.But kindness livesBeyond the memory of him who gives.
One never knowsHow far a word of kindness goes;One never seesHow far a smile of friendship flees.Down, through the years,The deed forgotten reappears.
One kindly wordThe souls of many here has stirred.Man goes his wayAnd tells with every passing day,Until life's end:"Once unto me he played the friend."
We cannot sayWhat lips are praising us to-day.We cannot tellWhose prayers ask God to guard us well.But kindness livesBeyond the memory of him who gives.
Under the Roof Where the Laughter RingsUnder the roof where the laughter rings,That's where I long to be;There are all of the glorious things,Meaning so much to me.There is where striving and toiling ends;There is where always the rainbow bends.Under the roof where the children shout,There is the perfect rest;There is the clamor of greed shut out,Ended the ceaseless quest.Battles I fight through the heat of to-dayAre only to add to their hours of play.Under the roof where the eyes are bright,There I would build my fame;There my record of life I'd write;There I would sign my name.There in laughter and true contentLet me fashion my monument.Under the roof where the hearts are true,There is my earthly goal;There I am pledged till my work is through,Body and heart and soul.Think you that God will my choice condemnIf I have never played false to them?
Under the roof where the laughter rings,That's where I long to be;There are all of the glorious things,Meaning so much to me.There is where striving and toiling ends;There is where always the rainbow bends.
Under the roof where the children shout,There is the perfect rest;There is the clamor of greed shut out,Ended the ceaseless quest.Battles I fight through the heat of to-dayAre only to add to their hours of play.
Under the roof where the eyes are bright,There I would build my fame;There my record of life I'd write;There I would sign my name.There in laughter and true contentLet me fashion my monument.
Under the roof where the hearts are true,There is my earthly goal;There I am pledged till my work is through,Body and heart and soul.Think you that God will my choice condemnIf I have never played false to them?
St. Valentine's DayLet loose the sails of love and let them fillWith breezes sweet with tenderness to-day;Scorn not the praises youthful lovers say;Romance is old, but it is lovely still.Not he who shows his love deserves the jeer,But he who speaks not what she longs to hear.There is no shame in love's devoted speech;Man need not blush his tenderness to show;'Tis shame to love and never let her know,To keep his heart forever out of reach.Not he the fool who lets his love go on,But he who spurns it when his love is won.Men proudly vaunt their love of gold and fame,High station and accomplishments of skill,Yet of life's greatest conquest they are still,And deem it weakness, or an act of shame,To seem to place high value on the loveWhich first of all they should be proudest of.Let loose the sails of love and let them takeThe tender breezes till the day be spent;Only the fool chokes out life's sentiment.She is a prize too lovely to forsake.Be not ashamed to send your valentine;She has your love, but needs its outward sign.
Let loose the sails of love and let them fillWith breezes sweet with tenderness to-day;Scorn not the praises youthful lovers say;Romance is old, but it is lovely still.Not he who shows his love deserves the jeer,But he who speaks not what she longs to hear.
There is no shame in love's devoted speech;Man need not blush his tenderness to show;'Tis shame to love and never let her know,To keep his heart forever out of reach.Not he the fool who lets his love go on,But he who spurns it when his love is won.
Men proudly vaunt their love of gold and fame,High station and accomplishments of skill,Yet of life's greatest conquest they are still,And deem it weakness, or an act of shame,To seem to place high value on the loveWhich first of all they should be proudest of.
Let loose the sails of love and let them takeThe tender breezes till the day be spent;Only the fool chokes out life's sentiment.She is a prize too lovely to forsake.Be not ashamed to send your valentine;She has your love, but needs its outward sign.
Dr. Johnson's Picture CowGot a sliver in my handAn' it hurt t' beat the band,An' got white around it, too;Then the first thing that I knewIt was all swelled up, an' PaSaid: "There's no use fussin', Ma,Jes' put on his coat an' hat;Doctor Johnson must see that."I was scared an' yelled, becauseOne time when the doctor wasAt our house he made me smellSomething funny, an' I fellFast asleep, an' when I wokeSeemed like I was goin' t' choke;An' the folks who stood aboutSaid I'd had my tonsils out.An' my throat felt awful soreAn' I couldn't eat no more,An' it hurt me when I'd talk,An' they wouldn't let me walk.So when Pa said I must goTo the doctor's, I said: "No,I don't want to go to-night,'Cause my hand will be all right."Pa said: "Take him, Ma," an' soI jes' knew I had t' go.An' the doctor looked an' said:"It is very sore an' red—Much too sore to touch at all.See that picture on the wall,That one over yonder, Bud,With the old cow in the mud?"Once I owned a cow like that,Jes' as brown an' big an' fat,An' one day I pulled her tailAn' she kicked an' knocked the pailFull o' milk clean over me."Then I looked up there t' seeHis old cow above the couch,An' right then I hollered "ouch.""Bud," says he, "what's wrong with you;Did the old cow kick you, too?"An' he laughed, an' Ma said: "Son,Never mind, now, it's all done."Pretty soon we came awayAn' my hand's all well to-day.But that's first time that I knewPicture cows could kick at you.
Got a sliver in my handAn' it hurt t' beat the band,An' got white around it, too;Then the first thing that I knewIt was all swelled up, an' PaSaid: "There's no use fussin', Ma,Jes' put on his coat an' hat;Doctor Johnson must see that."
I was scared an' yelled, becauseOne time when the doctor wasAt our house he made me smellSomething funny, an' I fellFast asleep, an' when I wokeSeemed like I was goin' t' choke;An' the folks who stood aboutSaid I'd had my tonsils out.
An' my throat felt awful soreAn' I couldn't eat no more,An' it hurt me when I'd talk,An' they wouldn't let me walk.So when Pa said I must goTo the doctor's, I said: "No,I don't want to go to-night,'Cause my hand will be all right."
Pa said: "Take him, Ma," an' soI jes' knew I had t' go.An' the doctor looked an' said:"It is very sore an' red—Much too sore to touch at all.See that picture on the wall,That one over yonder, Bud,With the old cow in the mud?
"Once I owned a cow like that,Jes' as brown an' big an' fat,An' one day I pulled her tailAn' she kicked an' knocked the pailFull o' milk clean over me."Then I looked up there t' seeHis old cow above the couch,An' right then I hollered "ouch."
"Bud," says he, "what's wrong with you;Did the old cow kick you, too?"An' he laughed, an' Ma said: "Son,Never mind, now, it's all done."Pretty soon we came awayAn' my hand's all well to-day.But that's first time that I knewPicture cows could kick at you.
CompensationI'd like to think when life is doneThat I had filled a needed post,That here and there I'd paid my fareWith more than idle talk and boast;That I had taken gifts divine,The breath of life and manhood fine,And tried to use them now and thenIn service for my fellow men.I'd hate to think when life is throughThat I had lived my round of yearsA useless kind, that leaves behindNo record in this vale of tears;That I had wasted all my daysBy treading only selfish ways,And that this world would be the sameIf it had never known my name.I'd like to think that here and there,When I am gone, there shall remainA happier spot that might have notExisted had I toiled for gain;That some one's cheery voice and smileShall prove that I had been worth while;That I had paid with something fineMy debt to God for life divine.
I'd like to think when life is doneThat I had filled a needed post,That here and there I'd paid my fareWith more than idle talk and boast;That I had taken gifts divine,The breath of life and manhood fine,And tried to use them now and thenIn service for my fellow men.
I'd hate to think when life is throughThat I had lived my round of yearsA useless kind, that leaves behindNo record in this vale of tears;That I had wasted all my daysBy treading only selfish ways,And that this world would be the sameIf it had never known my name.
I'd like to think that here and there,When I am gone, there shall remainA happier spot that might have notExisted had I toiled for gain;That some one's cheery voice and smileShall prove that I had been worth while;That I had paid with something fineMy debt to God for life divine.
It Couldn't Be DoneSomebody said that it couldn't be done,But he with a chuckle repliedThat "maybe it couldn't," but he would be oneWho wouldn't say so till he'd tried.So he buckled right in with the trace of a grinOn his face. If he worried he hid it.He started to sing as he tackled the thingThat couldn't be done, and he did it.Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;At least no one ever has done it";But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,Without any doubting or quiddit,He started to sing as he tackled the thingThat couldn't be done, and he did it.There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,There are thousands to prophesy failure;There are thousands to point out to you one by one,The dangers that wait to assail you.But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,Just take off your coat and go to it;Just start in to sing as you tackle the thingThat "cannot be done," and you'll do it.
Somebody said that it couldn't be done,But he with a chuckle repliedThat "maybe it couldn't," but he would be oneWho wouldn't say so till he'd tried.So he buckled right in with the trace of a grinOn his face. If he worried he hid it.He started to sing as he tackled the thingThat couldn't be done, and he did it.
Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;At least no one ever has done it";But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,Without any doubting or quiddit,He started to sing as he tackled the thingThat couldn't be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,There are thousands to prophesy failure;There are thousands to point out to you one by one,The dangers that wait to assail you.But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,Just take off your coat and go to it;Just start in to sing as you tackle the thingThat "cannot be done," and you'll do it.
ServiceYou never hear the robins brag about the sweetness of their song,Nor do they stop their music gay whene'er a poor man comes along.God taught them how to sing an' when they'd learned the art He sent them hereTo use their talents day by day the dreary lives o' men to cheer.An' rich or poor an' sad or gay, the ugly an' the fair to see,Can stop most any time in June an' hear the robins' melody.I stand an' watch them in the sun, usin' their gifts from day to day,Swellin' their little throats with song, regardless of man's praise or pay;Jes' bein' robins, nothing else, nor claiming greatness for their deeds,But jes' content to gratify one of the big world's many needs,Singin' a lesson to us all to be ourselves and scatter cheerBy usin' every day the gifts God gave us when He sent us here.Why should we keep our talents hid, or think we favor men becauseWe use the gifts that God has given? The robins never ask applause,Nor count themselves remarkable, nor strut in a superior way,Because their music sweeter is than that God gave unto the jay.Only a man conceited grows as he makes use of talents fine,Forgetting that he merely does the working of the Will Divine.Lord, as the robins, let me serve! Teach me to do the best I canTo make this world a better place, an' happier for my fellow man.If gift o' mine can cheer his soul an' hearten him along his wayLet me not keep that talent hid; I would make use of it to-day.An' since the robins ask no praise, or pay for all their songs o' cheer,Let me in humbleness rejoice to do my bit o' service here.
You never hear the robins brag about the sweetness of their song,Nor do they stop their music gay whene'er a poor man comes along.God taught them how to sing an' when they'd learned the art He sent them hereTo use their talents day by day the dreary lives o' men to cheer.An' rich or poor an' sad or gay, the ugly an' the fair to see,Can stop most any time in June an' hear the robins' melody.
I stand an' watch them in the sun, usin' their gifts from day to day,Swellin' their little throats with song, regardless of man's praise or pay;Jes' bein' robins, nothing else, nor claiming greatness for their deeds,But jes' content to gratify one of the big world's many needs,Singin' a lesson to us all to be ourselves and scatter cheerBy usin' every day the gifts God gave us when He sent us here.
Why should we keep our talents hid, or think we favor men becauseWe use the gifts that God has given? The robins never ask applause,Nor count themselves remarkable, nor strut in a superior way,Because their music sweeter is than that God gave unto the jay.Only a man conceited grows as he makes use of talents fine,Forgetting that he merely does the working of the Will Divine.
Lord, as the robins, let me serve! Teach me to do the best I canTo make this world a better place, an' happier for my fellow man.If gift o' mine can cheer his soul an' hearten him along his wayLet me not keep that talent hid; I would make use of it to-day.An' since the robins ask no praise, or pay for all their songs o' cheer,Let me in humbleness rejoice to do my bit o' service here.
At the Peace TableWho shall sit at the table, then, when the terms of peace are made—The wisest men of the troubled lands in their silver and gold brocade?Yes, they shall gather in solemn state to speak for each living race,But who shall speak for the unseen dead that shall come to the council place?Though you see them not and you hear them not, they shall sit at the table, too;They shall throng the room where the peace is made and know what it is you do;The innocent dead from the sea shall rise to stand at the wise man's side,And over his shoulder a boy shall look—a boy that was crucified.You may guard the doors of that council hall with barriers strong and stout,But the dead unbidden shall enter there, and never you'll shut them out.And the man that died in the open boat, and the babes that suffered worse,Shall sit at the table when peace is made by the side of a martyred nurse.You may see them not, but they'll all be there; when they speak you may fail to hear;You may think that you're making your pacts alone, but their spirits will hover near;And whatever the terms of the peace you make with the tyrant whose hands are red,You must please not only the living here, but must satisfy your dead.
Who shall sit at the table, then, when the terms of peace are made—The wisest men of the troubled lands in their silver and gold brocade?Yes, they shall gather in solemn state to speak for each living race,But who shall speak for the unseen dead that shall come to the council place?
Though you see them not and you hear them not, they shall sit at the table, too;They shall throng the room where the peace is made and know what it is you do;The innocent dead from the sea shall rise to stand at the wise man's side,And over his shoulder a boy shall look—a boy that was crucified.
You may guard the doors of that council hall with barriers strong and stout,But the dead unbidden shall enter there, and never you'll shut them out.And the man that died in the open boat, and the babes that suffered worse,Shall sit at the table when peace is made by the side of a martyred nurse.
You may see them not, but they'll all be there; when they speak you may fail to hear;You may think that you're making your pacts alone, but their spirits will hover near;And whatever the terms of the peace you make with the tyrant whose hands are red,You must please not only the living here, but must satisfy your dead.
Mrs. Malone and the CensorWhen Mrs. Malone got a letter from PatShe started to read it aloud in her flat."Dear Mary," it started, "I can't tell you much,I'm somewhere in France, and I'm fightin' the Dutch;I'm chokin' wid news thot I'd like to relate,But it's little a soldier's permitted t' state.Do ye mind Red McPhee—well, he fell in a ditchAn' busted an arrm, but I can't tell ye which."An' Paddy O'Hara was caught in a flameAn' rescued by—Faith, I can't tell ye his name.Last night I woke up wid a terrible pain;I thought for awhile it would drive me insane.Oh, the suff'rin, I had was most dreadful t' bear!I'm sorry, my dear, but I can't tell ye where.The doctor he gave me a pill, but I findIt's conthrary to rules t' disclose here the kind."I've been t' the dintist an' had a tooth out.I'm sorry t' leave you so shrouded in doubtBut the best I can say is that one tooth is gone,The censor won't let me inform ye which one.I met a young fellow who knows ye right well,An' ye know him, too, but his name I can't tell.He's Irish, red-headed, an' there with th' blarney,His folks once knew your folks back home in Killarney.""By gorry," said Mrs. Malone in her flat,"It's hard t' make sinse out av writin' like that,But I'll give him as good as he sends, that I will."So she went right to work with her ink well an' quill,An' she wrote, "I suppose ye're dead eager fer news—You know when ye left we were buyin' the shoes;Well, the baby has come, an' we're both doin' well;It's a ----. Oh, but that's somethin' they won't let me tell."
When Mrs. Malone got a letter from PatShe started to read it aloud in her flat."Dear Mary," it started, "I can't tell you much,I'm somewhere in France, and I'm fightin' the Dutch;I'm chokin' wid news thot I'd like to relate,But it's little a soldier's permitted t' state.Do ye mind Red McPhee—well, he fell in a ditchAn' busted an arrm, but I can't tell ye which.
"An' Paddy O'Hara was caught in a flameAn' rescued by—Faith, I can't tell ye his name.Last night I woke up wid a terrible pain;I thought for awhile it would drive me insane.Oh, the suff'rin, I had was most dreadful t' bear!I'm sorry, my dear, but I can't tell ye where.The doctor he gave me a pill, but I findIt's conthrary to rules t' disclose here the kind.
"I've been t' the dintist an' had a tooth out.I'm sorry t' leave you so shrouded in doubtBut the best I can say is that one tooth is gone,The censor won't let me inform ye which one.I met a young fellow who knows ye right well,An' ye know him, too, but his name I can't tell.He's Irish, red-headed, an' there with th' blarney,His folks once knew your folks back home in Killarney."
"By gorry," said Mrs. Malone in her flat,"It's hard t' make sinse out av writin' like that,But I'll give him as good as he sends, that I will."So she went right to work with her ink well an' quill,An' she wrote, "I suppose ye're dead eager fer news—You know when ye left we were buyin' the shoes;Well, the baby has come, an' we're both doin' well;It's a ----. Oh, but that's somethin' they won't let me tell."
The Unknown FriendsWe cannot count our friends, nor sayHow many praise us day by day.Each one of us has friends that heHas yet to meet and really know,Who guard him, wheresoe'er they be,From harm and slander's cruel blow.They help to light our path with cheer,Although they pass as strangers here.These friends, unseen, unheard, unknown,Our lasting gratitude should own.They serve us in a thousand waysWhere we perhaps should friendless be;They tell our worth and speak our praiseAnd for their service ask no fee;They choose to be our friends, althoughWe have not learned to call them so.We cannot guess how large the debtWe owe to friends we have not met.We only know, from day to day,That we discover here and thereHow one has tried to smooth our way,And ease our heavy load of care,Then passed along and left behindHis friendly gift for us to find.
We cannot count our friends, nor sayHow many praise us day by day.Each one of us has friends that heHas yet to meet and really know,Who guard him, wheresoe'er they be,From harm and slander's cruel blow.They help to light our path with cheer,Although they pass as strangers here.
These friends, unseen, unheard, unknown,Our lasting gratitude should own.They serve us in a thousand waysWhere we perhaps should friendless be;They tell our worth and speak our praiseAnd for their service ask no fee;They choose to be our friends, althoughWe have not learned to call them so.
We cannot guess how large the debtWe owe to friends we have not met.We only know, from day to day,That we discover here and thereHow one has tried to smooth our way,And ease our heavy load of care,Then passed along and left behindHis friendly gift for us to find.
First Name FriendsThough some may yearn for titles great, and seek the frills of fame,I do not care to have an extra handle to my name.I am not hungry for the pomp of life's high dignities,I do not sigh to sit among the honored LL. D.'s.I shall be satisfied if I can be unto the end,To those I know and live with here, a simple, first-name friend.There's nothing like the comradeship which warms the lives of thoseWho make the glorious circle of the Jacks and Bills and Joes.With all his majesty and power, Old Caesar never knewThe joy of first-name fellowship, as all the Eddies do.Let them who will be "mistered" here and raised above the rest;I hold a first-name greeting is by far the very best.Acquaintance calls for dignity. You never really knowThe man on whom the terms of pomp you feel you must bestow.Professor William Joseph Wise may be your friend, but stillYou are not certain of the fact till you can call him Bill.But hearts grow warm and lips grow kind, and all the shamming ends,When you are in the company of good old first-name friends.The happiest men on earth are not the men of highest rank;That joy belongs to George, and Jim, to Henry and to Frank;With them the prejudice of race and creed and wealth depart,And men are one in fellowship and always light of heart.So I would live and laugh and love until my sun descends,And share the joyous comradeship of honest first-name friends.
Though some may yearn for titles great, and seek the frills of fame,I do not care to have an extra handle to my name.I am not hungry for the pomp of life's high dignities,I do not sigh to sit among the honored LL. D.'s.I shall be satisfied if I can be unto the end,To those I know and live with here, a simple, first-name friend.
There's nothing like the comradeship which warms the lives of thoseWho make the glorious circle of the Jacks and Bills and Joes.With all his majesty and power, Old Caesar never knewThe joy of first-name fellowship, as all the Eddies do.Let them who will be "mistered" here and raised above the rest;I hold a first-name greeting is by far the very best.
Acquaintance calls for dignity. You never really knowThe man on whom the terms of pomp you feel you must bestow.Professor William Joseph Wise may be your friend, but stillYou are not certain of the fact till you can call him Bill.But hearts grow warm and lips grow kind, and all the shamming ends,When you are in the company of good old first-name friends.
The happiest men on earth are not the men of highest rank;That joy belongs to George, and Jim, to Henry and to Frank;With them the prejudice of race and creed and wealth depart,And men are one in fellowship and always light of heart.So I would live and laugh and love until my sun descends,And share the joyous comradeship of honest first-name friends.
The Furnace DoorMy father is a peaceful man;He tries in every way he canTo live a life of gentlenessAnd patience all the while.He says that needless fretting's vain,That it's absurd to be profane,That nearly every wrong can beAdjusted with a smile.Yet try no matter how he will,There's one thing that annoys him still,One thing that robs him of his calmAnd leaves him very sore;He cannot keep his self-controlWhen with a shovel full of coalHe misses where it's headed for,And hits the furnace door.He measures with a careful eyeThe space for which he's soon to try,Then grabs his trusty shovel upAnd loads it in the bin,Then turns and with a healthy lunge,That's two parts swing and two parts plunge,He lets go at the furnace fire,Convinced it will go in!And then we hear a sudden smack,The cellar air turns blue and black;Above the rattle of the coalWe hear his awful roar.From dreadful language upward hissedWe know that father's aim has missed,And that his shovel full of coalWent up against the door.The minister was here one dayFor supper, and Pa went awayTo fix the furnace fire, and soonWe heard that awful roar.And through the furnace pipes there cameHot words that made Ma blush for shame."It strikes me," said the minister,"He hit the furnace door."Ma turned away and hung her head;"I'm so ashamed," was all she said.And then the minister replied:"Don't worry. I admitThat when I hit the furnace door,And spill the coal upon the floor,I quite forget the cloth I wearAnd—er—swear a little bit."
My father is a peaceful man;He tries in every way he canTo live a life of gentlenessAnd patience all the while.He says that needless fretting's vain,That it's absurd to be profane,That nearly every wrong can beAdjusted with a smile.Yet try no matter how he will,There's one thing that annoys him still,One thing that robs him of his calmAnd leaves him very sore;He cannot keep his self-controlWhen with a shovel full of coalHe misses where it's headed for,And hits the furnace door.
He measures with a careful eyeThe space for which he's soon to try,Then grabs his trusty shovel upAnd loads it in the bin,Then turns and with a healthy lunge,That's two parts swing and two parts plunge,He lets go at the furnace fire,Convinced it will go in!And then we hear a sudden smack,The cellar air turns blue and black;Above the rattle of the coalWe hear his awful roar.From dreadful language upward hissedWe know that father's aim has missed,And that his shovel full of coalWent up against the door.
The minister was here one dayFor supper, and Pa went awayTo fix the furnace fire, and soonWe heard that awful roar.And through the furnace pipes there cameHot words that made Ma blush for shame."It strikes me," said the minister,"He hit the furnace door."Ma turned away and hung her head;"I'm so ashamed," was all she said.And then the minister replied:"Don't worry. I admitThat when I hit the furnace door,And spill the coal upon the floor,I quite forget the cloth I wearAnd—er—swear a little bit."
Out Fishin'A feller isn't thinkin' mean,Out fishin';His thoughts are mostly good an' clean,Out fishin'.He doesn't knock his fellow men,Or harbor any grudges then;A feller's at his finest whenOut fishin'.The rich are comrades to the poor,Out fishin';All brothers of a common lure,Out fishin'.The urchin with the pin an' stringCan chum with millionaire an' king;Vain pride is a forgotten thing,Out fishin'.A feller gits a chance to dream,Out fishin';He learns the beauties of a stream,Out fishin';An' he can wash his soul in airThat isn't foul with selfish care,An' relish plain and simple fare,Out fishin'.A feller has no time fer hate,Out fishin';He isn't eager to be great,Out fishin'.He isn't thinkin' thoughts of pelf,Or goods stacked high upon a shelf,But he is always just himself,Out fishin'.A feller's glad to be a friend,Out fishin';A helpin' hand he'll always lend,Out fishin'.The brotherhood of rod an' lineAn' sky and stream is always fine;Men come real close to God's design,Out fishin'.A feller isn't plotting schemes,Out fishin';He's only busy with his dreams,Out fishin'.His livery is a coat of tan,His creed—to do the best he can;A feller's always mostly man,Out fishin'.
A feller isn't thinkin' mean,Out fishin';His thoughts are mostly good an' clean,Out fishin'.He doesn't knock his fellow men,Or harbor any grudges then;A feller's at his finest whenOut fishin'.
The rich are comrades to the poor,Out fishin';All brothers of a common lure,Out fishin'.The urchin with the pin an' stringCan chum with millionaire an' king;Vain pride is a forgotten thing,Out fishin'.
A feller gits a chance to dream,Out fishin';He learns the beauties of a stream,Out fishin';An' he can wash his soul in airThat isn't foul with selfish care,An' relish plain and simple fare,Out fishin'.
A feller has no time fer hate,Out fishin';He isn't eager to be great,Out fishin'.He isn't thinkin' thoughts of pelf,Or goods stacked high upon a shelf,But he is always just himself,Out fishin'.
A feller's glad to be a friend,Out fishin';A helpin' hand he'll always lend,Out fishin'.The brotherhood of rod an' lineAn' sky and stream is always fine;Men come real close to God's design,Out fishin'.
A feller isn't plotting schemes,Out fishin';He's only busy with his dreams,Out fishin'.His livery is a coat of tan,His creed—to do the best he can;A feller's always mostly man,Out fishin'.
Selling the Old HomeThe little house has grown too small, or rather we have grownToo big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known.And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well,I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell.Now strangers come to see the place, and secretly I sigh,And deep within my breast I hope that they'll refuse to buy."This bedroom's small," one woman said; up went her nose in scorn!To me that is the splendid room where little Bud was born."The walls are sadly finger-marked," another stranger said.A lump came rising in my throat; I felt my cheeks grow red."Yes, yes," I answered, "so they are. The fingermarks are freeBut I'd not leave them here if I could take them all with me.""The stairway shows the signs of wear." I answered her in heat,"That's but the glorious sign to me of happy little feet.Most anyone can have a flight of shiny stairs and newBut those are steps where joy has raced, and love and laughter, too.""This paper's ruined! Here are scrawled some pencil marks, I note."I'd treasured them for years. They were the first he ever wrote.Oh I suppose we'll sell the place; it's right that we should go;The children must have larger rooms in which to live and grow.But all my joys were cradled here; 'tis here I've lived my best,'Tis here, whatever else shall come, we've been our happiest;And though into a stranger's hands this home I shall resign,And take his gold in pay for it, I still shall call it mine.
The little house has grown too small, or rather we have grownToo big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known.And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well,I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell.Now strangers come to see the place, and secretly I sigh,And deep within my breast I hope that they'll refuse to buy.
"This bedroom's small," one woman said; up went her nose in scorn!To me that is the splendid room where little Bud was born."The walls are sadly finger-marked," another stranger said.A lump came rising in my throat; I felt my cheeks grow red."Yes, yes," I answered, "so they are. The fingermarks are freeBut I'd not leave them here if I could take them all with me."
"The stairway shows the signs of wear." I answered her in heat,"That's but the glorious sign to me of happy little feet.Most anyone can have a flight of shiny stairs and newBut those are steps where joy has raced, and love and laughter, too.""This paper's ruined! Here are scrawled some pencil marks, I note."I'd treasured them for years. They were the first he ever wrote.
Oh I suppose we'll sell the place; it's right that we should go;The children must have larger rooms in which to live and grow.But all my joys were cradled here; 'tis here I've lived my best,'Tis here, whatever else shall come, we've been our happiest;And though into a stranger's hands this home I shall resign,And take his gold in pay for it, I still shall call it mine.
DaddiesI would rather be the daddyOf a romping, roguish crew,Of a bright-eyed chubby laddieAnd a little girl or two,Than the monarch of a nation,In his high and lofty seat,Taking empty adorationFrom the subjects at his feet.I would rather own their kisses,As at night to me they run,Than to be the king who missesAll the simpler forms of fun.When his dreary day is endingHe is dismally alone,But when my sun is descendingThere are joys for me to own.He may ride to horns and drumming;I must walk a quiet street,But when once they see me coming,Then on joyous, flying feetThey come racing to me madlyAnd I catch them with a swing,And I say it proudly, gladly,That I'm happier than a king.You may talk of lofty places;You may boast of pomp and power;Men may turn their eager facesTo the glory of an hour,But give me the humble stationWith its joys that long survive,For the daddies of the nationAre the happiest men alive.
I would rather be the daddyOf a romping, roguish crew,Of a bright-eyed chubby laddieAnd a little girl or two,Than the monarch of a nation,In his high and lofty seat,Taking empty adorationFrom the subjects at his feet.
I would rather own their kisses,As at night to me they run,Than to be the king who missesAll the simpler forms of fun.When his dreary day is endingHe is dismally alone,But when my sun is descendingThere are joys for me to own.
He may ride to horns and drumming;I must walk a quiet street,But when once they see me coming,Then on joyous, flying feetThey come racing to me madlyAnd I catch them with a swing,And I say it proudly, gladly,That I'm happier than a king.
You may talk of lofty places;You may boast of pomp and power;Men may turn their eager facesTo the glory of an hour,But give me the humble stationWith its joys that long survive,For the daddies of the nationAre the happiest men alive.
Picture BooksI hold the finest picture booksAre woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks;An' when the month o' May has doneHer paintin', an' the mornin' sunIs lightin' just exactly rightEach gorgeous scene for mortal sight,I steal a day from toil an' goTo see the springtime's picture show.It's everywhere I choose to tread—Perhaps I'll find a violet bedHalf hidden by the larger scenes,Or group of ferns, or living greens,So graceful an' so fine, I'll swearThat angels must have placed them thereTo beautify the lonely spotThat mortal man would have forgot.What hand can paint a picture bookSo marvelous as a runnin' brook?It matters not what time o' dayYou visit it, the sunbeams playUpon it just exactly right,The mysteries of God to light.No human brush could ever traceA droopin' willow with such grace!Page after page, new beauties riseTo thrill with gladness an' surpriseThe soul of him who drops his careAnd seeks the woods to wander there.Birds, with the angel gift o' song,Make music for him all day long;An' nothin' that is base or meanDisturbs the grandeur of the scene.There is no hint of hate or strife;The woods display the joy of life,An' answer with a silence fineThe scoffer's jeer at power divine.When doubt is high an' faith is low,Back to the woods an' fields I go,An' say to violet and tree:"No mortal hand has fashioned thee."
I hold the finest picture booksAre woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks;An' when the month o' May has doneHer paintin', an' the mornin' sunIs lightin' just exactly rightEach gorgeous scene for mortal sight,I steal a day from toil an' goTo see the springtime's picture show.
It's everywhere I choose to tread—Perhaps I'll find a violet bedHalf hidden by the larger scenes,Or group of ferns, or living greens,So graceful an' so fine, I'll swearThat angels must have placed them thereTo beautify the lonely spotThat mortal man would have forgot.
What hand can paint a picture bookSo marvelous as a runnin' brook?It matters not what time o' dayYou visit it, the sunbeams playUpon it just exactly right,The mysteries of God to light.No human brush could ever traceA droopin' willow with such grace!
Page after page, new beauties riseTo thrill with gladness an' surpriseThe soul of him who drops his careAnd seeks the woods to wander there.Birds, with the angel gift o' song,Make music for him all day long;An' nothin' that is base or meanDisturbs the grandeur of the scene.
There is no hint of hate or strife;The woods display the joy of life,An' answer with a silence fineThe scoffer's jeer at power divine.When doubt is high an' faith is low,Back to the woods an' fields I go,An' say to violet and tree:"No mortal hand has fashioned thee."
Mother's JobI'm just the man to make things right,To mend a sleigh or make a kite,Or wrestle on the floor and playThose rough and tumble games, but say!Just let him get an ache or pain,And start to whimper and complain,And from my side he'll quickly fleeTo clamber on his mother's knee.I'm good enough to be his horseAnd race with him along the course.I'm just the friend he wants each timeThere is a tree he'd like to climb,And I'm the pal he's eager forWhen we approach a candy store;But for his mother straight he makesWhene'er his little stomach aches.He likes, when he is feeling well,The kind of stories that I tell,And I'm his comrade and his chumAnd I must march behind his drum.To me through thick and thin he'll stick,Unless he happens to be sick.In which event, with me he's through—Only his mother then will do.
I'm just the man to make things right,To mend a sleigh or make a kite,Or wrestle on the floor and playThose rough and tumble games, but say!Just let him get an ache or pain,And start to whimper and complain,And from my side he'll quickly fleeTo clamber on his mother's knee.
I'm good enough to be his horseAnd race with him along the course.I'm just the friend he wants each timeThere is a tree he'd like to climb,And I'm the pal he's eager forWhen we approach a candy store;But for his mother straight he makesWhene'er his little stomach aches.
He likes, when he is feeling well,The kind of stories that I tell,And I'm his comrade and his chumAnd I must march behind his drum.To me through thick and thin he'll stick,Unless he happens to be sick.In which event, with me he's through—Only his mother then will do.
The Approach of ChristmasThere's a little chap at our house that is being mighty good—Keeps the front lawn looking tidy in the way we've said he should;Doesn't leave his little wagon, when he's finished with his play,On the sidewalk as he used to; now he puts it right away.When we call him in to supper, we don't have to stand and shout;It is getting on to Christmas and it's plain he's found it out.He eats the food we give him without murmur or complaint;He sits up at the table like a cherub or a saint;He doesn't pinch his sister just to hear how loud she'll squeal;Doesn't ask us to excuse him in the middle of the meal,And at eight o'clock he's willing to be tucked away in bed.It is getting close to Christmas; nothing further need be said.I chuckle every evening as I see that little elf,With the crooked part proclaiming that he brushed his hair himself.And I chuckle as I notice that his hands and face are clean,For in him a perfect copy of another boy is seen—A little boy at Christmas, who was also being good,Never guessing that his father and his mother understood.There's a little boy at our house that is being mighty good;Doing everything that's proper, doing everything he should.But besides him there's a grown-up who has learned life's bitter truth,Who is gladly living over all the joys of vanished youth.And although he little knows it (for it's what I never knew),There's a mighty happy father sitting at the table, too.
There's a little chap at our house that is being mighty good—Keeps the front lawn looking tidy in the way we've said he should;Doesn't leave his little wagon, when he's finished with his play,On the sidewalk as he used to; now he puts it right away.When we call him in to supper, we don't have to stand and shout;It is getting on to Christmas and it's plain he's found it out.
He eats the food we give him without murmur or complaint;He sits up at the table like a cherub or a saint;He doesn't pinch his sister just to hear how loud she'll squeal;Doesn't ask us to excuse him in the middle of the meal,And at eight o'clock he's willing to be tucked away in bed.It is getting close to Christmas; nothing further need be said.
I chuckle every evening as I see that little elf,With the crooked part proclaiming that he brushed his hair himself.And I chuckle as I notice that his hands and face are clean,For in him a perfect copy of another boy is seen—A little boy at Christmas, who was also being good,Never guessing that his father and his mother understood.
There's a little boy at our house that is being mighty good;Doing everything that's proper, doing everything he should.But besides him there's a grown-up who has learned life's bitter truth,Who is gladly living over all the joys of vanished youth.And although he little knows it (for it's what I never knew),There's a mighty happy father sitting at the table, too.
The BrideLittle lady at the altar,Vowing by God's book and psalterTo be faithful, fond and trueUnto him who stands by you,Think not that romance is ended,That youth's curtain has descended,And love's pretty play is done;For it's only just begun.Marriage, blushing little lady,Is love's sunny path and shady,Over which two hearts should wander,Of each other growing fonder.As you stroll to each to-morrow,You will come to joy and sorrow,And as faithful man and wifeRead the troubled book of life.Bitter cares will some day find you;Closer, closer they will bind you;If together you will bear them,Cares grow sweet when lovers share them.Love unites two happy mortals,Brings them here to wedlock's portalsAnd then blithely bids them go,Arm in arm, through weal and woe.Little lady, just rememberEvery year has its December,Every rising sun its setting,Every life its time of fretting;And the honeymoon's sweet beautyFinds too soon the clouds of duty;But keep faith, when trouble-tried,And in joy you shall abide.Little lady at the altar,Never let your courage falter,Never stoop to unbelieving,Even when your heart is grieving.To what comes of wintry weatherOr disaster, stand together;Through life's fearful hours of nightLove shall bring you to the light.
Little lady at the altar,Vowing by God's book and psalterTo be faithful, fond and trueUnto him who stands by you,Think not that romance is ended,That youth's curtain has descended,And love's pretty play is done;For it's only just begun.
Marriage, blushing little lady,Is love's sunny path and shady,Over which two hearts should wander,Of each other growing fonder.As you stroll to each to-morrow,You will come to joy and sorrow,And as faithful man and wifeRead the troubled book of life.
Bitter cares will some day find you;Closer, closer they will bind you;If together you will bear them,Cares grow sweet when lovers share them.Love unites two happy mortals,Brings them here to wedlock's portalsAnd then blithely bids them go,Arm in arm, through weal and woe.
Little lady, just rememberEvery year has its December,Every rising sun its setting,Every life its time of fretting;And the honeymoon's sweet beautyFinds too soon the clouds of duty;But keep faith, when trouble-tried,And in joy you shall abide.
Little lady at the altar,Never let your courage falter,Never stoop to unbelieving,Even when your heart is grieving.To what comes of wintry weatherOr disaster, stand together;Through life's fearful hours of nightLove shall bring you to the light.
An Apple Tree in FranceAn apple tree beside the way,Drinking the sunshine day by dayAccording to the Master's plan,Had been a faithful friend to man.It had been kind to all who came,Nor asked the traveler's race or name,But with the peasant boy or kingHad shared its blossoms in the spring,And from the summer's dreary heatTo all had offered sweet retreat.When autumn brought the harvest time,Its branches all who wished might climb,And take from many a tender shootIts rosy-cheeked, delicious fruit.Good men, by careless speech or deed,Have caused a neighbor's heart to bleed;Wrong has been done by high intent;Hate has been born where love was meant,Yet apple trees of field or farmHave never done one mortal harm.Then came the Germans into FranceAnd found this apple tree by chance.They shared its blossoms in the spring;They heard the songs the thrushes sing;They rested in the cooling shadeIts old and friendly branches made,And in the fall its fruit they ate.And then they turn on it in hate,Like beasts, on blood and passion drunk,They hewed great gashes in its trunk.Beneath its roots, with hell's delight,They placed destruction's dynamiteAnd blew to death, with impish glee,An old and friendly apple tree.Men may rebuild their homes in time;Swiftly cathedral towers may climb,And hearts forget their weight of woe,As over them life's currents flow,But this their lasting shame shall be:They put to death an apple tree!
An apple tree beside the way,Drinking the sunshine day by dayAccording to the Master's plan,Had been a faithful friend to man.It had been kind to all who came,Nor asked the traveler's race or name,But with the peasant boy or kingHad shared its blossoms in the spring,And from the summer's dreary heatTo all had offered sweet retreat.
When autumn brought the harvest time,Its branches all who wished might climb,And take from many a tender shootIts rosy-cheeked, delicious fruit.Good men, by careless speech or deed,Have caused a neighbor's heart to bleed;Wrong has been done by high intent;Hate has been born where love was meant,Yet apple trees of field or farmHave never done one mortal harm.
Then came the Germans into FranceAnd found this apple tree by chance.They shared its blossoms in the spring;They heard the songs the thrushes sing;They rested in the cooling shadeIts old and friendly branches made,And in the fall its fruit they ate.And then they turn on it in hate,Like beasts, on blood and passion drunk,They hewed great gashes in its trunk.
Beneath its roots, with hell's delight,They placed destruction's dynamiteAnd blew to death, with impish glee,An old and friendly apple tree.Men may rebuild their homes in time;Swiftly cathedral towers may climb,And hearts forget their weight of woe,As over them life's currents flow,But this their lasting shame shall be:They put to death an apple tree!
Along the Paths o' GloryAlong the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day,There are youthful hearts and sturdy that have found the westward way.From the rugged roads o' duty they have turned without a sigh,To mingle with their brothers who were not afraid to die.And they're looking back and smiling at the loved ones left behind,With the Old Flag flying o'er them, and they're calling "Never mind."Never mind, oh, gentle mothers, that we shall not come again;Never mind the years of absence, never mind the days of pain,For we've found the paths o' glory where the flags o' freedom fly,And we've learned the things we died for are the truths that never die.Now there's never hurt can harm us, and the years will never fadeThe memory of the soldiers of the legions unafraid."Along the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day,And the heavenly flags are flying as they march along the way;For the world is safe from hatred; men shall know it at its bestBy the sacrifice and courage of the boys who go to rest.Now they've claimed eternal splendor and they've won eternal youth,And they've joined the gallant legions of the men who served the truth.
Along the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day,There are youthful hearts and sturdy that have found the westward way.From the rugged roads o' duty they have turned without a sigh,To mingle with their brothers who were not afraid to die.And they're looking back and smiling at the loved ones left behind,With the Old Flag flying o'er them, and they're calling "Never mind.
"Never mind, oh, gentle mothers, that we shall not come again;Never mind the years of absence, never mind the days of pain,For we've found the paths o' glory where the flags o' freedom fly,And we've learned the things we died for are the truths that never die.Now there's never hurt can harm us, and the years will never fadeThe memory of the soldiers of the legions unafraid."
Along the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day,And the heavenly flags are flying as they march along the way;For the world is safe from hatred; men shall know it at its bestBy the sacrifice and courage of the boys who go to rest.Now they've claimed eternal splendor and they've won eternal youth,And they've joined the gallant legions of the men who served the truth.