The Old Wooden TubI like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone,When there were joys that never more the world will look upon,The days before inventors smoothed the little cares awayAnd made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day;When bathrooms were exceptions, and we got our weekly scrubBy standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.We had no rapid heaters, and no blazing gas to burn,We boiled the water on the stove, and each one took his turn.Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two;The water brother Billy used for me would also do,Although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit,On winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails,And sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails,But if the nights were very cold, by closing every doorWe were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor.Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub,In comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun,And through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run;No little flying forms go past, too swift to see their charms,With shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms;The home's so full of luxury now, it's almost like a club,I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.
I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone,When there were joys that never more the world will look upon,The days before inventors smoothed the little cares awayAnd made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day;When bathrooms were exceptions, and we got our weekly scrubBy standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.
We had no rapid heaters, and no blazing gas to burn,We boiled the water on the stove, and each one took his turn.Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two;The water brother Billy used for me would also do,Although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit,On winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.
We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails,And sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails,But if the nights were very cold, by closing every doorWe were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor.Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub,In comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.
But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun,And through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run;No little flying forms go past, too swift to see their charms,With shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms;The home's so full of luxury now, it's almost like a club,I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.
Lost Opportunities"When I am rich," he used to say,"A thousand joys I'll give away;I'll walk among the poor I findAnd unto one and all be kind.I'll place a wreath of roses redUpon the bier of all my dead;I'll help the struggling youth to climb;In doing good I'll spend my time;To all in need I'll friendly beThe day that fortune smiles on me."He never guessed that being kindDepends upon the heart and mindAnd not upon the purse at all;That poor men's gifts, however small,Make light some weary traveler's loadAnd smooth for him his troubled road.He never knew or understoodThe fellowship of doing good.Because he had not much to spareHe thought it vain to give his share.Yet many passed him, day by day,He might have helped along the way.He fancied kindness something whichBelongs entirely to the rich.And so he lived and toiled for gold,Unsympathetic, harsh and cold,Intending all the time to shareThe burdens that his brothers bearWhen he possessed great wealth, and heCould well afford a friend to be.His fortune came, but, oh, too late;The poor about him could not wait.They never guessed and never knewThe things that he had meant to do.Few knew how much he'd planned to giveIf God had only let him live.And when at last his form was cold,All that he'd left on earth was gold.A kindly name is something whichA man must earn before he's rich.
"When I am rich," he used to say,"A thousand joys I'll give away;I'll walk among the poor I findAnd unto one and all be kind.I'll place a wreath of roses redUpon the bier of all my dead;I'll help the struggling youth to climb;In doing good I'll spend my time;To all in need I'll friendly beThe day that fortune smiles on me."
He never guessed that being kindDepends upon the heart and mindAnd not upon the purse at all;That poor men's gifts, however small,Make light some weary traveler's loadAnd smooth for him his troubled road.He never knew or understoodThe fellowship of doing good.Because he had not much to spareHe thought it vain to give his share.
Yet many passed him, day by day,He might have helped along the way.He fancied kindness something whichBelongs entirely to the rich.And so he lived and toiled for gold,Unsympathetic, harsh and cold,Intending all the time to shareThe burdens that his brothers bearWhen he possessed great wealth, and heCould well afford a friend to be.
His fortune came, but, oh, too late;The poor about him could not wait.They never guessed and never knewThe things that he had meant to do.Few knew how much he'd planned to giveIf God had only let him live.And when at last his form was cold,All that he'd left on earth was gold.A kindly name is something whichA man must earn before he's rich.
PatriotismI think my country needs my vote,I know it doesn't need my throat,My lungs and larynx, too;And so I sit at home at nightAnd teach my children what is rightAnd wise for them to do;And when I'm on the job by dayI do my best to earn my pay.Though arguments may rage and roar;I grease the hinges on my doorAnd paint the porches blue;I love this splendid land of ours,And so I plant the seeds and flowersAnd watch them bursting through.I never stand upon a boxTo say we're headed for the rocks.My notion of a patriotIs one who guards his little cot,And keeps it up to date;Who pays his taxes when they're due,And pays his bills for groc'ries, too,And dresses well his mate;He keeps his children warmly cladAnd lets them know they have a dad.The nation's safe as long as menGet to their work and back againEach day with cheerful smile;So long as there are fathers whoRejoice in what they have to doAnd find their homes worth while,The Stars and Stripes will wave on highAnd liberty will never die.
I think my country needs my vote,I know it doesn't need my throat,My lungs and larynx, too;And so I sit at home at nightAnd teach my children what is rightAnd wise for them to do;And when I'm on the job by dayI do my best to earn my pay.
Though arguments may rage and roar;I grease the hinges on my doorAnd paint the porches blue;I love this splendid land of ours,And so I plant the seeds and flowersAnd watch them bursting through.I never stand upon a boxTo say we're headed for the rocks.
My notion of a patriotIs one who guards his little cot,And keeps it up to date;Who pays his taxes when they're due,And pays his bills for groc'ries, too,And dresses well his mate;He keeps his children warmly cladAnd lets them know they have a dad.
The nation's safe as long as menGet to their work and back againEach day with cheerful smile;So long as there are fathers whoRejoice in what they have to doAnd find their homes worth while,The Stars and Stripes will wave on highAnd liberty will never die.
The TrampEagerly he took my dime,Then shuffled on his way,Thick with sin and filth and grime,But I wondered all that dayHow the man had gone astray.Not to him the dime I gave;Not unto the man of woe,Not to him who should be brave,Not to him who'd sunk so low,But the boy of long ago.Passed his years of sin and shameThrough the filth that all could see,Out of what he is there cameOne more pitiful to me:Came the boy that used to be.Smiling, full of promise glad,Stood a baby, like my own;I beheld a glorious lad,Someone once had loved and knownOut of which this wreck had grown!Where, thought I, must lie the blame?Who has failed in such a way?As all children come he came,There's a soul within his clay;Who has led his feet astray?As he shuffled down the hallWith the coin I'd never miss,What, thought I, were fame and allMan may gain of earthly bliss,If my child should come to this!
Eagerly he took my dime,Then shuffled on his way,Thick with sin and filth and grime,But I wondered all that dayHow the man had gone astray.
Not to him the dime I gave;Not unto the man of woe,Not to him who should be brave,Not to him who'd sunk so low,But the boy of long ago.
Passed his years of sin and shameThrough the filth that all could see,Out of what he is there cameOne more pitiful to me:Came the boy that used to be.
Smiling, full of promise glad,Stood a baby, like my own;I beheld a glorious lad,Someone once had loved and knownOut of which this wreck had grown!
Where, thought I, must lie the blame?Who has failed in such a way?As all children come he came,There's a soul within his clay;Who has led his feet astray?
As he shuffled down the hallWith the coin I'd never miss,What, thought I, were fame and allMan may gain of earthly bliss,If my child should come to this!
The Lonely GardenI wonder what the trees will say,The trees that used to share his play,An' knew him as the little ladWho used to wander with his dad.They've watched him grow from year to yearSince first the good Lord sent him here.This shag-bark hick'ry, many a time,The little fellow tried t' climb,An' never a spring has come but heHas called upon his favorite tree.I wonder what they all will sayWhen they are told he's marched away.I wonder what the birds will say,The swallow an' the chatterin' jay,The robin, an' the kill-deer, too.For every one o' them, he knew,An' every one o' them knew him,An' hoppin' there from limb t' limb,Waited each spring t' tell him allThey'd done an' seen since 'way last fall.He was the first to greet 'em hereAs they returned from year t' year;An' now I wonder what they'll sayWhen they are told he's marched away.I wonder how the roses thereWill get along without his care,An' how the lilac bush will faceThe loneliness about th' place;For ev'ry spring an' summer, heHas been the chum o' plant an' tree,An' every livin' thing has knownA comradeship that's finer grown,By havin' him from year t' year.Now very soon they'll all be here,An' I am wonderin' what they'll sayWhen they find out he's marched away.
I wonder what the trees will say,The trees that used to share his play,An' knew him as the little ladWho used to wander with his dad.They've watched him grow from year to yearSince first the good Lord sent him here.This shag-bark hick'ry, many a time,The little fellow tried t' climb,An' never a spring has come but heHas called upon his favorite tree.I wonder what they all will sayWhen they are told he's marched away.
I wonder what the birds will say,The swallow an' the chatterin' jay,The robin, an' the kill-deer, too.For every one o' them, he knew,An' every one o' them knew him,An' hoppin' there from limb t' limb,Waited each spring t' tell him allThey'd done an' seen since 'way last fall.He was the first to greet 'em hereAs they returned from year t' year;An' now I wonder what they'll sayWhen they are told he's marched away.
I wonder how the roses thereWill get along without his care,An' how the lilac bush will faceThe loneliness about th' place;For ev'ry spring an' summer, heHas been the chum o' plant an' tree,An' every livin' thing has knownA comradeship that's finer grown,By havin' him from year t' year.Now very soon they'll all be here,An' I am wonderin' what they'll sayWhen they find out he's marched away.
The Silver StripesWhen we've honored the heroes returning from FranceAnd we've mourned for the heroes who fell,When we've done all we can for the homecoming manWho stood to the shot and the shell,Let us all keep in mind those who lingered behind—The thousands who waited to go—The brave and the true, who did all they could do,Yet have only the silver to show.They went from their homes at the summons for men,They drilled in the heat of the sun,They fell into line with a pluck that was fine;Each cheerfully shouldered a gun.They were ready to die for Old Glory on high,They were eager to meet with the foe;They were just like the rest of our bravest and best,Though they've only the silver to show.Their bodies stayed here, but their spirits were there;And the boys who looked death in the face,For the cause had no fear—for they knew, waiting here,There were many to fill up each place.Oh, the ships came and went, till the battle was spentAnd the tyrant went down with the blow!But he still might have reigned but for those who remainedAnd have only the silver to show.So here's to the soldiers who never saw France,And here's to the boys unafraid!Let us give them their due; they were glorious, too,And it isn't their fault that they stayed.They were eager to share in the sacrifice there;Let them share in the peace that we know.For we know they were brave, by the service they gave,Though they've only the silver to show.
When we've honored the heroes returning from FranceAnd we've mourned for the heroes who fell,When we've done all we can for the homecoming manWho stood to the shot and the shell,Let us all keep in mind those who lingered behind—The thousands who waited to go—The brave and the true, who did all they could do,Yet have only the silver to show.
They went from their homes at the summons for men,They drilled in the heat of the sun,They fell into line with a pluck that was fine;Each cheerfully shouldered a gun.They were ready to die for Old Glory on high,They were eager to meet with the foe;They were just like the rest of our bravest and best,Though they've only the silver to show.
Their bodies stayed here, but their spirits were there;And the boys who looked death in the face,For the cause had no fear—for they knew, waiting here,There were many to fill up each place.Oh, the ships came and went, till the battle was spentAnd the tyrant went down with the blow!But he still might have reigned but for those who remainedAnd have only the silver to show.
So here's to the soldiers who never saw France,And here's to the boys unafraid!Let us give them their due; they were glorious, too,And it isn't their fault that they stayed.They were eager to share in the sacrifice there;Let them share in the peace that we know.For we know they were brave, by the service they gave,Though they've only the silver to show.
Tinkerin' at HomeSome folks there be who seem to need excitement fast and furious,An' reckon all the joys that have no thrill in 'em are spurious.Some think that pleasure's only found down where the lights are shining,An' where an orchestra's at work the while the folks are dining.Still others seek it at their play, while some there are who roam,But I am happiest when I am tinkerin' 'round the home.I like to wear my oldest clothes, an' fuss around the yard,An' dig a flower bed now an' then, and pensively regardThe mornin' glories climbin' all along the wooden fence,An' do the little odds an' ends that aren't of consequence.I like to trim the hedges, an' touch up the paint a bit,An' sort of take a homely pride in keepin' all things fit.An' I don't envy rich folks who are sailin' o'er the foamWhen I can spend a day or two in tinkerin' 'round the home.If I were fixed with money, as some other people are,I'd take things mighty easy; I'd not travel very far.I'd jes' wear my oldest trousers an' my flannel shirt, an' stayAn' guard my vine an' fig tree in an old man's tender way.I'd bathe my soul in sunshine every mornin', and I'd bendMy back to pick the roses; Oh, I'd be a watchful friendTo everything around the place, an' in the twilight gloamI'd thank the Lord for lettin' me jes' tinker 'round the home.But since I've got to hustle in the turmoil of the town,An' don't expect I'll ever be allowed to settle downAn' live among the roses an' the tulips an' the phlox,Or spend my time in carin' for the noddin' hollyhocks,I've come to the conclusion that perhaps in Heaven I mayGet a chance to know the pleasures that I'm yearnin' for to-day;An' I'm goin' to ask the good Lord, when I've climbed the golden stair,If he'll kindly let me tinker 'round the home we've got up there.
Some folks there be who seem to need excitement fast and furious,An' reckon all the joys that have no thrill in 'em are spurious.Some think that pleasure's only found down where the lights are shining,An' where an orchestra's at work the while the folks are dining.Still others seek it at their play, while some there are who roam,But I am happiest when I am tinkerin' 'round the home.
I like to wear my oldest clothes, an' fuss around the yard,An' dig a flower bed now an' then, and pensively regardThe mornin' glories climbin' all along the wooden fence,An' do the little odds an' ends that aren't of consequence.I like to trim the hedges, an' touch up the paint a bit,An' sort of take a homely pride in keepin' all things fit.An' I don't envy rich folks who are sailin' o'er the foamWhen I can spend a day or two in tinkerin' 'round the home.
If I were fixed with money, as some other people are,I'd take things mighty easy; I'd not travel very far.I'd jes' wear my oldest trousers an' my flannel shirt, an' stayAn' guard my vine an' fig tree in an old man's tender way.I'd bathe my soul in sunshine every mornin', and I'd bendMy back to pick the roses; Oh, I'd be a watchful friendTo everything around the place, an' in the twilight gloamI'd thank the Lord for lettin' me jes' tinker 'round the home.
But since I've got to hustle in the turmoil of the town,An' don't expect I'll ever be allowed to settle downAn' live among the roses an' the tulips an' the phlox,Or spend my time in carin' for the noddin' hollyhocks,I've come to the conclusion that perhaps in Heaven I mayGet a chance to know the pleasures that I'm yearnin' for to-day;An' I'm goin' to ask the good Lord, when I've climbed the golden stair,If he'll kindly let me tinker 'round the home we've got up there.
When An Old Man Gets to ThinkingWhen an old man gets to thinking of the years he's traveled through,He hears again the laughter of the little ones he knew.He isn't counting money, and he isn't planning schemes;He's at home with friendly people in the shadow of his dreams.When he's lived through all life's trials and his sun is in the west,When he's tasted all life's pleasures and he knows which ones were best,Then his mind is stored with riches, not of silver and of gold,But of happy smiling faces and the joys he couldn't hold.Could we see what he is seeing as he's dreaming in his chair,We should find no scene of struggle in the distance over there.As he counts his memory treasures, we should see some shady laneWhere's he walking with his sweetheart, young, and arm in arm again.We should meet with friendly people, simple, tender folk and kind,That had once been glad to love him. In his dreaming we should findAll the many little beauties that enrich the lives of menThat the eyes of youth scarce notice and the poets seldom pen.Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man.Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can;For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friendAnd the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end.
When an old man gets to thinking of the years he's traveled through,He hears again the laughter of the little ones he knew.He isn't counting money, and he isn't planning schemes;He's at home with friendly people in the shadow of his dreams.
When he's lived through all life's trials and his sun is in the west,When he's tasted all life's pleasures and he knows which ones were best,Then his mind is stored with riches, not of silver and of gold,But of happy smiling faces and the joys he couldn't hold.
Could we see what he is seeing as he's dreaming in his chair,We should find no scene of struggle in the distance over there.As he counts his memory treasures, we should see some shady laneWhere's he walking with his sweetheart, young, and arm in arm again.
We should meet with friendly people, simple, tender folk and kind,That had once been glad to love him. In his dreaming we should findAll the many little beauties that enrich the lives of menThat the eyes of youth scarce notice and the poets seldom pen.
Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man.Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can;For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friendAnd the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end.
My JobI wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat,And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat?And who has every day to face a finer round of careThan buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear?Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do,And think an all-important post has been assigned to you,But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose;I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes.I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be,And little gold or little fame may come from it to me;It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joyThan buying little breeches for a sturdy little boy.My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks;It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks;To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout,And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out.I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king,I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling;I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys,Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys.
I wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat,And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat?And who has every day to face a finer round of careThan buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear?
Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do,And think an all-important post has been assigned to you,But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose;I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes.
I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be,And little gold or little fame may come from it to me;It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joyThan buying little breeches for a sturdy little boy.
My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks;It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks;To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout,And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out.
I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king,I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling;I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys,Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys.
A Good NameMen talk too much of gold and fame,And not enough about a name;And yet a good name's better farThan all earth's glistening jewels are.Who holds his name above all priceAnd chooses every sacrificeTo keep his earthly record clear,Can face the world without a fear.Who never cheats nor lies for gain,A poor man may, perhaps, remain,Yet, when at night he goes to rest,No little voice within his breastDisturbs his slumber. Conscience clear,He falls asleep with naught to fearAnd when he wakes the world to faceHe is not tainted by disgrace.Who keeps his name without a stainWears no man's brand and no man's chain;He need not fear to speak his mindIn dread of what the world may find.He then is master of his will;None may command him to be still,Nor force him, when he would stand fast,To flinch before his hidden past.Not all the gold that men may claimCan cover up a deed of shame;Not all the fame of victory sweetCan free the man who played the cheat;He lives a slave unto the lastUnto the shame that mars his past.He only freedom here may ownWhose name a stain has never known.
Men talk too much of gold and fame,And not enough about a name;And yet a good name's better farThan all earth's glistening jewels are.Who holds his name above all priceAnd chooses every sacrificeTo keep his earthly record clear,Can face the world without a fear.
Who never cheats nor lies for gain,A poor man may, perhaps, remain,Yet, when at night he goes to rest,No little voice within his breastDisturbs his slumber. Conscience clear,He falls asleep with naught to fearAnd when he wakes the world to faceHe is not tainted by disgrace.
Who keeps his name without a stainWears no man's brand and no man's chain;He need not fear to speak his mindIn dread of what the world may find.He then is master of his will;None may command him to be still,Nor force him, when he would stand fast,To flinch before his hidden past.
Not all the gold that men may claimCan cover up a deed of shame;Not all the fame of victory sweetCan free the man who played the cheat;He lives a slave unto the lastUnto the shame that mars his past.He only freedom here may ownWhose name a stain has never known.
AloneStrange thoughts come to the man alone;'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God,And views himself as a single clodIn the soil of life where the souls are grown.'Tis then he questions the why and where,The start and end of his years and days,And what is blame and what is praise,And what is ugly and what is fair.When a man has drawn from the busy throngTo the sweet retreat of the silent hours,Low voices whisper of higher powers.He catches the strain of some far-off song,And the sham fades out and his eyes can see,Not the man he is in the day's hot strifeAnd the greed and grind of a selfish life,But the soul of the man he is to be.He feels the throbbing of life divine,And catches a glimpse of the greater plan;He questions the purpose and work of man.In the hours of silence his mind grows fine;He seeks to learn what is kept unknown;He turns from self and its garb of clayAnd dwells on the soul and the higher way.Strange thoughts come when a man's alone.
Strange thoughts come to the man alone;'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God,And views himself as a single clodIn the soil of life where the souls are grown.'Tis then he questions the why and where,The start and end of his years and days,And what is blame and what is praise,And what is ugly and what is fair.
When a man has drawn from the busy throngTo the sweet retreat of the silent hours,Low voices whisper of higher powers.He catches the strain of some far-off song,And the sham fades out and his eyes can see,Not the man he is in the day's hot strifeAnd the greed and grind of a selfish life,But the soul of the man he is to be.
He feels the throbbing of life divine,And catches a glimpse of the greater plan;He questions the purpose and work of man.In the hours of silence his mind grows fine;He seeks to learn what is kept unknown;He turns from self and its garb of clayAnd dwells on the soul and the higher way.Strange thoughts come when a man's alone.
Shut-InsWe're gittin' so we need againTo see the sproutin' seed again.We've been shut up all winter longWithin our narrow rooms;We're sort o' shriveled up an' dry—Ma's cranky-like an' quick to cry;We need the blue skies overhead,The garden with its blooms.I'm findin' fault with this an' that!I threw my bootjack at the catBecause he rubbed against my leg—I guess I'm all on edge;I'm fidgety an' fussy too,An' Ma finds fault with all I do;It seems we need to see againThe green upon the hedge.We've been shut up so long, it seemsWe've lost the glamour of our dreams.We've narrowed down as people willTill fault is all we see.We need to stretch our souls in airWhere there is room enough to spare;We need the sight o' something greenOn every shrub an' tree.But soon our petulance will pass—Our feet will tread the dew-kissed grass;Our souls will break their narrow cells,An' swell with love once more.And with the blue skies overhead,The harsh an' hasty words we've saidWill vanish with the snow an' ice,When spring unlocks the door.The sun will make us sweet againWith blossoms at our feet again;We'll wander, arm in arm, the waysWhere beauty reigns supreme.An' Ma an' I shall smile again,An' be ourselves awhile again,An' claim, like prisoners set free,The charm of every dream.
We're gittin' so we need againTo see the sproutin' seed again.We've been shut up all winter longWithin our narrow rooms;We're sort o' shriveled up an' dry—Ma's cranky-like an' quick to cry;We need the blue skies overhead,The garden with its blooms.
I'm findin' fault with this an' that!I threw my bootjack at the catBecause he rubbed against my leg—I guess I'm all on edge;I'm fidgety an' fussy too,An' Ma finds fault with all I do;It seems we need to see againThe green upon the hedge.
We've been shut up so long, it seemsWe've lost the glamour of our dreams.We've narrowed down as people willTill fault is all we see.We need to stretch our souls in airWhere there is room enough to spare;We need the sight o' something greenOn every shrub an' tree.
But soon our petulance will pass—Our feet will tread the dew-kissed grass;Our souls will break their narrow cells,An' swell with love once more.And with the blue skies overhead,The harsh an' hasty words we've saidWill vanish with the snow an' ice,When spring unlocks the door.
The sun will make us sweet againWith blossoms at our feet again;We'll wander, arm in arm, the waysWhere beauty reigns supreme.An' Ma an' I shall smile again,An' be ourselves awhile again,An' claim, like prisoners set free,The charm of every dream.
The Cut-Down TrousersWhen father couldn't wear them mother cut them down for me;She took the slack in fore and aft, and hemmed them at the knee;They fitted rather loosely, but the things that made me gladWere the horizontal pockets that those good old trousers had.They shone like patent leather just where well-worn breeches do,But the cloth in certain portions was considered good as new,And I know that I was envied by full many a richer ladFor the horizontal pockets that those good old knickers had.They were cut along the waist line, with the opening straight and wide,And there wasn't any limit to what you could get inside;They would hold a peck of marbles, and a knife and top and string,And snakes and frogs and turtles; there was room for everything.Then our fortune changed a little, and my mother said that sheWouldn't bother any longer fitting father's duds on me,But the store clothes didn't please me; there were times they made me sad,For I missed those good old pockets that my father's trousers had.
When father couldn't wear them mother cut them down for me;She took the slack in fore and aft, and hemmed them at the knee;They fitted rather loosely, but the things that made me gladWere the horizontal pockets that those good old trousers had.
They shone like patent leather just where well-worn breeches do,But the cloth in certain portions was considered good as new,And I know that I was envied by full many a richer ladFor the horizontal pockets that those good old knickers had.
They were cut along the waist line, with the opening straight and wide,And there wasn't any limit to what you could get inside;They would hold a peck of marbles, and a knife and top and string,And snakes and frogs and turtles; there was room for everything.
Then our fortune changed a little, and my mother said that sheWouldn't bother any longer fitting father's duds on me,But the store clothes didn't please me; there were times they made me sad,For I missed those good old pockets that my father's trousers had.
Dinner-TimeTuggin' at your bottle,An' it's O, you're mighty sweet!Just a bunch of dimplesFrom your top-knot to your feet,Lying there an' gooin'In the happiest sort o' way,Like a rosebud peekin' at meIn the early hours o' day;Gloating over goodnessThat you know an' sense an' clutch,An' smilin' at your daddy,Who loves you, O, so much!Tuggin' at your bottle,As you nestle in your crib,With your daddy grinnin' at you'Cause you've dribbled on your bib,An' you gurgle an' you chortleLike a brook in early Spring;An' you kick your pink feet gayly,An' I think you'd like to sing.All you wanted was your dinner,Daddy knew it too, you bet!An' the moment that you got itThen you ceased to fuss an' fret.Tuggin' at your bottle,Not a care, excepting whenYou lose the rubber nipple,But you find it soon again;An' the gurglin' an' the gooin'An' the chortlin' start anew,An' the kickin' an' the squirmin'Show the wondrous joy o' you.But I'll bet you're not as happyAt your dinner, little tot,As the weather-beaten daddyWho is bendin' o'er your cot!
Tuggin' at your bottle,An' it's O, you're mighty sweet!Just a bunch of dimplesFrom your top-knot to your feet,Lying there an' gooin'In the happiest sort o' way,Like a rosebud peekin' at meIn the early hours o' day;Gloating over goodnessThat you know an' sense an' clutch,An' smilin' at your daddy,Who loves you, O, so much!
Tuggin' at your bottle,As you nestle in your crib,With your daddy grinnin' at you'Cause you've dribbled on your bib,An' you gurgle an' you chortleLike a brook in early Spring;An' you kick your pink feet gayly,An' I think you'd like to sing.All you wanted was your dinner,Daddy knew it too, you bet!An' the moment that you got itThen you ceased to fuss an' fret.
Tuggin' at your bottle,Not a care, excepting whenYou lose the rubber nipple,But you find it soon again;An' the gurglin' an' the gooin'An' the chortlin' start anew,An' the kickin' an' the squirmin'Show the wondrous joy o' you.But I'll bet you're not as happyAt your dinner, little tot,As the weather-beaten daddyWho is bendin' o'er your cot!
The Pay EnvelopeIs it all in the envelope holding your pay?Is that all you're working for day after day?Are you getting no more from your toil than the goldThat little enclosure of paper will hold?Is that all you're after; is that all you seek?Does that close the deal at the end of the week?Is it all in the envelope holding his pay?Is that all you offer him day after day?Is that all he wins by his labor from you?Is that the reward for the best he can do?Would you say of your men, when the week has been turned,That all they've received is the money they've earned?Is it all in the envelope, workman and chief?Then loyalty's days must be fleeting and brief;If you measure your work by its value in goldThe sum of your worth by your pay shall be told;And if something of friendship your men do not findOutside of their envelopes, you're the wrong kind.If all that you offer is silver and gold,You haven't a man in your plant you can hold.If all that you're after each week is your pay,You are doing your work in a short-sighted way;For the bigger rewards it is useless to hopeIf you never can see past the pay envelope.
Is it all in the envelope holding your pay?Is that all you're working for day after day?Are you getting no more from your toil than the goldThat little enclosure of paper will hold?Is that all you're after; is that all you seek?Does that close the deal at the end of the week?
Is it all in the envelope holding his pay?Is that all you offer him day after day?Is that all he wins by his labor from you?Is that the reward for the best he can do?Would you say of your men, when the week has been turned,That all they've received is the money they've earned?
Is it all in the envelope, workman and chief?Then loyalty's days must be fleeting and brief;If you measure your work by its value in goldThe sum of your worth by your pay shall be told;And if something of friendship your men do not findOutside of their envelopes, you're the wrong kind.
If all that you offer is silver and gold,You haven't a man in your plant you can hold.If all that you're after each week is your pay,You are doing your work in a short-sighted way;For the bigger rewards it is useless to hopeIf you never can see past the pay envelope.
The Evening PrayerLittle girlie, kneeling there,Speaking low your evening prayer,In your cunning little nightieWith your pink toes peeping through,With your eyes closed and your handsTightly clasped, while daddy standsIn the doorway, just to hear the"God bless papa," lisped by you,You don't know just what I feel,As I watch you nightly kneelBy your trundle bed and whisperSoft and low your little prayer!But in all I do or plan,I'm a bigger, better manEvery time I hear you askingGod to make my journey fair.Little girlie, kneeling there,Lisping low your evening prayer,Asking God above to bless meAt the closing of each day,Oft the tears come to my eyes,And I feel a big lump riseIn my throat, that I can't swallow,And I sometimes turn away.In the morning, when I wake,And my post of duty take,I go forth with new-born courageTo accomplish what is fair;And, throughout the live-long day,I am striving every wayTo come back to you each eveningAnd be worthy of your prayer.
Little girlie, kneeling there,Speaking low your evening prayer,In your cunning little nightieWith your pink toes peeping through,With your eyes closed and your handsTightly clasped, while daddy standsIn the doorway, just to hear the"God bless papa," lisped by you,You don't know just what I feel,As I watch you nightly kneelBy your trundle bed and whisperSoft and low your little prayer!But in all I do or plan,I'm a bigger, better manEvery time I hear you askingGod to make my journey fair.
Little girlie, kneeling there,Lisping low your evening prayer,Asking God above to bless meAt the closing of each day,Oft the tears come to my eyes,And I feel a big lump riseIn my throat, that I can't swallow,And I sometimes turn away.In the morning, when I wake,And my post of duty take,I go forth with new-born courageTo accomplish what is fair;And, throughout the live-long day,I am striving every wayTo come back to you each eveningAnd be worthy of your prayer.
Thoughts of a FatherWe've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son,The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun.And, summing up the works of God, I write with reverent pen,The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men.Through Him we learned the ways of God and found the Father's love;The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above.The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth,He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth.How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie?How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die?Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee,But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me.In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine;I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine.If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead,In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame,My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim.My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan,Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.
We've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son,The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun.And, summing up the works of God, I write with reverent pen,The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men.
Through Him we learned the ways of God and found the Father's love;The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above.The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth,He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth.
How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie?How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die?Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee,But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me.
In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine;I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine.If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead,In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.
It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame,My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim.My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan,Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.
When a Little Baby DiesWhen a little baby diesAnd its wee form silent lies,And its little cheeks seem waxenAnd its little hands are still,Then your soul gives way to treason,And you cry: "O, God, what reason,O, what justice and what mercyHave You shown us by Your will?"There are, O, so many hereOf the yellow leaf and sere,Who are anxious, aye, and readyTo respond unto Your call;Yet You pass them by unheeding,And You set our hearts to bleeding!"O," you mutter, "God, how cruelDo Your vaunted mercies fall!"Yet some day, in after years,When Death's angel once more nears,And the unknown, silent riverLooms as darkly as a pall,You will hear your baby saying,"Mamma, come to me, I'm stayingWith my arms outstretched to greet you,"And you'll understand it all.
When a little baby diesAnd its wee form silent lies,And its little cheeks seem waxenAnd its little hands are still,Then your soul gives way to treason,And you cry: "O, God, what reason,O, what justice and what mercyHave You shown us by Your will?
"There are, O, so many hereOf the yellow leaf and sere,Who are anxious, aye, and readyTo respond unto Your call;Yet You pass them by unheeding,And You set our hearts to bleeding!"O," you mutter, "God, how cruelDo Your vaunted mercies fall!"
Yet some day, in after years,When Death's angel once more nears,And the unknown, silent riverLooms as darkly as a pall,You will hear your baby saying,"Mamma, come to me, I'm stayingWith my arms outstretched to greet you,"And you'll understand it all.
To the BoyI have no wish, my little lad,To climb the towering heights of fame.I am content to be your dadAnd share with you each pleasant game.I am content to hold your handAnd walk along life's path with you,And talk of things we understand—The birds and trees and skies of blue.Though some may seek the smiles of kings,For me your laughter's joy enough;I have no wish to claim the thingsWhich lure men into pathways rough.I'm happiest when you and I,Unmindful of life's bitter cares,Together watch the clouds drift by,Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.I crave no more of life than this:Continuance of such a trust;Your smile, whate'er the morning is,Until my clay returns to dust.If but this comradeship may lastUntil I end my earthly task—Your hand and mine by love held fast—Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.I would not trade one day with youTo wear the purple robes of power,Nor drop your hand from mine to doSome great deed in a selfish hour.For you have brought me joy sereneAnd made my soul supremely glad.In life rewarded I have been;'Twas all worth while to be your dad.
I have no wish, my little lad,To climb the towering heights of fame.I am content to be your dadAnd share with you each pleasant game.I am content to hold your handAnd walk along life's path with you,And talk of things we understand—The birds and trees and skies of blue.
Though some may seek the smiles of kings,For me your laughter's joy enough;I have no wish to claim the thingsWhich lure men into pathways rough.I'm happiest when you and I,Unmindful of life's bitter cares,Together watch the clouds drift by,Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.
I crave no more of life than this:Continuance of such a trust;Your smile, whate'er the morning is,Until my clay returns to dust.If but this comradeship may lastUntil I end my earthly task—Your hand and mine by love held fast—Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.
I would not trade one day with youTo wear the purple robes of power,Nor drop your hand from mine to doSome great deed in a selfish hour.For you have brought me joy sereneAnd made my soul supremely glad.In life rewarded I have been;'Twas all worth while to be your dad.
His DogPete bristles when the doorbell rings.Last night he didn't act the same.Dogs have a way of knowin' things,An' when the dreaded cable came,He looked at mother an' he whinedHis soft, low sign of somethin' wrong,As though he knew that we should findThe news that we had feared so long.He's followed me about the placeAn' hasn't left my heels to-day;He's rubbed his nose against my faceAs if to kiss my grief away.There on his plate beside the doorYou'll see untouched his mornin' meal.I never understood beforeThat dogs share every hurt you feel.We've got the pride o' service fineAs consolation for the blow;We know by many a written lineHe went the way he wished to go.We know that God an' Country foundOur boy a servant brave an' true—But Pete must sadly walk aroundAn' miss the master that he knew.The mother's bearing up as wellAs such a noble mother would;The hurt I feel I needn't tell—I guess by all it's understood.But Pete—his dog—that used to waitEach night to hear his cheery call,An' romped about him at the gate,Has felt the blow the worst of all.
Pete bristles when the doorbell rings.Last night he didn't act the same.Dogs have a way of knowin' things,An' when the dreaded cable came,He looked at mother an' he whinedHis soft, low sign of somethin' wrong,As though he knew that we should findThe news that we had feared so long.
He's followed me about the placeAn' hasn't left my heels to-day;He's rubbed his nose against my faceAs if to kiss my grief away.There on his plate beside the doorYou'll see untouched his mornin' meal.I never understood beforeThat dogs share every hurt you feel.
We've got the pride o' service fineAs consolation for the blow;We know by many a written lineHe went the way he wished to go.We know that God an' Country foundOur boy a servant brave an' true—But Pete must sadly walk aroundAn' miss the master that he knew.
The mother's bearing up as wellAs such a noble mother would;The hurt I feel I needn't tell—I guess by all it's understood.But Pete—his dog—that used to waitEach night to hear his cheery call,An' romped about him at the gate,Has felt the blow the worst of all.
LullabyThe golden dreamboat's ready, all her silken sails are spread,And the breeze is gently blowing to the fairy port of Bed,And the fairy's captain's waiting while the busy sandman fliesWith the silver dust of slumber, closing every baby's eyes.Oh, the night is rich with moonlight and the sea is calm with peace,And the angels fly to guard you and their watch shall never cease,And the fairies there await you; they have splendid dreams to spin;You shall hear them gayly singing as the dreamboat's putting in.Like the ripple of the water does the dreamboat's whistle blow,Only baby ears can catch it when it comes the time to go,Only little ones may journey on so wonderful a ship,And go drifting off to slumber with no care to mar the trip.Oh, the little eyes are heavy but the little soul is light;It shall never know a sorrow or a terror through the night.And at last when dawn is breaking and the dreamboat's trip is o'er,You shall wake to find the mother smiling over you once more.
The golden dreamboat's ready, all her silken sails are spread,And the breeze is gently blowing to the fairy port of Bed,And the fairy's captain's waiting while the busy sandman fliesWith the silver dust of slumber, closing every baby's eyes.
Oh, the night is rich with moonlight and the sea is calm with peace,And the angels fly to guard you and their watch shall never cease,And the fairies there await you; they have splendid dreams to spin;You shall hear them gayly singing as the dreamboat's putting in.
Like the ripple of the water does the dreamboat's whistle blow,Only baby ears can catch it when it comes the time to go,Only little ones may journey on so wonderful a ship,And go drifting off to slumber with no care to mar the trip.
Oh, the little eyes are heavy but the little soul is light;It shall never know a sorrow or a terror through the night.And at last when dawn is breaking and the dreamboat's trip is o'er,You shall wake to find the mother smiling over you once more.
The Old-Fashioned ParentsThe good old-fashioned mothers and the good old-fashioned dads,With their good old-fashioned lassies and their good old-fashioned lads,Still walk the lanes of loving in their simple, tender ways,As they used to do back yonder in the good old-fashioned days.They dwell in every city and they live in every town,Contentedly and happy and not hungry for renown;On every street you'll find 'em in their simple garments clad,The good old-fashioned mother and the good old-fashioned dad.There are some who sigh for riches, there are some who yearn for fame,And a few misguided people who no longer blush at shame;But the world is full of mothers, and the world is full of dads;Who are making sacrifices for their little girls and lads.They are growing old together, arm in arm they walk along,And their hearts with love are beating and their voices sweet with song;They still share their disappointments and they share their pleasures, too,And whatever be their fortune, to each other they are true.They are watching at the bedside of a baby pale and white,And they kneel and pray together for the care of God at night;They are romping with their children in the fields of clover sweet,And devotedly they guard them from the perils of the street.They are here in countless numbers, just as they have always been,And their glory is untainted by the selfish and the mean.And I'd hate to still be living, it would dismal be and sad,If we'd no old-fashioned mother and we'd no old-fashioned dad.
The good old-fashioned mothers and the good old-fashioned dads,With their good old-fashioned lassies and their good old-fashioned lads,Still walk the lanes of loving in their simple, tender ways,As they used to do back yonder in the good old-fashioned days.
They dwell in every city and they live in every town,Contentedly and happy and not hungry for renown;On every street you'll find 'em in their simple garments clad,The good old-fashioned mother and the good old-fashioned dad.
There are some who sigh for riches, there are some who yearn for fame,And a few misguided people who no longer blush at shame;But the world is full of mothers, and the world is full of dads;Who are making sacrifices for their little girls and lads.
They are growing old together, arm in arm they walk along,And their hearts with love are beating and their voices sweet with song;They still share their disappointments and they share their pleasures, too,And whatever be their fortune, to each other they are true.
They are watching at the bedside of a baby pale and white,And they kneel and pray together for the care of God at night;They are romping with their children in the fields of clover sweet,And devotedly they guard them from the perils of the street.
They are here in countless numbers, just as they have always been,And their glory is untainted by the selfish and the mean.And I'd hate to still be living, it would dismal be and sad,If we'd no old-fashioned mother and we'd no old-fashioned dad.