Plate apples ain't to be comparedWith those you've ventured for an' dared.It's winnin' 'em from branches high,Or nippin' 'em when no one's by,Or findin' 'em the time you feelYou really need another meal,Or comin' unexpectedlyUpon a farmer's loaded treeAn' grabbin' all that you can eat,That goes to make an apple sweet.
Green apple time! Go to it, boy,An' cram yourself right full o' joy;Watch for the farmer's dog an' run;There'll come a time it can't be done.There'll come a day you can't digestThe fruit you've stuffed into your vest,Nor climb, but you'll sit down like meAn' watch 'em ripening on the tree,An' jus' like me you'll have to waitTo pick your apples from a plate.
She Mothered Five
She mothered five!Night after night she watched a little bed,Night after night she cooled a fevered head,Day after day she guarded little feet,Taught little minds the dangers of the street,Taught little lips to utter simple prayers,Whispered of strength that some day would be theirs,And trained them all to use it as they should.She gave her babies to the nation's good.
She mothered five!She gave her beauty—from her cheeks let fadeTheir rose-blush beauty—to her mother trade.She saw the wrinkles furrowing her brow,Yet smiling said: "My boy grows stronger now."When pleasures called she turned away and said:"I dare not leave my babies to be fedBy strangers' hands; besides they are too small;I must be near to hear them when they call."
She mothered five!Night after night they sat about her kneeAnd heard her tell of what some day would be.From her they learned that in the world outsideAre cruelty and vice and selfishness and pride;From her they learned the wrongs they ought to shun,What things to love, what work must still be done.She led them through the labyrinth of youthAnd brought five men and women up to truth.
She mothered five!Her name may be unknown save to the few;Of her the outside world but little knew;But somewhere five are treading virtue's ways,Serving the world and brightening its days;Somewhere are five, who, tempted, stand upright,Who cling to honor, keep her memory bright;Somewhere this mother toils and is aliveNo more as one, but in the breasts of five.
Little Girls Are Best
Little girls are mighty nice,Take 'em any way they come;They are always worth their price;Life without 'em would be glum;Run earth's lists of treasures through,Pile 'em high until they fall,Gold an' costly jewels, too—Little girls are best of all.
Nothing equals 'em on earth!I'm an old man an' I knowAny little girl is worthMore than all the gold below;Eyes o' blue or brown or gray,Raven hair or golden curls,There's no joy on earth to-dayQuite so fine as little girls.
Pudgy nose or freckled face,Fairy-like or plain to see,God has surely blessed the placeWhere a little girl may be;They're the jewels of His crownDropped to earth from heaven above,Like wee angel souls sent downTo remind us of His love.
God has made some lovely things—Roses red an' skies o' blue,Trees an' babbling silver springs,Gardens glistening with dew—But take every gift to man,Big an' little, great an' small,Judge it on its merits, an'Little girls are best of all!
The World and Bud
If we were all alike, what a dreadful world 'twould be!No one would know which one was you or which of us was me.We'd never have a "Skinny" or a "Freckles" or a "Fat,"An' there wouldn't be a sissy boy to wear a velvet hat;An' we'd all of us be pitchers when we played a baseball match,For we'd never have a feller who'd have nerve enough to catch.
If we were all alike an' looked an' thought the same,I wonder how'd they call us, 'cause there'd only be one name.An' there'd only be one flavor for our ice cream sodas, too,An' one color for a necktie an' I 'spose that would be blue;An' maybe we'd have mothers who were very fond of curls,An' they'd make us fellers wear our hair like lovely little girls.
Sometimes I think it's funny when I hear some feller sayThat he isn't fond of chocolate, when I eat it every day.Or some other fellow doesn't like the books I like to read;But I'm glad that we are different, yes, siree! I am indeed.If everybody looked alike an' talked alike, Oh, Gee!We'd never know which one was you or which of us was me.
Aw Gee Whiz!
Queerest little chap he is,Always saying: "Aw Gee Whiz!"Needing something from the storeThat you've got to send him forAnd you call him from his play,Then it is you hear him say:"Aw Gee Whiz!"
Seems that most expressive phraseIs a part of childhood days;Call him in at supper time,Hands and face all smeared with grime,Send him up to wash, and heAnswers you disgustedly:"Aw Gee Whiz!"
When it's time to go to bedAnd he'd rather play instead,As you call him from the street,He comes in with dragging feet,Knowing that he has to go,Then it is he mutters low:"Aw Gee Whiz!"
Makes no difference what you askOf him as a little task;He has yet to learn that lifeCrosses many a joy with strife,So when duty mars his play,Always we can hear him say:"Aw Gee Whiz!"
Practicing Time
Always whenever I want to playI've got to practice an hour a day,Get through breakfast an' make my bed,And Mother says: "Marjorie, run ahead!There's a time for work and a time for fun,So go and get your practicing done."And Bud, he chuckles and says to me:"Yes, do your practicing, Marjorie."A brother's an awful tease, you know,And he just says that 'cause I hate it so.
They leave me alone in the parlor thereTo play the scales or "The Maiden's Prayer,"And if I stop, Mother's bound to call,"Marjorie dear, you're not playing at all!Don't waste your time, but keep right on,Or you'll have to stay when the hour is gone."Or maybe the maid looks in at meAnd says: "You're not playing, as I can see.Just hustle along—I've got work to doAnd I can't dust the room until you get through."
Then when I've run over the scales and thingsLike "The Fairies' Dance," or "The Mountain Springs,"And my fingers ache and my head is sore,I find I must sit there a half hour more.An hour is terribly long, I say,When you've got to practice and want to play.So slowly at times has the big hand droppedThat I was sure that the clock had stopped,But Mother called down to me: "Don't forget—A full hour, please. It's not over yet."
Oh, when I get big and have children, too,There's one thing that I will never do—I won't have brothers to tease the girlsAnd make them mad when they pull their curlsAnd laugh at them when they've got to stayAnd practice their music an hour a day;I won't have a maid like the one we've got,That likes to boss you around a lot;And I won't have a clock that can go so slowWhen it's practice time, 'cause I hate it so.
The Christmas Gift for Mother
In the Christmas times of the long ago,There was one event we used to knowThat was better than any other;It wasn't the toys that we hoped to get,But the talks we had—and I hear them yet—Of the gift we'd buy for Mother.
If ever love fashioned a Christmas gift,Or saved its money and practiced thrift,'Twas done in those days, my brother—Those golden times of Long Gone By,Of our happiest years, when you and ITalked over the gift for Mother.
We hadn't gone forth on our different waysNor coined our lives into yesterdaysIn the fires that smelt and smother,And we whispered and planned in our youthful gleeOf that marvelous "something" which was to beThe gift of our hearts to Mother.
It had to be all that our purse could give,Something she'd treasure while she could live,And better than any other.We gave it the best of our love and thought,And, Oh, the joy when at last we'd boughtThat marvelous gift for Mother!
Now I think as we go on our different ways,Of the joy of those vanished yesterdays.How good it would be, my brother,If this Christmas-time we could only knowThat same sweet thrill of the Long AgoWhen we shared in the gift for Mother.
Bedtime
It's bedtime, and we lock the door,Put out the lights—the day is o'er;All that can come of good or ill,The record of this day to fill,Is written down; the worries cease,And old and young may rest in peace.
We knew not when we started outWhat dangers hedged us all about,What little pleasures we should gain,What should be ours to bear of pain.But now the fires are burning low,And this day's history we know.
No harm has come. The laughter hereHas been unbroken by a tear;We've met no hurt too great to bear,We have not had to bow to care;The children all are safe in bed,There's nothing now for us to dread.
When bedtime comes and we can sayThat we have safely lived the day.How sweet the calm that settles downAnd shuts away the noisy town!There is no danger now to fearUntil to-morrow shall appear.
When the long bedtime comes, and IIn sleep eternal come to lie—When life has nothing more in store,And silently I close the door,God grant my weary soul may claimSecurity from hurt and shame.
The Willing Horse
I'd rather be the willing horse that people ride to deathThan be the proud and haughty steed that children dare not touch;I'd rather haul a merry pack and finish out of breathThan never leave the barn to toil because I'm worth too much.So boast your noble pedigreesAnd talk of manners, if you please—The weary horse enjoys his easeWhen all his work is done;The willing horse, day in and out,Can hear the merry children shoutAnd every time they are aboutHe shares in all their fun.
I want no guards beside my door to pick and choose my friends for me;I would not be shut off from men as is the fancy steed;I do not care when I go by that no one turns his eyes to seeThe dashing manner of my gait which marks my noble breed;I am content to trudge the roadAnd willingly to draw my load—Sometimes to know the spur and goadWhen I begin to lag;I'd rather feel the collar jerkAnd tug at me, the while I work,Than all the tasks of life to shirkAs does the stylish nag.
So let me be the willing horse that now and then is overtasked,Let me be one the children love and freely dare to ride—I'd rather be the gentle steed of which too much is sometimes askedThan be the one that never knows the youngsters at his side.So drive me wheresoe'er you will,On level road or up the hill,Pile on my back the burdens stillAnd run me out of breath—In love and friendship, day by day,And kindly words I'll take my pay;A willing horse; that is the wayI choose to meet my death.
Where Children Play
On every street there's a certain placeWhere the children gather to romp and race;There's a certain house where they meet in throngsTo play their games and to sing their songs,And they trample the lawn with their busy feetAnd they scatter their playthings about the street,But though some folks order them off, I say,Let the house be mine where the children play.
Armies gather about the doorAnd fill the air with their battle roar;Cowboys swinging their lariat loopsDash round the house with the wildest whoops,And old folks have to look out when theyAre holding an Indian tribe at bay,For danger may find them on flying feet,Who pass by the house where the children meet.
There are lawns too lovely to bear the weightOf a troop of boys when they roller skate;There are porches fine that must never knowThe stamping of footsteps that come and go,But on every street there's a favorite placeWhere the children gather to romp and race,And I'm glad in my heart that it's mine to sayOurs is the house where the children play.
How Do You Buy Your Money?
How do you buy your money? For money is bought and sold,And each man barters himself on earth for his silver and shining gold,And by the bargain he makes with men, the sum of his life is told.
Some buy their coins in a manly way, some buy them with honest toil;Some pay for their currency here on earth by tilling a patch of soil;Some buy it with copper and iron and steel, and some with barrels of oil.
The good man buys it from day to day by giving the best he can;He coins his strength for his children's needs and lives to a simple plan,And he keeps some time for the home he makes and some for his fellowman.
But some men buy it with women's tears, and some with a blasted name;And some will barter the joy of life for the fortune they hope to claim;And some are so mad for the clink of gold that they buy it with deeds ofshame.
How do you buy your money? For money demands its price,And some men think when they purchase coin that they mustn't be over-nice—But beware of the man who would sell you gold at a shameful sacrifice!
Mother's Day
Let every day be Mother's Day!Make roses grow along her wayAnd beauty everywhere.Oh, never let her eyes be wetWith tears of sorrow or regret,And never cease to care!Come, grown up children, and rejoiceThat you can hear your mother's voice!
A day for her! For you she gaveLong years of love and service brave;For you her youth was spent.There was no weight of hurt or careToo heavy for her strength to bear;She followed where you went;Her courage and her love sublimeYou could depend on all the time.
No day or night she set apartOn which to open wide her heartAnd welcome you within;There was no hour you would not beFirst in her thought and memory,Though you were black as sin!Though skies were gray or skies were blueNot once has she forgotten you.
Let every day be Mother's Day!With love and roses strew her way,And smiles of joy and pride!Come, grown up children, to the kneeWhere long ago you used to beAnd never turn aside;Oh, never let her eyes grow wetWith tears, because her babes forget.
When We Play the Fool
Last night I stood in a tawdry placeAnd watched the ways of the human race.I looked at a party of shrieking girlsPiled on a table that whirls and whirls,And saw them thrown in a tangled heap,Sprawling and squirming and several deep.And unto the wife who was standing by,"These are all angels to be," said I.
I followed the ways of the merry throngAnd heard the laughter and mirth and song.Into a barrel which turned and swayedMen and women a journey made,And tumbling together they seemed to beLike so many porpoises out at sea—Men and women who'd worked all day,Eagerly seeking a chance to play.
"What do you make of it all?" she said.I answered: "The dead are a long time dead,And care is bitter and duty stern,And each must weep when it comes his turn.And all grow weary and long for play,So here is laughter to end the day.Foolish? Oh, yes, it is that," said I,"But better the laugh than the dreary sigh.
"Now look at us here, for we're like them, too,And many the foolish things we do.We often grow silly and seek a smileIn a thousand ways that are not worth while;Yet after the mirth and the jest are through,We shall all be judged by the deeds we do,And God shall forget on the Judgment DayThe fools we were in our hours of play."
What Makes an Artist
We got to talking art one day, discussing in a general wayHow some can match with brush and paint the glory of a tree,And some in stone can catch the things of which the dreamy poet sings,While others seem to have no way to tell the joys they see.
Old Blake had sat in silence there and let each one of us declareOur notions of what's known as art, until he'd heard us through;And then said he: "It seems to me that any man, whoe'er he be,Becomes an artist by the good he daily tries to do.
"He need not write the books men read to be an artist. No, indeed!He need not work with paint and brush to show his love of art;Who does a kindly deed to-day and helps another on his way,Has painted beauty on a face and played the poet's part.
"Though some of us cannot express our inmost thoughts of loveliness,We prove we love the beautiful by how we act and live;The poet singing of a tree no greater poet is than heWho finds it in his heart some care unto a tree to give.
"Though he who works in marble stone the name of artist here may own,No less an artist is the man who guards his children well;'Tis art to love the fine and true; by what we are and what we doHow much we love life's nobler things to all the world we tell."
She Powders Her Nose
A woman is queer, there's no doubt about that.She hates to be thin and she hates to be fat;One minute it's laughter, the next it's a cry—You can't understand her, however you try;But there's one thing about her which everyone knows—A woman's not dressed till she powders her nose.
You never can tell what a woman will say;She's a law to herself every hour of the day.It keeps a man guessing to know what to do,And mostly he's wrong when his guessing is through;But this you can bet on, wherever she goesShe'll find some occasion to powder her nose.
I've studied the sex for a number of years;I've watched her in laughter and seen her in tears;On her ways and her whims I have pondered a lot,To find what will please her and just what will not;But all that I've learned from the start to the closeIs that sooner or later she'll powder her nose.
At church or a ball game, a dance or a show,There's one thing about her I know that I know—At weddings or funerals, dinners of taste,You can bet that her hand will dive into her waist,And every few minutes she'll strike up a pose,And the whole world must wait till she powders her nose.
The Chip on Your Shoulder
You'll learn when you're older that chip on your shoulderWhich you dare other boys to upset,And stand up and fight for and struggle and smite for,Has caused you much shame and regret.When Time, life's adviser, has made you much wiser,You won't be so quick with the blow;You won't be so willing to fight for a shilling,And change a good friend to a foe.
You won't be a sticker for trifles, and bickerAnd quarrel for nothing at all;You'll grow to be kinder, more thoughtful and blinderTo faults which are petty and small.You won't take the trouble your two fists to doubleWhen someone your pride may offend;When with rage now you bristle you'll smile or you'll whistle,And keep the good will of a friend.
You'll learn when you're older that chip on your shoulderWhich proudly you battle to guard,Has frequently shamed you and often defamed youAnd left you a record that's marred!When you've grown calm and steady, you won't be so readyTo fight for a difference that's small,For you'll know, when you're older that chip on your shoulderIs only a chip after all.
All for the Best
Things mostly happen for the best.However hard it seems to-day,When some fond plan has gone astrayOr what you've wished for most is lostAn' you sit countin' up the costWith eyes half-blind by tears o' griefWhile doubt is chokin' out belief,You'll find when all is understoodThat what seemed bad was really good.
Life can't be counted in a day.The present rain that will not stopNext autumn means a bumper crop.We wonder why some things must be—Care's purpose we can seldom see—An' yet long afterwards we turnTo view the past, an' then we learnThat what once filled our minds with doubtWas good for us as it worked out.
I've never known an hour of careBut that I've later come to seeThat it has brought some joy to me.Even the sorrows I have borne,Leavin' me lonely an' forlornAn' hurt an' bruised an' sick at heart,In life's great plan have had a part.An' though I could not understandWhy I should bow to Death's command,As time went on I came to knowThat it was really better so.
Things mostly happen for the best.So narrow is our vision hereThat we are blinded by a tearAn' stunned by every hurt an' blowWhich comes to-day to strike us low.An' yet some day we turn an' findThat what seemed cruel once was kind.Most things, I hold, are wisely plannedIf we could only understand.
The Kick Under the Table
After a man has been married awhile,And his wife has grown used to his manner and style,When she knows from the twinkle that lights up his eyeThe thoughts he is thinking, the wherefore and why,And just what he'll say, and just what he'll do,And is sure that he'll make a bad break ere he's through,She has one little trick that she'll work when she's able—She takes a sly kick at him under the table.
He may fancy the story he's telling is true,Or he's doing the thing which is proper to do;He may fancy he's holding his own with the rest,The life of the party and right at his best,When quickly he learns to his utter dismay,That he mustn't say what he's just started to say.He is stopped at the place where he hoped to begin,By his wife, who has taken a kick at his shin.
If he picks the wrong fork for the salad, he knowsThat fact by the feel of his wife's slippered toes.If he's started a bit of untellable news,On the calf of his leg there is planted a bruise.Oh, I wonder sometimes what would happen to meIf the wife were not seated just where she could beOn guard every minute to watch every trick,And keep me in line all the time with her kick.
Leader of the Gang
Seems only just a year ago that he was toddling round the placeIn pretty little colored suits and with a pink and shining face.I used to hold him in my arms to watch when our canary sang,And now tonight he tells me that he's leader of his gang.
It seems but yesterday, I vow, that I with fear was almost dumb,Living those dreadful hours of care waiting the time for him to come;And I can still recall the thrill of that first cry of his which rangWithin our walls. And now that babe tells me he's leader of his gang.
Gone from our lives are all the joys which yesterday we used to own;The baby that we thought we had, out of the little home has flown,And in his place another stands, whose garments in disorder hang,A lad who now with pride proclaims that he's the leader of his gang.
And yet somehow I do not grieve for what it seems we may have lost;To have so strong a boy as this, most cheerfully I pay the cost.I find myself a sense of joy to comfort every little pang,And pray that they shall find in him a worthy leader of the gang.
Ma and the Ouija Board
I don't know what it's all about, but Ma says that she wants to knowIf spirits in the other world can really talk to us below.An' Pa says, "Gosh! there's folks enough on earth to talk to, I shouldthink,Without you pesterin' the folks whose souls have gone across the brink."But Ma, she wants to find out things an' study on her own accord,An' so a month or two ago she went an' bought a ouija board.
It's just a shiny piece of wood, with letters printed here an' there,An' has a little table which you put your fingers on with care,An' then you sit an' whisper low some question that you want to know.Then by an' by the spirit comes an' makes the little table go,An' Ma, she starts to giggle then an' Pa just grumbles out, "Oh, Lord!I wish you hadn't bought this thing. We didn't need a ouija board."
"You're movin' it!" says Ma to Pa. "I'm not!" says Pa, "I know it's you;You're makin' it spell things to us that you know very well aren't true.""That isn't so," says Ma to him, "but I am certain from the wayThe ouija moves that you're the one who's tellin' it just what to say.""It's just 'lectricity," says Pa; "like batteries all men are stored,But anyhow I don't believe we ought to have a ouija board."
One night Ma got it out, an' said, "Now, Pa, I want you to be fair,Just keep right still an' let your hands rest lightly on the table there.Oh, Ouija, tell me, tell me true, are we to buy another car,An' will we get it very soon?" she asked. "Oh, tell us from afar.""Don't buy a car," the letters spelled, "the price this year you can'tafford."Then Ma got mad, an' since that time she's never used the ouija board.
The Call of the Woods
I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering trees and the birdsawing,Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strengthis king;I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the restis sweet,Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.
I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts andcool,Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate isheard,Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.
Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of therunning brook;I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine; I'm weary of reading aprinted book.I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turningwheel,And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and thepictures real.
Committee Meetings
For this and that and various thingsIt seems that men must get together,To purchase cups or diamond ringsOr to discuss the price of leather.From nine to ten, or two to three,Or any hour that's fast and fleeting,There is a constant call for meTo go to some committee meeting.
The church has serious work to do,The lodge and club has need of workers,They ask for just an hour or two—Surely I will not join the shirkers?Though I have duties of my ownI should not drop before completing,There comes the call by telephoneTo go to some committee meeting.
No longer may I eat my lunchIn quietude and contemplation;I must foregather with the bunchTo raise a fund to save the nation.And I must talk of plans and schemesThe while a scanty bite I'm eating,Until I vow to-day it seemsMy life is one committee meeting.
When over me the night shall fall,And my poor soul goes upwards wingingUnto that heavenly realm, where allIs bright with joy and gay with singing,I hope to hear St. Peter say—And I shall thank him for the greeting:"Come in and rest from day to day;Here there is no committee meeting!"
Pa and the Monthly Bills
When Ma gets out the monthly bills and sets them all in front of Dad,She makes us children run away because she knows he may get mad;An' then she smiles a bit and says: "I hope you will not fuss and fret—There's nothing here except the things I absolutely had to get!"An' Pa he looks 'em over first. "The things you had to have!" says he;"I s'pose that we'd have died without that twenty dollar longeree."
Then he starts in to write the checks for laundry an' for light an' gas,An' never says a word 'bout them—because they're small he lets 'em pass.But when he starts to grunt an' groan, an' stops the while his pipe hefills,We know that he is gettin' down to where Ma's hid the bigger bills."Just what we had to have," says he, "an' I'm supposed to pay the tolls;Nine dollars an' a half for—say, what the deuce are camisoles?
"If you should break a leg," says Pa, "an couldn't get down town to shop,I'll bet the dry goods men would see their business take an awful drop,An' if they missed you for a week, they'd have to fire a dozen clerks!Say, couldn't we have got along without this bunch of Billie Burkes?"But Ma just sits an' grins at him, an' never has a word to say,Because she says Pa likes to fuss about the bills he has to pay.
Bob White
Out near the links where I go to playMy favorite game from day to day,There's a friend of mine that I've never metWalked with or broken bread with, yetI've talked to him oft and he's talked to meWhenever I've been where he's chanced to be;He's a cheery old chap who keeps out of sight,A gay little fellow whose name is Bob White.
Bob White! Bob White! I can hear him callAs I follow the trail to my little ball—Bob White! Bob White! with a note of cheerThat was just designed for a mortal ear.Then I drift far off from the world of menAnd I send an answer right back to him then;An' we whistle away to each other there,Glad of the life which is ours to share.
Bob White! Bob White! May you live to beThe head of a numerous family!May you boldly call to your friends out here,With never an enemy's gun to fear.I'm a better man as I pass along,For your cheery call and your bit of song.May your food be plenty and skies be brightTo the end of your days, good friend Bob White!
When Ma Wants Something New
Last night Ma said to Pa: "My dear,The Williamsons are coming hereTo visit for a week or two,An' I must have a talk with you.We need some things which we must get—You promised me a dinner set,An' I should like it while they're here."An' Pa looked up an' said: "My dear,A dinner set? Well, I guess not.What's happened to the one we've got?"
"We need a parlor rug," says Ma."We've got a parlor rug," says Pa."We ought to have another chair.""You're sittin' in a good one there.""The parlor curtains are a fright.""When these are washed they look all right.""The old stuff's pitiful to see.""It still looks mighty good to me.""The sofa's worn beyond repair.""It doesn't look so bad, I swear."
"Gee Whiz, you make me tired," says Ma."Why, what's the matter now?" says Pa."You come an' go an' never seeHow old our stuff has grown to be;It still looks just the same to youAs what it did when it was new,An' every time you think it strangeThat I should like to have a change.""I'm gettin' old," says Pa. "MaybeYou'd like a younger man than me."
"If this old rug was worn an' thin,At night you'd still come walkin' inAn' throw your hat upon a chairAn' never see a single tear;So long as any chair could standAn' bear your weight you'd think it grand.If home depended all on you,It never would get something new.""All right," says Pa, "go buy the stuff!But, say, am I still good enough?"
Sittin' on the Porch
Sittin' on the porch at night when all the tasks are done,Just restin' there an' talkin', with my easy slippers on,An' my shirt band thrown wide open an' my feet upon the rail,Oh, it's then I'm at my richest, with a wealth that cannot fail;For the scent of early roses seems to flood the evening air,An' a throne of downright gladness is my wicker rocking chair.
The dog asleep beside me, an' the children rompin' 'roundWith their shrieks of merry laughter, Oh, there is no gladder soundTo the ears o' weary mortals, spite of all the scoffers say,Or a grander bit of music than the children at their play!An' I tell myself times over, when I'm sittin' there at night,That the world in which I'm livin' is a place o' real delight.
Then the moon begins its climbin' an' the stars shine overhead,An' the mother calls the children an' she takes 'em up to bed,An' I smoke my pipe in silence an' I think o' many things,An' balance up my riches with the lonesomeness o' kings,An' I come to this conclusion, an' I'll wager that I'm right—That I'm happier than they are, sittin' on my porch at night.
With Dog and Gun
Out in the woods with a dog an' gunIs my idea of a real day's fun.'Tain't the birds that I'm out to killThat furnish me with the finest thrill,'Cause I never worry or fret a lot,Or curse my luck if I miss a shot.There's many a time, an' I don't know why,That I shoot too low or I aim too high,An' all I can see is the distant whirrOf a bird that's gittin' back home to her—Yep, gittin' back home at the end o' day,An' I'm just as glad that he got away.
There's a whole lot more in the woods o' fallThan the birds you bag—if you think at all.There's colors o' gold an' red an' brownAs never were known in the busy town;There's room to breathe in the purest airAn' something worth looking at everywhere;There's the dog who's leadin' you on an' onTo a patch o' cover where birds have gone,An' standin' there, without move or change,Till you give the sign that you've got the range.That's thrill enough for my blood, I say,So why should I care if they get away?
Fact is, there are times that I'd ruther missThan to bring 'em down, 'cause I feel like this:There's a heap more joy in a living thingThan a breast crushed in or a broken wing,An' I can't feel right, an' I never will,When I look at a bird that I've dared to kill.Oh, I'm jus' plumb happy to tramp aboutAn' follow my dog as he hunts 'em out,Jus' watchin' him point in his silent wayWhere the Bob Whites are an' the partridge stay;For the joy o' the great outdoors I've had,So why should I care if my aim is bad?
Old Mister Laughter
Old Mister LaughterComes a-grinnin' down the way,Singin': "Never mind your troubles,For they'll surely pass away."Singin': "Now the sun is shinin'An' there's roses everywhere;To-morrow will be soon enoughTo fret about your care."
Old Mister LaughterComes a-grinnin' at my door,Singin': "Don't go after moneyWhen you've got enough and more."Singin': "Laugh with me this mornin'An' be happy while you may.What's the use of richesIf they never let you play?"
Old Mister LaughterComes a-grinnin' all the time,Singin' happy songs o' gladnessIn a good old-fashioned rhyme.Singin': "Keep the smiles a-goin',Till they write your epitaph,And don't let fame or fortuneEver steal away your laugh."
A Family Row
I freely confess there are good friends of mine,With whom we are often invited to dine,Who get on my nerves so that I cannot eatOr stay with my usual ease in my seat;For I know that if something should chance to occurWhich he may not like or which doesn't please her,That we'll have to try to be pleasant somehowWhile they stage a fine little family row.
Now a family row is a private affair,And guests, I am certain, should never be there;I have freely maintained that a man and his wifeCannot always agree on their journey through life,But they ought not to bicker and wrangle and shoutAnd show off their rage when their friends are about;It takes all the joy from a party, I vow,When some couple starts up a family row.
It's a difficult job to stay cool and politeWhen your host and your hostess are staging a fight:It's hard to talk sweet to a dame with a frownOr smile at a man that you want to knock down.You sit like a dummy and look far away,But you just can't help hearing the harsh things they say.It ruins the dinner, I'm telling you now,When your host and your hostess get mixed in a row.
The Lucky Man
Luck had a favor to bestowAnd wondered where to let it go.
"No lazy man on earth," said she,"Shall get this happy gift from me.
"I will not pass it to the manWho will not do the best he can.
"I will not make this splendid giftTo one who has not practiced thrift.
"It shall not benefit deceit,Nor help the man who's played the cheat.
"He that has failed to fight with pluckShall never know the Goddess Luck.
"I'll look around a bit to seeWhat man has earned some help from me."
She found a man whose hands were soiledBecause from day to day he'd toiled.
He'd dreamed by night and worked by dayTo make life's contest go his way.
He'd kept his post and daily slaved,And something of his wage he'd saved.
He'd clutched at every circumstanceWhich might have been his golden chance.
The goddess smiled and then, kerslap!She dropped her favor in his lap.
Lonely
They're all awayAnd the house is still,And the dust lies thickOn the window sill,And the stairway creaksIn a solemn toneThis taunting phrase:"You are all alone."
They've gone awayAnd the rooms are bare;I miss his capFrom a parlor chair.And I miss the toysIn the lonely hall,But most of anyI miss his call.
I miss the shoutsAnd the laughter gayWhich greeted meAt the close of day,And there isn't a thingIn the house we ownBut sobbingly says:"You are all alone."
It's only a houseThat is mine to know,An empty houseThat is cold with woe;Like a prison grimWith its bars of black,And it won't be homeTill they all come back.
The Cookie Jar
You can rig up a house with all manner of things,The prayer rugs of sultans and princes and kings;You can hang on its walls the old tapestries rareWhich some dead Egyptian once treasured with care;But though costly and gorgeous its furnishings are,It must have, to be homelike, an old cookie jar.
There are just a few things that a home must possess,Besides all your money and all your success—A few good old books which some loved one has read,Some trinkets of those whose sweet spirits have fled,And then in the pantry, not shoved back too farFor the hungry to get to, that old cookie jar.
Let the house be a mansion, I care not at all!Let the finest of pictures be hung on each wall,Let the carpets be made of the richest velour,And the chairs only those which great wealth can procure,I'd still want to keep for the joy of my flockThat homey, old-fashioned, well-filled cookie crock.
Like the love of the Mother it shines through our years;It has soothed all our hurts and has dried away tears;It has paid us for toiling; in sorrow or joy,It has always shown kindness to each girl and boy;And I'm sorry for people, whoever they are,Who live in a house where there's no cookie jar.
Little Wrangles
Lord, we've had our little wrangles, an' we've had our little bouts;There's many a time, I reckon, that we have been on the outs;My tongue's a trifle hasty an' my temper's apt to fly,An' Mother, let me tell you, has a sting in her reply,But I couldn't live without her, an' it's plain as plain can beThat in fair or sunny weather Mother needs a man like me.
I've banged the door an' muttered angry words beneath my breath,For at times when she was scoldin' Mother's plagued me most to death,But we've always laughed it over, when we'd both cooled down a bit,An' we never had a difference but a smile would settle it.An' if such a thing could happen, we could share life's joys an' tearsAn' live right on together for another thousand years.
Some men give up too easy in the game o' married life;They haven't got the courage to be worthy of a wife;An' I've seen a lot o' women that have made their lives a mess,'Cause they couldn't bear the burdens that are, mixed with happiness.So long as folks are human they'll have many faults that jar,An' the way to live with people is to take them as they are.
We've been forty years together, good an' bad, an' rain an' shine;I've forgotten Mother's faults now an' she never mentions mine.In the days when sorrow struck us an' we shared a common woeWe just leaned upon each other, an' our weakness didn't show.An' I learned how much I need her an' how tender she can beAn' through it, maybe, Mother saw the better side o' me.
The Wide Outdoors
The rich may pay for orchids rare, but, Oh the apple treeFlings out its blossoms to the world for every eye to see,And all who sigh for loveliness may walk beneath the skyAnd claim a richer beauty than man's gold can ever buy.
The blooming cherry trees are free for all to look upon;The dogwood buds for all of us, and not some favorite one;The wide outdoors is no man's own; the stranger on the streetCan cast his eyes on many a rose and claim its fragrance sweet.
Small gardens are shut in by walls, but none can wall the sky,And none can hide the friendly trees from all who travel by;And none can hold the apple boughs and claim them for his own,For all the beauties of the earth belong to God alone.
So let me walk the world just now and wander far and near;Earth's loveliness is mine to see, its music mine to hear;There's not a single apple bough that spills its blooms aboutBut I can claim the joy of it, and none can shut me out.
"Where's Mamma?"
Comes in flying from the street;"Where's Mamma?"Friend or stranger thus he'll greet:"Where's Mamma?"Doesn't want to say hello,Home from school or play he'll goStraight to what he wants to know:"Where's Mamma?"
Many times a day he'll shout,"Where's Mamma?"Seems afraid that she's gone out;"Where's Mamma?"Is his first thought at the door—She's the one he's looking for,And he questions o'er and o'er,"Where's Mamma?"
Can't be happy till he knows:"Where's Mamma?"So he begs us to disclose"Where's Mamma?"And it often seems to me,As I hear his anxious plea,That no sweeter phrase can be:"Where's Mamma?"
Like to hear it day by day;"Where's Mamma?"Loveliest phrase that lips can say:"Where's Mamma?"And I pray as time shall flow,And the long years come and go,That he'll always want to know"Where's Mamma?"
Summer Dreams
Drowsy old summer, with nothing to do,I'd like to be drowsin' an' dreamin' with you;I'd like to stretch out in the shade of a tree,An' fancy the white clouds were ships out at sea,Or castles with turrets and treasures and things,And peopled with princesses, fairies and kings,An' just drench my soul with the glorious joyWhich was mine to possess as a barefooted boy.
Drowsy old summer, your skies are as blueAs the skies which a dreamy-eyed youngster once knew,An' I fancy to-day all the pictures are there—The ships an' the pirates an' princesses fair,The red scenes of battle, the gay, cheering throngsWhich greeted the hero who righted all wrongs;But somehow or other, these old eyes of mineCan't see what they did as a youngster of nine.
Drowsy old summer, I'd like to forgetSome things which I've learned an' some hurts I have met;I'd like the old visions of splendor an' joyWhich were mine to possess as a barefooted boyWhen I dreamed of the glorious deeds I would doAs soon as I'd galloped my brief boyhood through;I'd like to come back an' look into your skiesWith that wondrous belief an' those far-seeing eyes.
Drowsy old summer, my dream days have gone;Only things which are real I must now look upon;No longer I see in the skies overheadThe pictures that were, for the last one has fled.I have learned that not all of our dreams can come true;That the toilers are many and heroes are few;But I'd like once again to look up there an' seeThe man that I fancied some day I might be.
I Ain't Dead Yet
Time was I used to worry and I'd sit around an' sigh,And think with every ache I got that I was goin' to die,I'd see disaster comin' from a dozen different waysAn' prophesy calamity an' dark and dreary days.But I've come to this conclusion, that it's foolishness to fret;I've had my share o' sickness, but IAin'tDeadYet!
Wet springs have come to grieve me an' I've grumbled at the showers,But I can't recall a June-time that forgot to bring the flowers.I've had my business troubles, and looked failure in the face,But the crashes I expected seemed to pass right by the place.So I'm takin' life more calmly, pleased with everything I get,An' not over-hurt by losses, 'cause IAin'tDeadYet!
I've feared a thousand failures an' a thousand deaths I've died,I've had this world in ruins by the gloom I've prophesied.But the sun shines out this mornin' an' the skies above are blue,An' with all my griefs an' trouble, I have somehow lived 'em through.There may be cares before me, much like those that I have met;Death will come some day an' take me, but IAin'tDeadYet!
The Cure for Weariness
Seemed like I couldn't stand it any more,The factory whistles blowin' day by day,An' men an' children hurryin' by the door,An' street cars clangin' on their busy way.The faces of the people seemed to beWashed pale by tears o' grief an' strife an' care,Till everywhere I turned to I could seeThe same old gloomy pictures of despair.
The windows of the shops all looked the same,Decked out with stuff their owners wished to sell;When visitors across our doorway cameI could recite the tales they'd have to tell.All things had lost their old-time power to please;Dog-tired I was an' irritable, too,An' so I traded chimney tops for trees,An' shingled roof for open skies of blue.
I dropped my tools an' took my rod an' lineAn' tackle box an' left the busy town;I found a favorite restin' spot of mineWhere no one seeks for fortune or renown.I whistled to the birds that flew about,An' built a lot of castles in my dreams;I washed away the stains of care an' doubtAn' thanked the Lord for woods an' running streams.
I've cooked my meals before an open fire,I've had the joy of green smoke in my face,I've followed for a time my heart's desireAn' now the path of duty I retrace.I've had my little fishin' trip, an' goOnce more contented to the haunts of men;I'm ready now to hear the whistles blowAn' see the roofs an' chimney tops again.
To an Old Friend
When we have lived our little lives and wandered all their byways through,When we've seen all that we shall see and finished all that we must do,When we shall take one backward look off yonder where our journey ends,I pray that you shall be as glad as I shall be that we were friends.
Time was we started out to find the treasures and the joys of life;We sought them in the land of gold through many days of bitter strife.When we were young we yearned for fame; in search of joy we went afar,Only to learn how very cold and distant all the strangers are.
When we have met all we shall meet and know what destiny has planned,I shall rejoice in that last hour that I have known your friendly hand;I shall go singing down the way off yonder as my sun descendsAs one who's had a happy life, made glorious by the best of friends.
Satisfied With Life
I have known the green trees and the skies overheadAnd the blossoms of spring and the fragrance they shed;I have known the blue sea, and the mountains afarAnd the song of the pines and the light of a star;And should I pass now, I could say with a smileThat my pilgrimage here has been well worth my while.
I have known the warm handclasp of friends who were true;I have shared in their pleasures and wept with them, too;I have heard the gay laughter which sweeps away careAnd none of the comrades I've made could I spare;And should this be all, I could say ere I go,That life is worth while just such friendships to know.
I have builded a home where we've loved and been glad;I have known the rich joy of a girl and a lad;I have had their caresses through storm and through shine,And watched them grow lovely, those youngsters of mine;And I think as I hold them at night on my knee,That life has been generous surely to me.
Autumn Evenings
Apples on the table an' the grate-fire blazin' high,Oh, I'm sure the whole world hasn't any happier man than I;The Mother sittin' mendin' little stockin's, toe an' knee,An' tellin' all that's happened through the busy day to me:Oh, I don't know how to say it, but these cosy autumn nightsSeem to glow with true contentment an' a thousand real delights.
The dog sprawled out before me knows that huntin' days are here,'Cause he dreams and seems to whimper that a flock o' quail are near;An' the children playin' checkers till it's time to go to bed,Callin' me to settle questions whether black is beatin' red;Oh, these nights are filled with gladness, an' I puff my pipe an' smile,An' tell myself the struggle an' the work are both worth while.
The flames are full o' pictures that keep dancin' to an' fro,Bringin' back the scenes o' gladness o' the happy long ago,An' the whole wide world is silent an' I tell myself just this—That within these walls I cherish, there is all my world there is!Can I keep the love abiding in these hearts so close to me,An' the laughter of these evenings, I shall gain life's victory.
Memorial Day
These did not pass in selfishness; they died for all mankind;They died to build a better world for all who stay behind;And we who hold their memory dear, and bring them flowers to-day,Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.
These were defenders of the faith and guardians of the truth;That you and I might live and love, they gladly gave their youth;And we who set this day apart to honor them who sleepShould pledge ourselves to hold the faith they gave their lives to keep.
If tears are all we shed for them, then they have died in vain;If flowers are all we bring them now, forgotten they remain;If by their courage we ourselves to courage are not led,Then needlessly these graves have closed above our heroes dead.
To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do;We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true.They died to build a better world, and we who mourn to-dayShould consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.
The Happy Man
If you would know a happy man,Go find the fellow whoHas had a bout with trouble grimAnd just come smiling through.
The load is off his shoulders now,Where yesterday he frownedAnd saw no joy in life, to-dayHe laughs his way around.
He's done the very thing he thoughtThat he could never do;His sun is shining high to-dayAnd all his skies are blue.
He's stronger than he was before;Should trouble come anewHe'll know how much his strength can bearAnd how much he can do.
To-day he has the right to smile,And he may gaily sing,For he has conquered where he fearedThe pain of failure's sting.
Comparison has taught him, too,The sweetest hours are thoseWhich follow on the heels of care,With laughter and repose.
If you would meet a happy man,Go find the fellow whoHas had a bout with trouble grimAnd just come smiling through.
The Song of the Builder
I sink my piers to the solid rock,And I send my steel to the sky,And I pile up the granite, block by blockFull twenty stories high;Nor wind nor weather shall wash awayThe thing that I've builded, day by day.
Here's something of mine that shall ever standTill another shall tear it down;Here is the work of my brain and hand,Towering above the town.And the idlers gay in their smug content,Have nothing to leave for a monument.
Here from my girders I look belowAt the throngs which travel by,For little that's real will they leave to showWhen it comes their time to die.But I, when my time of life is through,Will leave this building for men to view.
Oh, the work is hard and the days are long,But hammers are tools for men,And granite endures and steel is strong,Outliving both brush and pen.And ages after my voice is stilled,Men shall know I lived by the things I build.
Old Years and New
Old years and new years, all blended into one,The best of what there is to be, the best of what is gone—Let's bury all the failures in the dim and dusty pastAnd keep the smiles of friendship and laughter to the last.
Old years and new years, life's in the making still;We haven't come to glory yet, but there's the hope we will;The dead old year was twelve months long, but now from it we're free,And what's one year of good or bad to all the years to be?
Old years and new years, we need them one and allTo reach the dome of character and build its sheltering wall;Past failures tried the souls of us, but if their tests we stood.The sum of what we are to be may yet be counted good.
Old years and new years, with all their pain and strife,Are but the bricks and steel and stone with which we fashion life;So put the sin and shame away, and keep the fine and true,And on the glory of the past let's build the better new.
When We're All Alike
I've trudged life's highway up and down;I've watched the lines of men march by;I've seen them in the busy town,And seen them under country sky;I've talked with toilers in the ranks,And walked with men whose hands were white,And learned, when closed were stores and banks,We're nearly all alike at night.
Just find the wise professor whenHe isn't lost in ancient lore,And he, like many other men,Romps with his children on the floor.He puts his gravity asideTo share in innocent delight.Stripped of position's pomp and pride,We're nearly all the same at night.
Serving a common cause, we goUnto our separate tasks by day,And rich or poor or great or low,Regardless of their place or pay,Cherish the common dreams of men—A home where love and peace unite.We serve the self-same end and plan,We're all alike when it is night.
Each for his loved ones wants to doHis utmost. Brothers are we all,When we have run the work-day through,In romping with our children small;Rich men and poor delight in playWhen care and caste have taken flight.At home, in all we think and say,We're very much the same at night.
The Things You Can't Forget
They ain't much, seen from day to day—The big elm tree across the way,The church spire, an' the meetin' placeLit up by many a friendly face.You pass 'em by a dozen timesAn' never think o' them in rhymes,Or fit for poet's singin'. YetThey're all the things you can't forget;An' they're the things you'll miss some dayIf ever you should go away.
The people here ain't much to see—Jes' common folks like you an' me,Doin' the ordinary tasksWhich life of everybody asks:Old Dr. Green, still farin' 'roundTo where his patients can be found,An' Parson Hill, serene o' face,Carryin' God's message every place,An' Jim, who keeps the grocery store—Yet they are folks you'd hunger for.
They seem so plain when close to view—Bill Barker, an' his brother too,The Jacksons, men of higher rankBecause they chance to run the bank,Yet friends to every one round here,Quiet an' kindly an' sincere,Not much to sing about or praise,Livin' their lives in modest ways—Yet in your memory they'd stayIf ever you should go away.
These are things an' these the menSome day you'll long to see again.Now it's so near you scarcely seeThe beauty o' that big elm tree,But some day later on you willAn' wonder if it's standin' still,An' if the birds return to singAn' make their nests there every spring.Mebbe you scorn them now, but theyWill bring you back again some day.
The Making of Friends
If nobody smiled and nobody cheered and nobody helped us along,If each every minute looked after himself and good things all went to thestrong,If nobody cared just a little for you, and nobody thought about me,And we stood all alone to the battle of life, what a dreary old world itwould be!
If there were no such a thing as a flag in the sky as a symbol ofcomradeship here,If we lived as the animals live in the woods, with nothing held sacred ordear,And selfishness ruled us from birth to the end, and never a neighbor hadwe,And never we gave to another in need, what a dreary old world it would be!
Oh, if we were rich as the richest on earth and strong as the strongestthat lives,Yet never we knew the delight and the charm of the smile which the otherman gives,If kindness were never a part of ourselves, though we owned all the land wecould see,And friendship meant nothing at all to us here, what a dreary old world itwould be!
Life is sweet just because of the friends we have made and the things whichin common we share;We want to live on not because of ourselves, but because of the people whocare;It's giving and doing for somebody else—on that all life's splendordepends,And the joy of this world, when you've summed it all up, is found in themaking of friends.
The Deeds of Anger
I used to lose my temper an' git mad an' tear aroundAn' raise my voice so wimmin folks would tremble at the sound;I'd do things I was ashamed of when the fit of rage had passed,An' wish I hadn't done 'em, an' regret 'em to the last;But I've learned from sad experience how useless is regret,For the mean things done in anger are the things you can't forget.
'Tain't no use to kiss the youngster once your hand has made him cry;You'll recall the time you struck him till the very day you die;He'll forget it an' forgive you an' to-morrow seem the same,But you'll keep the hateful picture of your sorrow an' your shame,An' it's bound to rise to taunt you, though you long have squared the debt,For the things you've done in meanness are the things you can't forget.
Lord, I sometimes sit an' shudder when some scene comes back to me,Which shows me big an' brutal in some act o' tyranny,When some triflin' thing upset me an' I let my temper fly,An' was sorry for it after—but it's vain to sit an' sigh.So I'd be a whole sight happier now my sun begins to set,If it wasn't for the meanness which I've done an' can't forget.
Now I think I've learned my lesson an' I'm treadin' gentler ways,An' I try to build my mornings into happy yesterdays;I don't let my temper spoil 'em in the way I used to doAn' let some splash of anger smear the record when it's through;I want my memories pleasant, free from shame or vain regret,Without any deeds of anger which I never can forget.