I'd Rather Be a Failure
I'd rather be a failure than the man who's never tried;I'd rather seek the mountain-top than always stand aside.Oh, let me hold some lofty dream and make my desperate fight,And though I fail I still shall know I tried to serve the right.
The idlers line the ways of life and they are quick to sneer;They note the failing strength of man and greet it with a jeer;But there is something deep inside which scoffers fail to view—They never see the glorious deed the failure tried to do.
Some men there are who never leave the city's well-worn streets;They never know the dangers grim the bold adventurer meets;They never seek a better way nor serve a nobler plan;They never risk with failure to advance the cause of man.
Oh, better 'tis to fail and fall in sorrow and despair,Than stand where all is safe and sure and never face a care;Yes, stamp me with the failure's brand and let men sneer at me,For though I've failed the Lord shall know the man I tried to be.
Couldn't Live Without You
You're just a little fellow with a lot of funny ways,Just three-foot-six of mischief set with eyes that fairly blaze;You're always up to something with those busy hands o' yours,And you leave a trail o' ruin on the walls an' on the doors,An' I wonder, as I watch you, an' your curious tricks I see,Whatever is the reason that you mean so much to me.
You're just a chubby rascal with a grin upon your face,Just seven years o' gladness, an' a hard and trying case;You think the world's your playground, an' in all you say an' doYou fancy everybody ought to bow an' scrape to you;Dull care's a thing you laugh at just as though 'twill never be,So I wonder, little fellow, why you mean so much to me.
Now your face is smeared with candy or perhaps it's only dirt,An' it's really most alarming how you tear your little shirt;But I have to smile upon you, an' with all your wilful ways,I'm certain that I need you 'round about me all my days;Yes, I've got to have you with me, for somehow it's come to beThat I couldn't live without you, for you're all the world to me.
Just a Boy
Get to understand the lad—He's not eager to be bad;If the right he always knew,He would be as old as you.Were he now exceeding wise,He'd be just about your size;When he does things that annoy,Don't forget, he's just a boy.
Could he know and understand,He would need no guiding hand;But he's young and hasn't learnedHow life's corners must be turned;Doesn't know from day to dayThere is more in life than play,More to face than selfish joy—Don't forget he's just a boy.
Being just a boy, he'll doMuch you will not want him to;He'll be careless of his ways,Have his disobedient days,Wilful, wild and headstrong, too,Just as, when a boy, were you;Things of value he'll destroy,But, reflect, he's just a boy.
Just a boy who needs a friend,Patient, kindly to the end,Needs a father who will showHim the things he wants to know;Take him with you when you walk,Listen when he wants to talk,His companionship enjoy,Don't forget, he's just a boy!
What Home's Intended For
When the young folks gather 'round in the good old-fashioned way,Singin' all the latest songs gathered from the newest play,Or they start the phonograph an' shove the chairs back to the wallAn' hold a little party dance, I'm happiest of all.Then I sorter settle back, plumb contented to the core,An' I tell myself most proudly, that's what home's intended for.
When the laughter's gaily ringin' an' the room is filled with song,I like, to sit an' watch 'em, all that glad an' merry throng,For the ragtime they are playin' on the old piano thereBeats any high-toned music where the bright lights shine an' glare,An' the racket they are makin' stirs my pulses more and more,So I whisper in my gladness: that's what home's intended for.
Then I smile an' say to Mother, let 'em move the chairs about,Let 'em frolic in the parlor, let 'em shove the tables out,Jus' so long as they are near us, jus' so long as they will stayBy the fireplace we are keepin', harm will never come their way,An' you'll never hear me grumble at the bills that keep me poor,It's the finest part o' livin'—that's what home's intended for.
Safe at Home
Let the old fire blazeAn' the youngsters shoutAn' the dog on the rugSprawl full length out,An' Mother an' ISort o' settle down—An' it's little we careFor the noisy town.
Oh, it's little we careThat the wind may blow,An' the streets grow whiteWith the drifted snow;We'll face the stormWith the break o' day,But to-night we'll dreamAn' we'll sing an' play.
We'll sit by the fireWhere it's snug an' warm,An' pay no heedTo the winter storm;With a sheltering roofLet the blizzard roar;We are safe at home—Can a king say more?
That's all that countsWhen the day is done:The smiles of loveAnd the youngsters' fun,The cares put downWith the evening gloam—Here's the joy of all:To be safe at home.
When Friends Drop In
It may be I'm old-fashioned, but the times I like the bestAre not the splendid parties with the women gaily dressed,And the music tuned for dancing and the laughter of the throng,With a paid comedian's antics or a hired musician's song,But the quiet times of friendship, with the chuckles and the grin,And the circle at the fireside when a few good friends drop in.
There's something 'round the fireplace that no club can imitate,And no throng can ever equal just a few folks near the grate;Though I sometimes like an opera, there's no music quite so sweetAs the singing of the neighbors that you're always glad to meet;Oh, I know when they come calling that the fun will soon begin,And I'm happiest those evenings when a few good friends drop in.
There's no pomp of preparation, there's no style or sham or fuss;We are glad to welcome callers who are glad to be with us,And we sit around and visit or we start a merry game,And we show them by our manner that we're mighty pleased they came,For there's something real about it, and the yarns we love to spin,And the time flies, Oh, so swiftly when a few good friends drop in.
Let me live my life among them, cheerful, kindly folks and true,And I'll ask no greater glory till my time of life is through;Let me share the love and favor of the few who know me best,And I'll spend my time contented till my sun sinks in the west;I will take what fortune sends me and the little I may win,And be happy on those evenings when a few good friends drop in.
The Book of Memory
Turn me loose and let me beYoung once more and fancy free;Let me wander where I will,Down the lane and up the hill,Trudging barefoot in the dustIn an age that knows no "must,"And no voice insistentlySpeaks of duty unto me;Let me tread the happy waysOf those by-gone yesterdays.
Fame had never whispered then,Making slaves of eager men;Greed had never called me downTo the gray walls of the town,Offering frankincense and myrrhIf I'd be its prisoner;I was free to come and goWhere the cherry blossoms blow,Free to wander where I would,Finding life supremely good.
But I turned, as all must do,From the happiness I knewTo the land of care and strife,Seeking for a fuller life;Heard the lure of fame and soughtThat renown so dearly bought;Listened to the voice of greedSaying: "These the things you need,"Now the gray town holds me fast,Prisoner to the very last.
Age has stamped me as its own;Youth to younger hearts has flown;Still the cherry blossoms blowIn the land loused to know;Still the fragrant clover spillsPerfume over dales and hills,But I'm not allowed to strayWhere the young are free to play;All the years will grant to meIs the book of memory.
Pretending Not to See
Sometimes at the table, whenHe gets misbehavin', thenMother calls across to me:"Look at him, now! Don't you seeWhat he's doin', sprawlin.' there!Make him sit up in his chair.Don't you see the messy wayThat he's eating?" An' I say:"No. He seems all right just now.What's he doing anyhow?"
Mother placed him there by me,An' she thinks I ought to seeEvery time he breaks the lawsAn' correct him, just becauseThere will come a time some dayWhen he mustn't act that way.But I can't be all alongScoldin' him for doin' wrong.So if something goes astray,I jus' look the other way.
Mother tells me now an' thenI'm the easiest o' men,An' in dealin' with the ladI will never see the badThat he does, an' I supposeMother's right for Mother knows;But I'd hate to feel that I'mHere to scold him all the time.Little faults might spoil the day,So I look the other way.
Look the other way an' tryNot to let him catch my eye,Knowin' all the time that heDoesn't mean so bad to be;Knowin', too, that now an' thenI am not the best o' men;Hopin', too, the times I fallThat the Father of us all,Lovin', watchin' over me,Will pretend He doesn't see.
The Joys of Home
Curling smoke from a chimney low,And only a few more steps to go,Faces pressed at a window paneWatching for someone to come again,And I am the someone they wait to see—These are the joys life gives to me.
What has my neighbor excelling this:A good wife's love and a baby's kiss?What if his chimneys tower higher?Peace is found at our humble fire.What if his silver and gold are more?Rest is ours when the day is o'er.
Strive for fortune and slave for fame,You find that joy always stays the same:Rich man and poor man dream and prayFor a home where laughter shall ever stay,And the wheels go round and men spend their mightFor the few glad hours they may claim at night.
Home, where the kettle shall gaily sing,Is all that matters with serf or king;Gold and silver and laurelled fameAre only sweet when the hearth's aflameWith a cheerful fire, and the loved ones thereAre unafraid of the wolves of care.
So let me come home at night to restWith those who know I have done my best;Let the wife rejoice and my children smile,And I'll know by their love that I am worthwhile,For this is conquest and world success—A home where abideth happiness.
We're Dreamers All
Oh, man must dream of gladness wherever his pathways lead,And a hint of something better is written in every creed;And nobody wakes at morning but hopes ere the day is o'erTo have come to a richer pleasure than ever he's known before.
For man is a dreamer ever. He glimpses the hills afarAnd plans for the joys off yonder where all his to-morrows are;When trials and cares beset him, in the distance he still can seeA hint of a future splendid and the glory that is to be.
There's never a man among us but cherishes dreams of rest;We toil for that something better than that which is now our best.Oh, what if the cup be bitter and what if we're racked with pain?There are wonderful days to follow when never we'll grieve again.
Back of the sound of the hammer, and back of the hissing steam,And back of the hand at the throttle is ever a lofty dream;All of us, great or humble, look over the present needTo the dawn of the glad to-morrow which is promised in every creed.
What Is Success?
Success is being friendly when another needs a friend;It's in the cheery words you speak, and in the coins you lend;Success is not alone in skill and deeds of daring great;It's in the roses that you plant beside your garden gate.
Success is in the way you walk the paths of life each day;It's in the little things you do and in the things you say;Success is in the glad hello you give your fellow man;It's in the laughter of your home and all the joys you plan.
Success is not in getting rich or rising high to fame;It's not alone in winning goals which all men hope to claim;It's in the man you are each day, through happiness or care;It's in the cheery words you speak and in the smile you wear.
Success is being big of heart and clean and broad of mind;It's being faithful to your friends, and to the stranger, kind;It's in the children whom you love, and all they learn from you—Success depends on character and everything you do.
The Three Me's
I'd like to steal a day and beAll alone with little me,Little me that used to runEverywhere in search of fun;Little me of long agoWho was glad and didn't knowLife is freighted down with careFor the backs of men to bear;Little me who thought a smileOught to linger all the while—On his Mother's pretty faceAnd a tear should never traceLines of sorrow, hurt or careOn those cheeks so wondrous fair.
I should like once more to beAll alone with youthful me;Youthful me who saw the hillsWhere the sun its splendor spillsAnd was certain that in timeTo the topmost height he'd climb;Youthful me, serene of soul,Who beheld a shining goal.And imagined he could gainGlory without grief or pain,Confident and quick with life,Madly eager for the strife,Knowing not that bitter careWaited for his coming there.
I should like to sit aloneWith the me now older grown,Like to lead the little meAnd the youth that used to beOnce again along the waysOf our glorious yesterdays.We could chuckle soft and lowAt the things we didn't know,And could laugh to think how boldWe had been in days of old,And how blind we were to careWith its heartache and despair,We could smile away the tearsAnd the pain of later years.
Brothers All
Under the toiler's grimy shirt,Under the sweat and the grease and dirt,Under the rough outside you view,Is a man who thinks and feels as you.
Go talk with him,Go walk with him,Sit down with him by a running stream,Away from the things that are hissing steam,Away from his bench,His hammer and wrench,And the grind of needAnd the sordid deed,And this you'll findAs he bares his mind:In the things which count when this life is throughHe's as tender and big and as good as you.
Be fair with him,And share with himAn hour of time in a restful place,Brother to brother and face to face,And he'll whisper lowOf the long ago,Of a loved one deadAnd the tears he shed;And you'll come to seeThat in suffering he,With you, is hurt by the self-same rodAnd turns for help to the self-same God.
You hope as he,You dream of splendors, and so does he;His children must be as you'd have yours be;He shares your loveFor the Flag above,He laughs and singsFor the self-same things;When he's understoodHe is mostly good,Thoughtful of others and kind and true,Brave, devoted—and much like you.
Under the toiler's grimy shirt,Under the sweat and the grease and dirt,Under the rough outside you view,Is a man who thinks and feels as you.
When We Understand the Plan
I reckon when the world we leaveAnd cease to smile and cease to grieve,When each of us shall quit the strifeAnd drop the working tools of life,Somewhere, somehow, we'll come to findJust what our Maker had in mind.
Perhaps through clearer eyes than theseWe'll read life's hidden mysteries,And learn the reason for our tears—Why sometimes came unhappy years,And why our dearest joys were briefAnd bound so closely unto grief.
There is so much beyond our scope,As blindly on through life we grope,So much we cannot understand,However wisely we have planned,That all who walk this earth aboutAre constantly beset by doubt.
No one of us can truly sayWhy loved ones must be called away,Why hearts are hurt, or e'en explainWhy some must suffer years of pain;Yet some day all of us shall knowThe reason why these things are so.
I reckon in the years to come,When these poor lips of clay are dumb,And these poor hands have ceased to toil,Somewhere upon a fairer soilGod shall to all of us make clearThe purpose of our trials here.
The Spoiler
With a twinkle in his eyeHe'd come gayly walkin' byAn' he'd whistle to the childrenAn' he'd beckon 'em to come,Then he'd chuckle low an' say,"Come along, I'm on my way,An' it's I that need your companyTo buy a little gum."
When his merry call they'd hear,All the children, far an' near,Would come flyin' from the gardensLike the chickens after wheat;When we'd shake our heads an' say:"No, you mustn't go to-day!"He'd beg to let him have 'emIn a pack about his feet.
Oh, he spoiled 'em, one an' all;There was not a youngster smallBut was over-fed on candyAn' was stuffed with lollypops,An' I think his greatest joyWas to get some girl or boyAn' bring 'em to their parentsAll besmeared by chocolate drops.
Now the children's hearts are soreFor he comes to them no more,And no more to them he whistlesAnd no more for them he stops;But in Paradise, I think,With his chuckle and his wink,He is leading little angelsTo the heavenly candy shops.
A Vanished Joy
When I was but a little lad of six and seven and eight,One joy I knew that has been lost in customs up-to-date,Then Saturday was baking day and Mother used to make,The while I stood about and watched, the Sunday pies and cake;And I was there to have fulfilled a small boy's fondest wish,The glorious privilege of youth—to scrape the frosting dish!
On Saturdays I never left to wander far away—I hovered near the kitchen door on Mother's baking day;The fragrant smell of cooking seemed to hold me in its grip,And naught cared I for other sports while there were sweets to sip;I little cared that all my chums had sought the brook to fish;I chose to wait that moment glad when I could scrape the dish.
Full many a slice of apple I have lifted from a pieBefore the upper crust went on, escaping Mother's eye;Full many a time my fingers small in artfulness have strayedInto some sweet temptation rare which Mother's hands had made;But eager-eyed and watery-mouthed, I craved the greater boon,When Mother let me clean the dish and lick the frosting spoon.
The baking days of old are gone, our children cannot knowThe glorious joys that childhood owned and loved so long ago.New customs change the lives of all and in their heartless wayThey've robbed us of the glad event once known as baking day.The stores provide our every need, yet many a time I wishOur kids could know that bygone thrill and scrape the frosting dish.
"Carry On"
They spoke it bravely, grimly, in their darkest hours of doubt;They spoke it when their hope was low and when their strength gave out;We heard it from the dying in those troubled days now gone,And they breathed it as their slogan for the living: "Carry on!"
Now the days of strife are over, and the skies are fair again,But those two brave words of courage on our lips should still remain;In the trials which beset us and the cares we look upon,To our dead we should be faithful—we have still to "carry on!"
"Carry on!" through storm and danger, "carry on" through dark despair,"Carry on" through hurt and failure, "carry on" through grief and care;'Twas the slogan they bequeathed us as they fell beside the way,And for them and for our children, let us "carry on!" to-day.
Life's Single Standard
There are a thousand ways to cheat and a thousand ways to sin;There are ways uncounted to lose the game, but there's only one way to win;And whether you live by the sweat of your brow or in luxury's garb you'redressed,You shall stand at last, when your race is run, to be judged by the singletest.
Some men lie by the things they make; some lie in the deeds they do;And some play false for a woman's love, and some for a cheer or two;Some rise to fame by the force of skill, grow great by the might of power,Then wreck the temple they toiled to build, in a single, shameful hour.
The follies outnumber the virtues good; sin lures in a thousand ways;But slow is the growth of man's character and patience must mark his days;For only those victories shall count, when the work of life is done,Which bear the stamp of an honest man, and by courage and faith were won.
There are a thousand ways to fail, but only one way to win!Sham cannot cover the wrong you do nor wash out a single sin,And never shall victory come to you, whatever of skill you do,Save you've done your best in the work of life and unto your best weretrue.
Learn to Smile
The good Lord understood us when He taught us how to smile;He knew we couldn't stand it to be solemn all the while;He knew He'd have to shape us so that when our hearts were gay,We could let our neighbors know it in a quick and easy way.
So He touched the lips of Adam and He touched the lips of Eve,And He said: "Let these be solemn when your sorrows make you grieve,But when all is well in Eden and your life seems worth the while,Let your faces wear the glory and the sunshine of a smile.
"Teach the symbol to your children, pass it down through all the years.Though they know their share of sadness and shall weep their share oftears,Through the ages men and women shall prove their faith in MeBy the smile upon their faces when their hearts are trouble-free."
The good Lord understood us when He sent us down to earth,He knew our need for laughter and for happy signs of mirth;He knew we couldn't stand it to be solemn all the while,But must share our joy with others—so He taught us how to smile.
The True Man
This is the sort of a man was he:True when it hurt him a lot to be;Tight in a corner an' knowin' a lieWould have helped him out, but he wouldn't buyHis freedom there in so cheap a way—He told the truth though he had to pay.
Honest! Not in the easy sense,When he needn't worry about expense—We'll all play square when it doesn't countAnd the sum at stake's not a large amount—But he was square when the times were bad,An' keepin' his word took all he had.
Honor is something we all profess,But most of us cheat—some more, some less—An' the real test isn't the way we doWhen there isn't a pinch in either shoe;It's whether we're true to our best or notWhen the right thing's certain to hurt a lot.
That is the sort of a man was he:Straight when it hurt him a lot to be;Times when a lie would have paid him well,No matter the cost, the truth he'd tell;An' he'd rather go down to a drab defeatThan save himself if he had to cheat.
Cleaning the Furnace
Last night Pa said to Ma: "My dear, it's gettin' on to fall,It's time I did a little job I do not like at all.I wisht 'at I was rich enough to hire a man to doThe dirty work around this house an' clean up when he's through,But since I'm not, I'm truly glad that I am strong an' stout,An' ain't ashamed to go myself an' clean the furnace out."
Then after supper Pa put on his overalls an' saidHe'd work down in the cellar till 'twas time to go to bed.He started in to rattle an' to bang an' poke an' stir,An' the dust began a-climbin' up through every registerTill Ma said: "Goodness gracious; go an' shut those things up tightOr we'll all be suffocated an' the house will be a sight."
Then he carted out the ashes in a basket an' a pail,An' from cellar door to alley he just left an ashy trail.Then he pulled apart the chimney, an' 'twas full of something black,An' he skinned most all his knuckles when he tried to put it back.We could hear him talkin' awful, an' Ma looked at us an' said:"I think it would be better if you children went to bed."
When he came up from the cellar there were ashes in his hair,There were ashes in his eyebrows—but he didn't seem to care—There were ashes in his mustache, there were ashes in his eyes,An' we never would have known him if he'd took us by surprise."Well, I got it clean," he sputtered, and Ma said: "I guess that's true;Once the dirt was in the furnace, but now most of it's on you."
Trouble Brings Friends
It's seldom trouble comes alone. I've noticed this: When things go wrongAn' trouble comes a-visitin', it always brings a friend along;Sometimes it's one you've known before, and then perhaps it's someone newWho stretches out a helping hand an' stops to see what he can do.
If never trials came to us, if grief an' sorrow passed us by,If every day the sun came out an' clouds were never in the sky,We'd still have neighbors, I suppose, each one pursuin' selfish ends,But only neighbors they would be—we'd never know them as our friends.
Out of the troubles I have had have come my richest friendships here,Kind hands have helped to bear my care, kind words have fallen on my ear;An' so I say when trouble comes I know before the storm shall endThat I shall find my bit of care has also brought to me a friend.