Front matter (continued 2)

Oh, I never knew the meaning of that red sign on the door, Never really understood it, never thought of it before; But I'll never see another since they've tacked one up on mine But I'll think about the father that is barred from all that's fine. And I'll think about the mother who is prisoner in there So her little son or daughter shall not miss a mother's care. And I'll share a fellow feeling with the saddest of my kin, The dad beside the gateway of the home he can't go in.

Oh, we laugh and joke together and the mother tries to be Brave and sunny in her prison, and she thinks she's fooling me; And I do my bravest smiling and I feign a merry air In the hope she won't discover that I'm burdened down with care. But it's only empty laughter, and there's nothing in the grin When you're talking through the window of the home you can't go in.

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THE PERFECT DINNER TABLE

A table cloth that's slightly soiled Where greasy little hands have toiled; The napkins kept in silver rings, And only ordinary things From which to eat, a simple fare, And just the wife and kiddies there, And while I serve, the clatter glad Of little girl and little lad Who have so very much to say About the happenings of the day.

Four big round eyes that dance with glee, Forever flashing joys at me, Two little tongues that race and run To tell of troubles and of fun; The mother with a patient smile Who knows that she must wait awhile Before she'll get a chance to say What she's discovered through the day. She steps aside for girl and lad Who have so much to tell their dad.

Our manners may not be the best; Perhaps our elbows often rest Upon the table, and at times That very worst of dinner crimes, That very shameful act and rude Of speaking ere you've downed your food, Too frequently, I fear, is done, So fast the little voices run. Yet why should table manners stay Those tongues that have so much to say?

At many a table I have been Where wealth and luxury were seen, And I have dined in halls of pride Where all the guests were dignified; But when it comes to pleasure rare The perfect dinner table's where No stranger's face is ever known: The dinner hour we spend alone, When little girl and little lad Run riot telling things to dad.

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TO-MORROW

He was going to be all that a mortal should be To-morrow. No one should be kinder or braver than he To-morrow. A friend who was troubled and weary he knew, Who'd be glad of a lift and who needed it, too; On him he would call and see what he could do To-morrow.

Each morning he stacked up the letters he'd write To-morrow. And thought of the folks he would fill with delight To-morrow. It was too bad, indeed, he was busy to-day, And hadn't a minute to stop on his way; More time he would have to give others, he'd say, To-morrow.

The greatest of workers this man would have been To-morrow. The world would have known him, had he ever seen To-morrow. But the fact is he died and he faded from view, And all that he left here when living was through Was a mountain of things he intended to do To-morrow.

{121}

A PRAYER

God grant me kindly thought And patience through the day, And in the things I've wrought Let no man living say That hate's grim mark has stained What little joy I've gained.

God keep my nature sweet, Teach me to bear a blow, Disaster and defeat, And no resentment show. If failure must be mine Sustain this soul of mine.

God grant me strength to face Undaunted day or night; To stoop to no disgrace To win my little fight; Let me be, when it is o'er, As manly as before.

{122}

TO THE LADY IN THE ELECTRIC

Lady in the show case carriage, Do not think that I'm a bear; Not for worlds would I disparage One so gracious and so fair; Do not think that I am blind to One who has a smile seraphic; You I'd never be unkind to, But you are impeding traffic.

If I had some way of knowing What you are about to do, Just exactly where you're going, If I could depend on you, I could keep my engine churning, Travel on and never mind you. Lady, when you think of turning, Why not signal us behind you?

Lady, free from care and worry, Riding in your plate-glass car, Some of us are in a hurry; Some of us must travel far. I, myself, am eager, very, To be journeying on my way; Lady, is it necessary To monopolize the highway?

Lady, at the handle, steering, Why not keep a course that's straight? Know you not that wildly veering As you do, is tempting fate? Do not think my horn I'm blowing Just on purpose to harass you, It is just a signal showing That I'd safely like to pass you.

Lady, there are times a duty Must be done, however saddening; It is hard to tell a beauty That she's very often maddening. And I would not now be saying Harsh and cruel words to fuss you, But when traffic you're delaying You are forcing men to cuss you.

{124}

THE MAN WHO COULDN'T SAVE

He spent what he made, or he gave it away, Tried to save money, and would for a day, Started a bank-account time an' again, Got a hundred or so for a nest egg, an' then Some fellow that needed it more than he did, Who was down on his luck, with a sick wife or kid, Came along an' he wasted no time till he went An' drew out the coin that for saving was meant.

They say he died poor, and I guess that is so: To pile up a fortune he hadn't a show; He worked all the time and good money he made, Was known as an excellent man at his trade. But he saw too much, heard too much, felt too much here To save anything by the end of the year, An' the shabbiest wreck the Lord ever let live Could get money from him if he had it to give.

I've seen him slip dimes to the bums on the street Who told him they hungered for something to eat, An' though I remarked they were going for drink He'd say: "Mebbe so. But I'd just hate to think That fellow was hungry an' I'd passed him by; I'd rather be fooled twenty times by a lie Than wonder if one of 'em I wouldn't feed Had told me the truth an' was really in need."

Never stinted his family out of a thing: They had everything that his money could bring; Said he'd rather be broke and just know they were glad, Than rich, with them pining an' wishing they had Some of the pleasures his money would buy; Said he never could look a bank book in the eye If he knew it had grown on the pleasures and joys That he'd robbed from his wife and his girls and his boys.

Queer sort of notion he had, I confess, Yet many a rich man on earth is mourned less. All who had known him came back to his side To honor his name on the day that he died. Didn't leave much in the bank, it is true, But did leave a fortune in people who knew The big heart of him, an' I'm willing to swear That to-day he is one of the richest up there.

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ANSWERING HIM

"When shall I be a man?" he said, As I was putting him to bed. "How many years will have to be Before Time makes a man of me? And will I be a man when I Am grown up big?" I heaved a sigh, Because it called for careful thought To give the answer that he sought.

And so I sat him on my knee, And said to him: "A man you'll be When you have learned that honor brings More joy than all the crowns of kings; That it is better to be true To all who know and trust in you Than all the gold of earth to gain If winning it shall leave a stain.

"When you can fight for victory sweet, Yet bravely swallow down defeat, And cling to hope and keep the right, Nor use deceit instead of might; When you are kind and brave and clean, And fair to all and never mean; When there is good in all you plan, That day, my boy, you'll be a man.

"Some of us learn this truth too late; That years alone can't make us great; That many who are three-score, ten Have fallen short of being men, Because in selfishness they fought And toiled without refining thought; And whether wrong or whether right They lived but for their own delight.

"When you have learned that you must hold Your honor dearer far than gold; That no ill-gotten wealth or fame Can pay you for your tarnished name; And when in all you say or do Of others you're considerate, too, Content to do the best you can By such a creed, you'll be a man."

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FATHER AND SON

Be more than his dad, Be a chum to the lad; Be a part of his life Every hour of the day; Find time to talk with him, Take time to walk with him, Share in his studies And share in his play; Take him to places, To ball games and races, Teach him the things That you want him to know; Don't live apart from him, Don't keep your heart from him, Be his best comrade, He's needing you so!

Never neglect him, Though young, still respect him, Hear his opinions With patience and pride; Show him his error, But be not a terror, Grim-visaged and fearful, When he's at your side. Know what his thoughts are, Know what his sports are, Know all his playmates, It's easy to learn to; Be such a father That when troubles gather You'll be the first one For counsel, he'll turn to.

You can inspire him With courage, and fire him Hot with ambition For deeds that are good; He'll not betray you Nor illy repay you, If you have taught him The things that you should. Father and son Must in all things be one— Partners in trouble And comrades in joy. More than a dad Was the best pal you had; Be such a chum As you knew, to your boy.

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THE JUNE COUPLE

She is fair to see and sweet, Dainty from her head to feet, Modest, as her blushing shows, Happy, as her smiles disclose, And the young man at her side Nervously attempts to hide Underneath a visage grim That the fuss is bothering him.

Pause a moment, happy pair! This is not the station where Romance ends, and wooing stops And the charm from courtship drops; This is but the outward gate Where the souls of mortals mate, But the border of the land You must travel hand in hand.

You who come to marriage, bring All your tenderness, and cling Steadfastly to all the ways That have marked your wooing days. You are only starting out On life's roadways, hedged about Thick with roses and with tares, Sweet delights and bitter cares.

Heretofore you've only played At love's game, young man and maid; Only known it at its best; Now you'll have to face its test. You must prove your love worth while, Something time cannot defile, Something neither care nor pain Can destroy or mar or stain.

You are now about to show Whether love is real or no; Yonder down the lane of life You will find, as man and wife, Sorrows, disappointments, doubt, Hope will almost flicker out; But if rightly you are wed Love will linger where you tread.

There are joys that you will share, Joys to balance every care; Arm in arm remain, and you Will not fear the storms that brew, If when you are sorest tried You face your trials, side by side. Now your wooing days are done, And your loving years begun.

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AT THE DOOR

He wiped his shoes before his door, But ere he entered he did more; 'Twas not enough to cleanse his feet Of dirt they'd gathered in the street; He stood and dusted off his mind And left all trace of care behind. "In here I will not take," said he, "The stains the day has brought to me.

"Beyond this door shall never go The burdens that are mine to know; The day is done, and here I leave The petty things that vex and grieve; What clings to me of hate and sin To them I will not carry in; Only the good shall go with me For their devoted eyes to see.

"I will not burden them with cares, Nor track the home with grim affairs; I will not at my table sit With soul unclean, and mind unfit; Beyond this door I will not take The outward signs of inward ache; I will not take a dreary mind Into this house for them to find."

He wiped his shoes before his door, But paused to do a little more. He dusted off the stains of strife, The mud that's incident to life, The blemishes of careless thought, The traces of the fight he'd fought, The selfish humors and the mean, And when he entered he was clean.

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DUTY

To do your little bit of toil, To play life's game with head erect; To stoop to nothing that would soil Your honor or your self-respect; To win what gold and fame you can, But first of all to be a man.

To know the bitter and the sweet, The sunshine and the days of rain; To meet both victory and defeat, Nor boast too loudly nor complain; To face whatever fates befall And be a man throughout it all.

To seek success in honest strife, But not to value it so much That, winning it, you go through life Stained by dishonor's scarlet touch. What goal or dream you choose, pursue, But be a man whate'er you do!

{134}

A BEAR STORY

There was a bear—his name was Jim, An' children weren't askeered of him, An' he lived in a cave, where he Was confortubbul as could be, An' in that cave, so my Pa said, Jim always kept a stock of bread An' honey, so that he could treat The boys an' girls along his street.

An' all that Jim could say was "Woof!" An' give a grunt that went like "Soof!" An' Pa says when his grunt went off It sounded jus' like Grandpa's cough, Or like our Jerry when he's mad An' growls at peddler men that's bad. While grown-ups were afraid of Jim, Kids could do anything with him.

One day a little boy like me That had a sister Marjorie, Was walking through the woods, an' they Heard something "woofing" down that way, An' they was scared an' stood stock still An' wished they had a gun to kill Whatever 'twas, but little boys Don't have no guns that make a noise.

An' soon the "woofing" closer grew, An' then a bear came into view, The biggest bear you ever saw— Ma's muff was smaller than his paw. He saw the children an' he said: "I ain't a-goin' to kill you dead; You needn't turn away an' run; I'm only scarin' you for fun."

An' then he stood up just like those Big bears in circuses an' shows, An' danced a jig, an' rolled about An' said "Woof! Woof!" which meant "Look out!" An' turned a somersault as slick As any boy can do the trick. Those children had been told of Jim An' they decided it was him.

They stroked his nose when they got brave, An' followed him into his cave, An' Jim asked them if they liked honey, They said they did. Said Jim: "That's funny. I've asked a thousand boys or so That question, an' not one's said no." What happened then I cannot say 'Cause next I knew 'twas light as day.

{136}

AUTUMN AT THE ORCHARD

The sumac's flaming scarlet on the edges o' the lake, An' the pear trees are invitin' everyone t' come an' shake. Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin' everywhere Till it seems that you can almost see the Master Painter there. There's a solemn sort o' stillness that's pervadin' every thing, Save the farewell songs to summer that the feathered tenors sing, An' you quite forget the city where disgruntled folks are kickin' Off yonder with the Pelletiers, when spies are ripe for pickin'.

The Holsteins are a-posin' in a clearin' near a wood, Very dignified an' stately, just as though they understood That they're lending to life's pictures just the touch the Master needs, An' they're preachin' more refinement than a lot o' printed creeds. The orchard's fairly groanin' with the gifts o' God to man, Just as though they meant to shame us who have doubted once His plan. Oh, there's somethin' most inspirin' to a soul in need o' prickin' Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe fer pickin'.

The frisky little Shetlands now are growin' shaggy coats An' acquirin' silken mufflers of their own to guard their throats; An' a Russian wolf-hound puppy left its mother yesterday, An' a tinge o' sorrow touched us as we saw it go away. For the sight was full o' meanin', an' we knew, when it had gone, 'Twas a symbol of the partin's that the years are bringin' on. Oh, a feller must be better—to his faith he can't help stickin' Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe fer pickin'.

The year is almost over, now at dusk the valleys glow With the misty mantle chillin', that is hangin' very low. An' each mornin' sees the maples just a little redder turned Than they were the night we left 'em, an' the elms are browner burned. An' a feller can't help feelin', an' I don't care who it is, That the mind that works such wonders has a greater power than his. Oh, I know that I'll remember till life's last few sparks are flickin' The lessons out at Pelletiers when spies were ripe for pickin'.

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WHEN PA COMES HOME

When Pa comes home, I'm at the door, An' then he grabs me off the floor An' throws me up an' catches me When I come down, an' then, says he: "Well, how'd you get along to-day? An' were you good, an' did you play, An' keep right out of mamma's way? An' how'd you get that awful bump Above your eye? My, what a lump! An' who spilled jelly on your shirt? An' where'd you ever find the dirt That's on your hands? And my! Oh, my! I guess those eyes have had a cry, They look so red. What was it, pray? What has been happening here to-day?

An' then he drops his coat an' hat Upon a chair, an' says: "What's that? Who knocked that engine on its back An' stepped upon that piece of track?" An' then he takes me on his knee An' says: "What's this that now I see? Whatever can the matter be? Who strewed those toys upon the floor, An' left those things behind the door? Who upset all those parlor chairs An' threw those blocks upon the stairs? I guess a cyclone called to-day While I was workin' far away. Who was it worried mamma so? It can't be anyone I know."

An' then I laugh an' say: "It's me! Me did most ever'thing you see. Me got this bump the time me tripped. An' here is where the jelly slipped Right off my bread upon my shirt, An' when me tumbled down it hurt. That's how me got all over dirt. Me threw those building blocks downstairs, An' me upset the parlor chairs, Coz when you're playin' train you've got To move things 'round an awful lot." An' then my Pa he kisses me An' bounces me upon his knee An' says: "Well, well, my little lad, What glorious fun you must have had!"

{140}

MOTHER'S DAY

Gentle hands that never weary toiling in love's vineyard sweet, Eyes that seem forever cheery when our eyes they chance to meet, Tender, patient, brave, devoted, this is always mother's way, Could her worth in gold be quoted as you think of her to-day?

There shall never be another quite so tender, quite so kind As the patient little mother; nowhere on this earth you'll find Her affection duplicated; none so proud if you are fine. Could her worth be overstated? Not by any words of mine.

Death stood near the hour she bore us, agony was hers to know, Yet she bravely faced it for us, smiling in her time of woe; Down the years how oft we've tried her, often selfish, heedless, blind, Yet with love alone to guide her she was never once unkind.

Vain are all our tributes to her if in words alone they dwell. We must live the praises due her; there's no other way to tell Gentle mother that we love her. Would you say, as you recall All the patient service of her, you've been worthy of it all?

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DIVISION

You cannot gather every rose, Nor every pleasure claim, Nor bask in every breeze that blows, Nor play in every game.

No millionaire could ever own The world's supply of pearls, And no man here has ever known All of the pretty girls.

So take what joy may come your way, And envy not your brothers; Enjoy your share of fun each day, And leave the rest for others.

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A MAN

A man doesn't whine at his losses, A man doesn't whimper and fret, Or rail at the weight of his crosses And ask life to rear him a pet. A man doesn't grudgingly labor Or look upon toil as a blight; A man doesn't sneer at his neighbor Or sneak from a cause that is right.

A man doesn't sulk when another Succeeds where his efforts have failed; Doesn't keep all his praise for the brother Whose glory is publicly hailed; And pass by the weak and the humble As though they were not of his clay; A man doesn't ceaselessly grumble When things are not going his way.

A man looks on woman as tender And gentle, and stands at her side At all times to guard and defend her, And never to scorn or deride. A man looks on life as a mission. To serve, just so far as he can; A man holds his noblest ambition On earth is to live as a man.

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A VOW

I might not ever scale the mountain heights Where all the great men stand in glory now; I may not ever gain the world's delights Or win a wreath of laurel for my brow; I may not gain the victories that men Are fighting for, nor do a thing to boast of; I may not get a fortune here, but then, The little that I have I'll make the most of.

I'll make my little home a palace fine, My little patch of green a garden fair, And I shall know each humble plant and vine As rich men know their orchid blossoms rare. My little home may not be much to see; Its chimneys may not tower far above; But it will be a mansion great to me, For in its walls I'll keep a hoard of love.

I will not pass my modest pleasures by To grasp at shadows of more splendid things, Disdaining what of joyousness is nigh Because I am denied the joy of kings. But I will laugh and sing my way along, I'll make the most of what is mine to-day, And if I never rise above the throng, I shall have lived a full life anyway.

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TREASURES

Some folks I know, when friends drop in To visit for awhile and chin, Just lead them round the rooms and halls And show them pictures on their walls, And point to rugs and tapestries The works of men across the seas; Their loving cups they show with pride, To eyes that soon are stretching wide With wonder at the treasures rare That have been bought and gathered there.

But when folks come to call on me, I've no such things for them to see. No picture on my walls is great; I have no ancient family plate; No tapestry of rare design Or costly woven rugs are mine; I have no loving cup to show, Or strange and valued curio; But if my treasures they would see, I bid them softly follow me.

And then I lead them up the stairs Through trains of cars and Teddy bears, And to a little room we creep Where both my youngsters lie asleep, Close locked in one another's arms. I let them gaze upon their charms, I let them see the legs of brown Curled up beneath a sleeping gown, And whisper in my happiness: "Behold the treasures I possess."

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CHALLENGE

Life is a challenge to the bold, It flings its gauntlet down And bids us, if we seek for gold And glory and renown, To come and take them from its store, It will not meekly hand them o'er.

Life is a challenge all must meet, And nobly must we dare; Its gold is tawdry when we cheat, Its fame a bitter snare If it be stolen from life's clutch; Men must be true to prosper much.

Life is a challenge and its laws Are rigid ones and stern; The splendid joy of real applause Each man must nobly earn. It makes us win its jewels rare, But gives us paste, if we're unfair.

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A TOAST TO HAPPINESS

To happiness I raise my glass, The goal of every human, The hope of every clan and class And every man and woman. The daydreams of the urchin there, The sweet theme of the maiden's prayer, The strong man's one ambition, The sacred prize of mothers sweet, The tramp of soldiers on the street Have all the selfsame mission. Life here is nothing more or less Than just a quest for happiness.

Some seek it on the mountain top, And some within a mine; The widow in her notion shop Expects its sun to shine. The tramp that seeks new roads to fare, Is one with king and millionaire In this that each is groping On different roads, in different ways, To come to glad, contented days, And shares the common hoping. The sound of martial fife and drum Is born of happiness to come.

Yet happiness is always here Had we the eyes to see it; No breast but holds a fund of cheer Had man the will to free it. 'Tis there upon the mountain top, Or in the widow's notion shop, 'Tis found in homes of sorrow; 'Tis woven in the memories Of happier, brighter days than these, The gift, not of to-morrow But of to-day, and in our tears Some touch of happiness appears.

'Tis not a joy that's born of wealth: The poor man may possess it. 'Tis not alone the prize of health: No sickness can repress it. 'Tis not the end of mortal strife, The sunset of the day of life, Or but the old should find it; It is the bond twixt God and man, The touch divine in all we plan, And has the soul behind it. And so this toast to happiness, The seed of which we all possess.

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GUESSING TIME

It's guessing time at our house; every evening after tea We start guessing what old Santa's going to leave us on our tree. Everyone of us holds secrets that the others try to steal, And that eyes and lips are plainly having trouble to conceal. And a little lip that quivered just a bit the other night Was a sad and startling warning that I mustn't guess it right.

"Guess what you will get for Christmas!" is the cry that starts the fun. And I answer: "Give the letter with which the name's begun." Oh, the eyes that dance around me and the joyous faces there Keep me nightly guessing wildly: "Is it something I can wear?" I implore them all to tell me in a frantic sort of way And pretend that I am puzzled, just to keep them feeling gay.

Oh, the wise and knowing glances that across the table fly And the winks exchanged with mother, that they think I never spy; Oh, the whispered confidences that are poured into her ear, And the laughter gay that follows when I try my best to hear! Oh, the shouts of glad derision when I bet that it's a cane, And the merry answering chorus: "No, it's not. Just guess again!"

It's guessing time at our house, and the fun is running fast, And I wish somehow this contest of delight could always last, For the love that's in their faces and their laughter ringing clear Is their dad's most precious present when the Christmas time is near. And soon as it is over, when the tree is bare and plain, I shall start in looking forward to the time to guess again.

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UNDERSTANDING

When I was young and frivolous and never stopped to think, When I was always doing wrong, or just upon the brink; When I was just a lad of seven and eight and nine and ten, It seemed to me that every day I got in trouble then, And strangers used to shake their heads and say I was no good, But father always stuck to me—it seems he understood.

I used to have to go to him 'most every night and say The dreadful things that I had done to worry folks that day. I know I didn't mean to be a turmoil round the place, And with the womenfolks about forever in disgrace; To do the way they said I should, I tried the best I could, But though they scolded me a lot—my father understood.

He never seemed to think it queer that I should risk my bones, Or fight with other boys at times, or pelt a cat with stones; An' when I'd break a window pane, it used to make him sad, But though the neighbors said I was, he never thought me bad; He never whipped me, as they used to say to me he should; That boys can't always do what's right—it seemed he understood.

Now there's that little chap of mine, just full of life and fun, Comes up to me with solemn face to tell the bad he's done. It's natural for any boy to be a roguish elf, He hasn't time to stop and think and figure for himself, And though the womenfolks insist that I should take a hand, They've never been a boy themselves, and they don't understand.

Some day I've got to go up there, and make a sad report And tell the Father of us all where I have fallen short; And there will be a lot of wrong I never meant to do, A lot of smudges on my sheet that He will have to view. And little chance for heavenly bliss, up there, will I command, Unless the Father smiles and says: "My boy, I understand."

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PEOPLE LIKED HIM

People liked him, not because He was rich or known to fame; He had never won applause As a star in any game. His was not a brilliant style, His was not a forceful way, But he had a gentle smile And a kindly word to say.

Never arrogant or proud, On he went with manner mild; Never quarrelsome or loud, Just as simple as a child; Honest, patient, brave and true: Thus he lived from day to day, Doing what he found to do In a cheerful sort of way.

Wasn't one to boast of gold Or belittle it with sneers, Didn't change from hot to cold, Kept his friends throughout the years, Sort of man you like to meet Any time or any place. There was always something sweet And refreshing in his face.

Sort of man you'd like to be: Balanced well and truly square; Patient in adversity, Generous when his skies were fair. Never lied to friend or foe, Never rash in word or deed, Quick to come and slow to go In a neighbor's time of need.

Never rose to wealth or fame, Simply lived, and simply died, But the passing of his name Left a sorrow, far and wide. Not for glory he'd attained, Nor for what he had of pelf, Were the friends that he had gained, But for what he was himself.

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WHEN FATHER SHOOK THE STOVE

'Twas not so many years ago, Say, twenty-two or three, When zero weather or below Held many a thrill for me. Then in my icy room I slept A youngster's sweet repose, And always on my form I kept My flannel underclothes. Then I was roused by sudden shock Though still to sleep I strove, I knew that it was seven o'clock When father shook the stove.

I never heard him quit his bed Or his alarm clock ring; I never heard his gentle tread, Or his attempts to sing; The sun that found my window pane On me was wholly lost, Though many a sunbeam tried in vain To penetrate the frost. To human voice I never stirred, But deeper down I dove Beneath the covers, when I heard My father shake the stove.

To-day it all comes back to me And I can hear it still; He seemed to take a special glee In shaking with a will. He flung the noisy dampers back, Then rattled steel on steel, Until the force of his attack The building seemed to feel. Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes All sleep from them he drove; It seemed to me the dead must rise When father shook the stove.

Now radiators thump and pound And every room is warm, And modern men new ways have found To shield us from the storm. The window panes are seldom glossed The way they used to be; The pictures left by old Jack Frost Our children never see. And now that he has gone to rest In God's great slumber grove, I often think those days were best When father shook the stove.

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HOUSE-HUNTING

Time was when spring returned we went To find another home to rent; We wanted fresher, cleaner walls, And bigger rooms and wider halls, And open plumbing and the dome That made the fashionable home.

But now with spring we want to sell, And seek a finer place to dwell. Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes; We want the latest thing in homes; To life we'll not be reconciled Until we have a bathroom tiled.

A butler's pantry we desire, Although no butler do we hire; Nell's life will be one round of gloom Without a closet for the broom, And mine will dreary be and sour Unless the bathroom has a shower.

For months and months we've sat and dreamed Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed And built-in cases for the books, An attic room to be the cook's. No house will she consent to view Unless it has a sun room, too.

There must be wash bowls here and there To save much climbing of the stair; A sleeping porch we both demand— This fad has swept throughout the land— And, Oh, 'twill give her heart a wrench Not to possess a few doors, French.

I want to dig and walk around At least full fifty feet of ground; She wants the latest style in tubs; I want more room for trees and shrubs, And a garage, with light and heat, That can be entered from the street.

The trouble is the things we seek Cannot be bought for ten-a-week. And all the joys for which we sigh Are just too rich for us to buy. We have the taste to cut a dash: The thing we're lacking most is cash.

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AN EASY WORLD

It's an easy world to live in if you choose to make it so; You never need to suffer, save the griefs that all must know; If you'll stay upon the level and will do the best you can You will never lack the friendship of a kindly fellow man.

Life's an easy road to travel if you'll only walk it straight; When the clouds begin to gather and your hopes begin to fade, If you've only toiled in honor you won't have to call for aid.

But if you've bartered friendship and the faith on which it rests For a temporary winning; if you've cheated in the tests, If with promises you've broken, you have chilled the hearts of men; It is vain to look for friendship for it will not come again.

Oh, the world is full of kindness, thronged with men who want to be Of some service to their neighbors and they'll run to you or me When we're needing their assistance if we've lived upon the square, But they'll spurn us in our trouble if we've always been unfair.

It's an easy world to live in; all you really need to do Is the decent thing and proper and then friends will flock to you; But let dishonor trail you and some stormy day you'll find To your heart's supremest sorrow that you've made the world unkind.

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THE STATES

There is no star within the flag That's brighter than its brothers, And when of Michigan I brag, I'm boasting of the others. Just which is which no man can say— One star for every state Gleams brightly on our flag to-day, And every one is great.

The stars that gem the skies at night May differ in degree, And some are pale and some are bright, But in our flag we see A sky of blue wherein the stars Are equal in design; Each has the radiance of Mars And all are yours and mine.

The glory that is Michigan's Is Colorado's too; The same sky Minnesota spans, The same sun warms it through; And all are one beneath the flag, A common hope is ours; Our country is the mountain crag, The valley and its flowers.

The land we love lies far away As well as close at hand; He has no vision who would say: This state's my native land. Though sweet the charms he knows the best, Deep down within his heart The farthest east, the farthest west Of him must be a part.

There is no star within the flag That's brighter than its brothers; So when of Michigan I brag I'm boasting of the others. We share alike one purpose true; One common end awaits; We must in all we dream or do Remain United States.

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THE OBLIGATION OF FRIENDSHIP

You ought to be fine for the sake of the folks Who think you are fine. If others have faith in you doubly you're bound To stick to the line. It's not only on you that dishonor descends: You can't hurt yourself without hurting your friends.

You ought to be true for the sake of the folks Who believe you are true. You never should stoop to a deed that your friends Think you wouldn't do. If you're false to yourself, be the blemish but small, You have injured your friends; you've been false to them all.

For friendship, my boy, is a bond between men That is founded on truth: It believes in the best of the ones that it loves, Whether old man or youth; And the stern rule it lays down for me and for you Is to be what our friends think we are, through and through.

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UNDER THE SKIN OF MEN

Did you ever sit down and talk with men In a serious sort of a way, On their views of life and ponder then On all that they have to say? If not, you should in some quiet hour; It's a glorious thing to do: For you'll find that back of the pomp and power Most men have a goal in view.

They'll tell you then that their aim is not The clink of the yellow gold; That not in the worldly things they've got Would they have their stories told. They'll say the joys that they treasure most Are their good friends, tried and true, And an honest name for their own to boast And peace when the day is through.

I've talked with men and I think I know What's under the toughened skin. I've seen their eyes grow bright and glow With the fire that burns within. And back of the gold and back of the fame And back of the selfish strife, In most men's breasts you'll find the flame Of the nobler things of life.

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THE FINER THOUGHT

How fine it is at night to say: "I have not wronged a soul to-day. I have not by a word or deed, In any breast sowed anger's seed, Or caused a fellow being pain; Nor is there on my crest a stain That shame has left. In honor's way, With head erect, I've lived this day."

When night slips down and day departs And rest returns to weary hearts, How fine it is to close the book Of records for the day, and look Once more along the traveled mile And find that all has been worth while; To say: "In honor I have toiled; My plume is spotless and unsoiled."

Yet cold and stern a man may be Retaining his integrity; And he may pass from day to day A spirit dead, in living clay, Observing strictly morals, laws, Yet serving but a selfish cause; So it is not enough to say: "I have not stooped to shame to-day!"

It is a finer, nobler thought When day is done and night has brought The contemplative hours and sweet, And rest to weary hearts and feet, If man can stand in truth and say: "I have been useful here to-day. Back there is one I chanced to see With hope newborn because of me.

"This day in honor I have toiled; My shining crest is still unsoiled; But on the mile I leave behind Is one who says that I was kind; And someone hums a cheerful song Because I chanced to come along." Sweet rest at night that man shall own Who has not lived his day alone.

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STUCK

I'm up against it day by day, My ignorance is distressing; The things I don't know on the way I'm busily confessing. Time was I used to think I knew Some useful bits of knowledge And could be sure of one or two Real facts I'd gleaned in college. But I'm unfitted for the task Of answering things my boy can ask.

Now, who can answer queries queer That four-year-olds can think up? And tell in simple phrase and clear Why fishes do not drink up The water in the streams and lakes, Or where the wind is going, And tell exactly how God makes The roses that are growing? I'm sure I cannot satisfy Each little when, and how, and why.

Had I the wisdom of a sage Possessed of all the learning That can be gleaned from printed page From bookworm's closest turning, That eager knowledge-seeking lad That questions me so gayly Could still go round and boast he had With queries floored me daily. He'll stick, I'll bet, in less than five Brief minutes any man alive.

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ETERNAL FRIENDSHIP

Who once has had a friend has found The link 'twixt mortal and divine; Though now he sleeps in hallowed ground, He lives in memory's sacred shrine; And there he freely moves about, A spirit that has quit the clay, And in the times of stress and doubt Sustains his friend throughout the day.

No friend we love can ever die; The outward form but disappears; I know that all my friends are nigh Whenever I am moved to tears. And when my strength and hope are gone, The friends, no more, that once I knew, Return to cheer and urge me on Just as they always used to do.

They whisper to me in the dark Kind words of counsel and of cheer; When hope has flickered to a spark I feel their gentle spirits near. And Oh! because of them I strive With all the strength that I can call To keep their friendship still alive And to be worthy of them all.

Death does not end our friendships true; We all are debtors to the dead; There, wait on everything we do The splendid souls who've gone ahead. To them I hold that we are bound By double pledges to be fine. Who once has had a friend has found The link 'twixt mortal and divine.

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FAITH

I believe in the world and its bigness and splendor: That most of the hearts beating round us are tender; That days are but footsteps and years are but miles That lead us to beauty and singing and smiles: That roses that blossom and toilers that plod Are filled with the glorious spirit of God.

I believe in the purpose of everything living: That taking is but the forerunner of giving; That strangers are friends that we some day may meet; And not all the bitter can equal the sweet; That creeds are but colors, and no man has said That God loves the yellow rose more than the red.

I believe in the path that to-day I am treading, That I shall come safe through the dangers I'm dreading; That even the scoffer shall turn from his ways And some day be won back to trust and to praise; That the leaf on the tree and the thing we call Man Are sharing alike in His infinite plan.

I believe that all things that are living and breathing Some richness of beauty to earth are bequeathing; That all that goes out of this world leaves behind Some duty accomplished for mortals to find; That the humblest of creatures our praise is deserving, For it, with the wisest, the Master is serving.

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I

Nobody hates me more than I; No enemy have I to-day That I so bravely must defy; There are no foes along my way, However bitter they may be, So powerful to injure me As I am, nor as quick to spoil The beauty of my bit of toil.

Nobody harms me more than I; No one is meaner unto me; Of all the foes that pass me by I am the worst one that I see. I am the dangerous man to fear; I am the cause of sorrow here; Of all men 'gainst my hopes inclined I am myself the most unkind.

I do more harmful things to me Than all the men who seem to hate; I am the fellow that should be More dreaded than the works of fate. I am the one that I must fight With all my will and all my might; My foes are better friends to me Than I have ever proved to be.

I am the careless foe and mean; I am the selfish rival too; My enmity to me is seen In almost everything I do. More courage it requires to beat Myself, than all the foes I meet; I am more traitorous to me Than other men could ever be.

In every struggle I have lost I am the one that was to blame; My weaknesses cannot be glossed By glib excuses. I was lame. I that would dare for fame or pelf Am far less daring with myself. I care not who my foes may be, I am my own worst enemy.

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THE THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN DONE BEFORE

The things that haven't been done before, Those are the things to try; Columbus dreamed of an unknown shore At the rim of the far-flung sky, And his heart was bold and his faith was strong As he ventured in dangers new, And he paid no heed to the jeering throng Or the fears of the doubting crew.

The many will follow the beaten track With guideposts on the way, They live and have lived for ages back With a chart for every day. Someone has told them it's safe to go On the road he has traveled o'er. And all that they ever strive to know Are the things that were known before.

A few strike out, without map or chart, Where never a man has been, From the beaten paths they draw apart To see what no man has seen. There are deeds they hunger alone to do; Though battered and bruised and sore, They blaze the path for the many, who Do nothing not done before.

The things that haven't been done before, Are the tasks worth while to-day; Are you one of the flock that follows, or Are you one that shall lead the way? Are you one of the timid souls that quail At the jeers of a doubting crew, Or dare you, whether you win or fail, Strike out for a goal that's new?

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REVENGE

If I had hatred in my heart toward my fellow man, If I were pressed to do him ill, to conjure up a plan To wound him sorely and to rob his days of all their joy, I'd wish his wife would go away and take their little boy.

I'd waste no time on curses vague, nor try to take his gold, Nor seek to shatter any plan that he might dearly hold. A crueler revenge than that for him I would bespeak: I'd wish his wife and little one might leave him for a week.

I'd wish him all the loneliness that comes with loss of those Who fill his life with laughter and contentment and repose. I'd wish him empty rooms at night and mocking stairs to squeak That neither wife nor little boy will greet him for a week.

If I despised my fellow man, I'd make my hatred known By wishing him a week or two of living all alone; I'd let him know the torture that is mine to bear to-day, For Buddy and his mother now are miles and miles away.

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PROMOTION

Promotion comes to him who sticks Unto his work and never kicks, Who watches neither clock nor sun To tell him when his task is done; Who toils not by a stated chart, Defining to a jot his part, But gladly does a little more Than he's remunerated for. The man, in factory or shop, Who rises quickly to the top, Is he who gives what can't be bought: Intelligent and careful thought.

No one can say just when begins The service that promotion wins, Or when it ends; 'tis not defined By certain hours or any kind Of system that has been devised; Merit cannot be systemized. It is at work when it's at play; It serves each minute of the day; 'Tis always at its post, to see New ways of help and use to be. Merit from duty never slinks, Its cardinal virtue is—it thinks!

Promotion comes to him who tries Not solely for a selfish prize, But day by day and year by year Holds his employer's interests dear. Who measures not by what he earns The sum of labor he returns, Nor counts his day of toiling through Till he's done all that he can do. His strength is not of muscle bred, But of the heart and of the head. The man who would the top attain Must demonstrate he has a brain.

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EXPECTATION

Most folks, as I've noticed, in pleasure an' strife, Are always expecting too much out of life. They wail an' they fret Just because they don't get The best o' the sunshine, the fairest o' flowers, The finest o' features, the strongest o' powers; They whine an' they whimper an' curse an' condemn, Coz life isn't always being' partial to them.

Notwithstandin' the pain an' the sufferin' they see, They cling to the notion that they should go free: That they shouldn't share In life's trouble an' care But should always be happy an' never perplexed, An' never discouraged or beaten or vexed. When life treats 'em roughly an' jolts 'em with care, They seem to imagine it's bein' unfair.

It's a curious notion folks hold in their pride, That their souls should never be tested or tried; That others must mourn An' be sick an' forlorn An' stand by the biers of their loved ones an' weep, But life from such sorrows their bosoms must keep. Oh, they mustn't know what it means to be sad, Or they'll wail that the treatment they're gettin' is bad.

Now life as I view it means pleasure an' pain, An' laughter an' weepin' an' sunshine an' rain, An' takin' an' givin'; An' all who are livin' Must face it an' bear it the best that they can Believin' great Wisdom is workin' the plan. An' no one should ever complain it's unfair Because at the moment he's tastin' despair.

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HARD WORK

One day, in ages dark and dim, A toiler, weary, worn and faint, Who found his task too much for him, Gave voice unto a sad complaint. And seeking emphasis to give Unto his trials (day-starred!) Coupled to "work" this adjective, This little word of terror: Hard.

And from that day to this has work Its frightening description worn; 'Tis spoken daily by the shirk, The first cloud on the sky at morn. To-day when there are tasks to do, Save that we keep ourselves on guard With fearful doubtings them we view, And think and speak of them as hard.

That little but ill-chosen word Has wrought great havoc with men's souls, Has chilled the hearts ambition stirred And held the pass to splendid goals. Great dreams have faded and been lost, Fine youth by it been sadly marred As plants beneath a withering frost, Because men thought and whispered: "Hard."

Let's think of work in terms of hope And speak of it with words of praise, And tell the joy it is to grope Along the new, untrodden ways! Let's break this habit of despair And cheerfully our task regard; The road to happiness lies there: Why think or speak of it as hard?

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GRATITUDE

Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk along your way; Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile from day to day; Be grateful for the health you own, the work you find to do, For round about you there are men less fortunate than you.

Be grateful for the growing trees, the roses soon to bloom, The tenderness of kindly hearts that shared your days of gloom; Be grateful for the morning dew, the grass beneath your feet, The soft caresses of your babes and all their laughter sweet.

Acquire the grateful habit, learn to see how blest you are, How much there is to gladden life, how little life to mar! And what if rain shall fall to-day and you with grief are sad; Be grateful that you can recall the joys that you have had.

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A REAL MAN

Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be. Some preach their virtues, and a few Express their lives by what they do. That sort was he. No flowery phrase Or glibly spoken words of praise Won friends for him. He wasn't cheap Or shallow, but his course ran deep, And it was pure. You know the kind. Not many in a life you find Whose deeds outrun their words so far That more than what they seem they are.

There are two kinds of lies as well: The kind you live, the ones you tell. Back through his years from age to youth He never acted one untruth. Out in the open light he fought And didn't care what others thought Nor what they said about his fight If he believed that he was right. The only deeds he ever hid Were acts of kindness that he did.

What speech he had was plain and blunt. His was an unattractive front. Yet children loved him; babe and boy Played with the strength he could employ, Without one fear, and they are fleet To sense injustice and deceit. No back door gossip linked his name With any shady tale of shame. He did not have to compromise With evil-doers, shrewd and wise, And let them ply their vicious trade Because of some past escapade.

Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be. No door at which he ever knocked Against his manly form was locked. If ever man on earth was free And independent, it was he. No broken pledge lost him respect, He met all men with head erect, And when he passed I think there went A soul to yonder firmament So white, so splendid and so fine It came almost to God's design.

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THE NEIGHBORLY MAN

Some are eager to be famous, some are striving to be great, Some are toiling to be leaders of their nation or their state, And in every man's ambition, if we only understood, There is much that's fine and splendid; every hope is mostly good. So I cling unto the notion that contented I will be If the men upon life's pathway find a needed friend in me.

I rather like to putter 'round the walks and yards of life, To spray at night the roses that are burned and browned with strife; To eat a frugal dinner, but always to have a chair For the unexpected stranger that my simple meal would share. I don't care to be a traveler, I would rather be the one Sitting calmly by the roadside helping weary travelers on.

I'd like to be a neighbor in the good old-fashioned way, Finding much to do for others, but not over much to say. I like to read the papers, but I do not yearn to see What the journal of the morning has been moved to say of me; In the silences and shadows I would live my life and die And depend for fond remembrance on some grateful passers-by.

I guess I wasn't fashioned for the brilliant things of earth, Wasn't gifted much with talent or designed for special worth, But was just sent here to putter with life's little odds and ends And keep a simple corner where the stirring highway bends, And if folks should chance to linger, worn and weary through the day, To do some needed service and to cheer them on their way.

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ROSES

When God first viewed the rose He'd made He smiled, and thought it passing fair; Upon the bloom His hands He laid, And gently blessed each petal there. He summoned in His artists then And bade them paint, as ne'er before, Each petal, so that earthly men Might love the rose for evermore.

With Heavenly brushes they began And one with red limned every leaf, To signify the love of man; The first rose, white, betokened grief; "My rose shall deck the bride," one said And so in pink he dipped his brush, "And it shall smile beside the dead To typify the faded blush."

And then they came unto His throne And laid the roses at His feet, The crimson bud, the bloom full blown, Filling the air with fragrance sweet. "Well done, well done!" the Master spake; "Henceforth the rose shall bloom on earth: One fairer blossom I will make," And then a little babe had birth.

On earth a loving mother lay Within a rose-decked room and smiled, But from the blossoms turned away To gently kiss her little child, And then she murmured soft and low, "For beauty, here, a mother seeks. None but the Master made, I know, The roses in a baby's cheeks."

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THE JUNK BOX

My father often used to say: "My boy don't throw a thing away: You'll find a use for it some day."

So in a box he stored up things, Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings, And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.

Despite each blemish and each flaw, Some use for everything he saw; With things material, this was law.

And often when he'd work to do, He searched the junk box through and through And found old stuff as good as new.

And I have often thought since then, That father did the same with men; He knew he'd need their help again.

It seems to me he understood That men, as well as iron and wood, May broken be and still be good.

Despite the vices he'd display He never threw a man away, But kept him for another day.

A human junk box is this earth And into it we're tossed at birth, To wait the day we'll be of worth.

Though bent and twisted, weak of will, And full of flaws and lacking skill, Some service each can render still.

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THE BOY THAT WAS

When the hair about the temples starts to show the signs of gray, And a fellow realizes that he's wandering far away From the pleasures of his boyhood and his youth, and never more Will know the joy of laughter as he did in days of yore, Oh, it's then he starts to thinking of a stubby little lad With a face as brown as berries and a soul supremely glad.

When a gray-haired dreamer wanders down the lanes of memory And forgets the living present for the time of "used-to-be," He takes off his shoes and stockings, and he throws his coat away, And he's free from all restrictions, save the rules of manly play. He may be in richest garments, but bareheaded in the sun He forgets his proud successes and the riches he has won.

Oh, there's not a man alive but that would give his all to be The stubby little fellow that in dreamland he can see, And the splendors that surround him and the joys about him spread Only seem to rise to taunt him with the boyhood that has fled. When the hair about the temples starts to show Time's silver stain, Then the richest man that's living yearns to be a boy again.

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AS FALL THE LEAVES

As fall the leaves, so drop the days In silence from the tree of life; Born for a little while to blaze In action in the heat of strife, And then to shrivel with Time's blast And fade forever in the past.

In beauty once the leaf was seen; To all it offered gentle shade; Men knew the splendor of its green That cheered them so, would quickly fade: And quickly, too, must pass away All that is splendid of to-day.

To try to keep the leaves were vain: Men understand that they must fall; Why should they bitterly complain When sorrows come to one and all? Why should they mourn the passing day That must depart along the way?