Front matter (continued 2)

Over the crib where the baby lies, Countless beautiful visions rise Which only the mothers and fathers see, Pictures of laughter and joy and song As the years come sweeping us all along. Care seldom startles the happy eyes Over the crib where the baby lies.

A wonderful baby lying there! And strangers smile at the happy pair, Proud and boastful, for all they see Is the dimpled chin and the dimpled knee; But never a little one comes to earth That isn't a wonderful babe at birth, And never a mother who doesn't see Glorious visions of joy to be.

Over the crib where the baby lies, Dreams of splendor and pride arise, Deeds of valor and deeds of love Hover about and shine above The tiny form, and the future glows With a thousand dreams which the mother knows, And beauty dances before her eyes Over the crib where the baby lies.

Yet we smile at her and we smile at him, For we are old and our eyes are dim And we have forgotten and don't recall Yet world-wide over the mothers dream The visions we saw when our babes were small, And ever they see in a golden stream, Wonderful joys in the by-and-by Over the cribs where their babies lie.

I used to want a lovely lawn, a level patch of green, For I have marveled many times at those that I have seen, And in my early dreams of youth the home that I should keep Possessed a lawn of beauty rare, a velvet carpet deep, But I have changed my mind since then—for then I didn't know That where the feet of children run the grass can never grow.

Now I might own a lovely lawn, but I should have to say To all the little ones about, "Go somewhere else to play!" And I should have to stretch a wire about my garden space And make the home where gladness reigns, a most forbidding place. By stopping all the merriment which now is ours to know, In time, beyond the slightest doubt, the tender grass would grow.

But oh, I want the children near, and so I never say, When they are romping around the home, "Go somewhere else to play!" And though my lawn seems poorly kept, and many a spot is bare, I'd rather see, than growing grass, the youngsters happy there. I've put aside the dream I had in that far long ago— I'd rather have a playground than a place for grass to grow.

The hills are in the mist to-day, Their purple robes are put away. Like coast guards in their yellow coats They face the driving rain; Like coast guards in their yellow coats, Who watch the sea for ship-wrecked boats, They watch the land for human craft In trouble on the plain.

The gray clouds rush among their peaks, Some weakness there the storm-king seeks. A frightened boulder breaks away And rolls into the glen; A tree is crushed to earth again, But staunch and brave the hills remain, A symbol of unfaltering faith To all the hosts of men.

Time was the hills were tinged with gold, About them seas of crimson rolled, A gentle beauty graced their brows As delicate as May Who comes with blossoms in her hair. They laughed away the summer there, But now sublimely stern they stand, Attired in somber gray.

Symbols of strength, unmoved they keep Their place against the winds that sweep; Defenders of our coast of faith, They signal to us all That what is strong and best and true Shall breast the gale and live it through To greet the birth of spring again And hear the song bird's call.

Last night the baby cried. And I, Roused from a sound and soothing sleep, Wondered to hear that little cry. For ten long years in slumber deep I've lived my nights, and so it seemed That what I'd heard I'd only dreamed.

For ten long years a banging gate, The milkman's whistle, or the horn Of motors driven at rapid rate, Have wakened me at early dawn; But late last night awake was I, Thinking I'd heard a baby cry.

I leaned upon my elbow there And wondered did I dream or not? But once again upon the air The call came from her tiny cot! Then peacefully I turned and smiled To hear the crying of our child.

Lonely and still the house has seemed For ten long years, but once again We have the joy of which we'd dreamed— The joy which many seek in vain! Oh, happy, happy home, thought I, That wakes to hear a baby cry.

There is one critic which a man should heed And strive with all his strength to satisfy; Whether it be in big or little deed, One sits in judgment with a watchful eye.

One voice there is which flatters not for gain Nor censures honest effort as a pose, One voice which never speaks to cause us pain, Nor seeks to tell the world how much it knows.

Yet if it tell us we have done our best, Have kept the faith and labored to be true, We can lie down at night in peace to rest Nor mind what others say or think or do.

If but this eye which reads our inmost thought See no dishonor in the stand we take, If but this voice can praise the fight we've fought, We need not heed the storm that critics make.

If we but live with Conscience as our guide, We rob the colder critics of their sting; If but that voice of us can speak in pride, We need not heed the barbs which others fling.

If it can say we've truly done our best, And call our motives worthy, though we fail, We then can turn our faces to the west, Scorning the lesser critics who assail.

There is a song in everything, In every little care that comes, In babies as they suck their thumbs, The tunes the brave canaries sing, The mother's patient, gentle smile, The glory of the after-while.

There is no sadness but is sweet With fragrance, and there is no day But spreads some beauty on life's way; The dusty and the weary feet Upon their homeward journey bring Delights which loving hearts may sing.

The high chair and the cradle, too, Have ever set brave lips to song; No grief has ever lived so long But turned to music as it grew, And every hour of strife and pain Leaves in the heart some sweet refrain.

Lord, teach me this, from day to day, To find beyond the hurt and care Thy mercy shining everywhere; Let me rejoice that children play, And know when bitter tempests sting There is a song in everything.

Back of every golden dream. Every engine hissing steam, Back of every hammer falling And of every deed men dare; Back of every tilt and fight Is the coming home at night To the loved ones who are waiting In the victory to share.

When all is said and done And the battle's lost or won, It's the laughter of the children And the mother's gentle smile, It's the pride of those you know, Good old friends who love you so, That make the prize worth having And the victory worth while.

'Tis not in success alone That achievement's worth is known. If we had no friends to cheer us And no one at home to care; If man's glory as a fighter Did not make a few eyes brighter He would cease to try for conquest And would never do or dare.

Back of every man you'll find Loving hearts who stay behind, Watching, waiting, patient, loyal, As he strives to meet the test, And the thought which drives him daily Is that they shall meet him gayly, And shall glory in his triumph On the day he does his best.

To-day, if I were free, I think I'd wander to the river's brink And watch the great ships steaming by— The stream below, above the sky— And see those vessels bearing then The countless hopes of mortal men.

And I could lie upon the shore And glimpse the mother at the door Watching and waiting, every trip, To see the coming of the ship, For that great hull which carries grain Also brings home her boy again.

I wonder if the wheelsman knows, As he the guiding rudder throws, How many hopes and dreams and fears Are burdened in the ship he steers? Depending on his watchful eyes The laughter of a lifetime lies.

Men write his cargo down as ore, Or grain or coal, but it is more— It's women's smiles and women's tears And little children's happy years, For human destines await The safe arrival of his freight.

We are but smaller packet ships Set out upon our various trips, Chartered for gold, or skill or fame, Listed and registered by name, Yet burdened with the smiles and tears Our own must know throughout the years.

The women and the children wait For us each evening at the gate, Glad when we safely come from town And desolate if we go down. Bitter their years if we shall fail To hold the course and breast the gale.

Tender, gentle, brave and true, Loving us whate'er we do! Waiting, watching at the gate For the footsteps that are late, Sleepless through the hours of night Till she knows that we're all right; Pleased with every word we say— That is every mother's way.

Others sneer and turn aside. Mother welcomes us with pride; Over-boastful of us, too, Glorying in all we do, First to praise and last to blame, Love that always stays the same, Following us where'er we stray— That is every mother's way.

She would grant us all we seek, Give her strength where we are weak. Beauty? She would let it go For the joy we yearn to know. Life? She'd give it gladly, too, For the dream that we pursue; She would toil that we might play— That is every mother's way.

Not enough for her are flowers— Her life is so blent with ours That in all we dare and do She is partner, through and through; Suffering when we suffer pain, Happy when we smile again, Living with us, night and day— That is every mother's way.

There is so much that we can do— A kind word spoken here and there Will ease another's weight of care; Life needs us all. The splendid few Who rise to fame, with all their skill Your post and mine can never fill.

If we who have not wealth or fame Should fail in all our little deeds, The world would sink beneath its needs. Not by the greatness of a name, Nor by the splendor of success, Are hearts restored to happiness.

About us all are those who need The gifts which we have power to give; We can be friendly while we live And by some thoughtful, kindly deed, Can help another on his way— And that is service, come what may.

What though we miss the heights of skill, The splendor of the greater few, There is so much that we can do; There is a place which we can fill— Always about us while we live Are those who need what we can give.

I cherish the picture of a man Who has not been, but is to be. His cheek is bronzed by the summer tan And his smile is fair to see. His word is good and his heart is true And he loves the old red, white and blue.

I vision him oft, and where'er he goes Glad voices give him a warm hello. The trust of the little ones he knows And respect of friend or foe— For never the scarlet mark of shame Has marred his record or touched his name.

He walks the world in a kindly way. He laughs when the jest is fair. The wide outdoors is his field of play And he loves the beauties there. He hears God's word in the whispering trees And the song of birds and the drone of bees.

I talk to him oft when the night is still, I think of him day by day; He hasn't arrived, but I pray he will When his youth has passed away. And what is his name and who is he? The man that I hope my son will be.

You would take my girl away! What is there that I can say Save the things all fathers think, Seldom put in printer's ink? Little care I for your fame, Or the glory you may claim, Or the fortune you may earn; These are not my deep concern— This I really want to know, Will you always love her so?

It is fine enough to tell That to-day you're doing well; I appreciate your skill And I think some day you will Climb the ladder of success To your lasting happiness; But if all this should be had And my little girl be sad, I'd regret my whole life through Having given her to you.

Will you always love her so? That is what I want to know. Will you comfort her and stay At her side from day to day? Knowing she must bear your name, Will you shield her from all shame? This the burden on my mind, Will you thoughtful be and kind? All that matters is to know That you'll always love her so.

They laughed when I came home last night And said I didn't get a bite; They snickered an' they joked at me, And all the fellows asked to see The ones I'd caught, "Oho!" said they, "He's been out fishing all this day An' hasn't caught a single thing, He never got a fish to string."

They laughed at me, but all their jeers Traveled no further than my ears. 'Twas true I'd fished all day without Snaring a single speckled trout, But what of that? I'd had a day That I could loaf and dream away, I'd chummed with birds and friendly trees And been as care-free as the breeze.

I'd rested wheresoe'er I'd willed, To me the hum of trade was stilled, I'd let my thoughts go wandering far To where life's happier glories are; I'd whistled like a boy once more, And even stretched full length on shore To watch the white clouds sail the blue, The very way I used to do.

They laughed when I came home at night And said I didn't get a bite. They seemed to think my luck was bad. They couldn't guess the fun I'd had And couldn't know that all that day I'd been a free man, blithe and gay, And though of fish I'd landed none, I'd caught the joys for which I'd gone.

"It is all for the best," so they said As I stood by my dead. But I doubted the word That so often I heard; I could catch but the moan Of the mother, alone, And feel but the blow Which had stricken us so.

"Why," I cried, "should it be God must so punish me? Why should my baby die When are hundreds near by, Old and feeble of breath, Waiting only for death?" And they answered me low: "God has ordered it so."

But to-day, through the years That have ended our tears, We have memories rare That no others may share; We can look back and see Why the blow had to be— By that mound and its sod, We are closer to God.

If it's worth while, then it's worth a few blows, Worth a few setbacks and worth a few bruises; If it's worth while—and it is, I suppose— It's worth keeping on, though the first struggle loses.

If it's worth while, then it's worth a good fight, Worth a few bouts with the demon, Disaster, Worth going after with courage and might, Worth keeping on till you've proved you are master.

If it's worth while, then it's worth a few pains, Worth a few heartaches and worth a few sorrows, Worth clinging fast to the hope that remains, Worth going on through the doubtful to-morrows.

Stand to the battle and see the test through, Pay all you have in endurance and might for it; If it's worth while and a good thing to do, Then it is worth all it costs in the fight for it.

The postman whistled down the street And seemed to walk on lighter feet, And as he stepped inside her gate He knew he carried precious freight; He knew that day he carried joy— He had the letter from her boy.

Day after day he'd kept his pace And seen her careworn, gentle face. She watched for him to come and took The papers with an anxious look, But disappointment followed hope— She missed the one glad envelope.

He stopped to chat with her awhile And saw the sadness of her smile, He fancied he could hear her sigh The morning that he traveled by; He knew that when to-morrow came She would be waiting just the same.

The boy who was so far away Could never hear her gently say: "Well, have you brought good news to me?" Her eager face he could not see, Or note the lines of anxious care As every day she waited there.

But when he wrote, on lighter feet The happy postman walked the street. "Well, here it is, at last," he'd shout, "To end the worry and the doubt." The robin on the maple limb Began to sing: "She's heard from him."

Her eyes with joy began to glow, The neighbors round her seemed to know That with the postman at the door Sweet peace had come to her once more. When letters bring so much delight, Why do the sons forget to write?

Day after day the clock in the tower Strikes on its resonant bell, the hour. Telling the throngs in the city block Once again it's ten o'clock! Day after day, and the crowds pass on, Till they and another hour have gone.

I heard it first as an eager lad, The largest clock which the city had, And it rang the hour in the self-same way That it rings it out for the town to-day, And many who heard it then have gone, Gone like the days that have journeyed on.

Mighty and many the throngs have grown, Many the changes the town has known, But the old clock still in its tower stands, Telling the hour with its silent hands; And the great pass by and they come no more, But the bell still rings as it did of yore.

And I think to-day as I hear it ring That the fame men crave is a fleeting thing. Unchanged, unswayed by the pomps men praise, The old clock high in its tower stays, Sounding the hours for the great and low As it sounded them in the long ago.

So when the throngs that are here pass by And the pride of to-day in the dust shall lie, When the new crowds come in their search for power, The self-same clock in the self-same tower Shall still ring out in the city block, For them, as for us, it is ten o'clock.

Our friends have automobiles now. The summer cottage where we went To rest beside the water's blue in peace and indolent content Is but an hour's swift ride away. So bright and early Sunday morn Before the breakfast eggs are cooked, we hear the honking of the horn.

We must have bathing suits for ten, although our family numbers four; Beds must be made for all who come, though father sleeps upon the floor; Dishes and knives and forks and spoons are gathered in one huge display, For we must be prepared to feed the visitors who come our way.

From Friday noon till Monday morn full many a weary trip I take, Rowing the women and their babes upon the bosom of the lake; And by that law which rules a host I'm at the mercy of the crew, I must, until they say good-bye, do everything they wish to do.

The chef in yonder large hotel is not a busier man than I, The fish for fifteen hungry mouths it is my duty now to fry, And thus my glad vacation time from dawn to dusk is filled with chores, For friends have made our resting spot the busiest place in all outdoors.

My son, beware of "good enough," It isn't made of sterling stuff; It's something any man can do, It marks the many from the few, It has no merit to the eye, It's something any man can buy, Its name is but a sham and bluff, For it is never "good enough."

With "good enough" the shirkers stop In every factory and shop; With "good enough" the failures rest And lose to men who give their best; With "good enough" the car breaks down And men fall short of high renown. My son, remember and be wise, In "good enough" disaster lies.

With "good enough" have ships been wrecked, The forward march of armies checked, Great buildings burned and fortunes lost; Nor can the world compute the cost In life and money it has paid Because at "good enough" men stayed. Who stops at "good enough" shall find Success has left him far behind.

There is no "good enough" that's short Of what you can do and you ought. The flaw which may escape the eye And temporarily get by, Shall weaken underneath the strain And wreck the ship or car or train, For this is true of men and stuff— Only the best is "good enough."

I would not, if I could, recall some customs that are gone. I'm glad that wreath of immortelles I need not look upon— That cold, imperishable thing of wax, in colors gay. Which hung upon the parlor wall in Grandma's earlier day, No longer shrieks its warning grim that mortal life must cease— And yet I'm sorry we have lost the old-time chimney piece.

The modern mantel, I admit, is striking to the eye, And yet it lacks the wealth of charm we knew in days gone by; For on the little marble shelf above the grate fire's glow Were all the sacred treasures of the homestead in a row, The pictures and the onyx clock, the globe of native birds, Which told the things we loved the most in clearer speech than words.

There Mother kept in tenderness the trinkets of the years, The tokens of her happier days, the symbols of her tears; The glossy cabinet photographs, the candlesticks of brass, The picture of Niagara Falls blown into heavy glass, And there above the grate fire's glow, for every eye to see, Were all the sacred treasures from her book of memory.

But Time has swept these things away, the mantel now is bare. The attic dust lies thick upon the joys once valued there; The photographs are stored away, the birds long since have flown, Nor is it now good form to show the treasured things we own, For when the newer customs come, the ones of old must cease, And yet I'm sorry that we had to lose the chimney piece.

A yellow crocus bloomed today. Where all is dead and bleak and bare, It flashed its light along the way And radiantly twinkled there.

Out of the darkness and the gloom, Braving the blizzard's bitter sting, There came this golden bit of bloom To herald the advancing spring.

"Hold out! Hold out!" it seemed to say, "Soon must the siege of winter fall, The daffodils are on their way, The hyacinths have heard you call.

"Behind me comes a countless throng Of bigger, braver blooms than I; The woods shall shortly ring with song, Spring's glorious army draweth nigh."

A yellow crocus flashed today Its torch of faith for all to see— The troops of spring are on the way, The captive earth will soon be free.

A little braver when the skies are gray, A little stronger when the road seems long, A little more of patience through the day, And not so quick to magnify a wrong.

A little kinder, both of thought and deed, A little gentler with the old and weak, Swifter to sense another's pressing need, And not so fast the hurtful phrase to speak.

These are my goals—not flung beyond my power, Not dreams of glory, beautiful but vain, Not the great heights where buds of genius flower, But simple splendors which I ought to gain.

These I can do and be from day to day Along the humble pathway where I plod, So that at last when I am called away I need not make apologies to God.

Let others sing in modern ways, it's joy enough for me To sing in good old-fashioned rhyme the days that used to be. The page of boyhood's scribbled full with things we used to do, The fun we had, the games we played, the little tasks we knew, And back to mind there comes today the hardest of our cares, That springtime job of putting down the carpet on the stairs.

Housecleaning time meant weary legs and hands and aching backs, For no more tedious job there is than driving carpet tacks. Then mother told us what to do, and on our hands and knees We stretched and hauled and pulled and tugged and did our best to please; But, oh! I well remember now one task which patience wears, That awkward, muscle straining job of carpeting the stairs.

We'd start upon the topmost step and let the carpet roll, But then began a feat of strength to try the bravest soul. The corners must be folded so and stretched and firmly tacked, With mother watching every move as down the stairs we backed; And many a time we've reached the end, discovering there and then It wouldn't do at all that way and must be laid again.

No more we break our finger nails and set our knees on fire In stretching carpets on the floors, no more our muscles tire; No more the mother stands above our bended forms to see That every tack is driven home the way it ought to be. The times are very different now, and no one ever shares The joy and pain of long ago, while carpeting the stairs.

Winters are not what they used to be in the cities of haste and rush; The snow is white for a little while, then turns to an ugly slush. And the rapid wheels of the motor cars grind all of its beauty down— But I long for the horse and cutter days we knew in the little town.

Then the world stayed white for a month or two and the snow drifts higher grew And cheeks were pink with the glow of health and the joys we youngsters knew, Then sleigh bells added a merry lilt to the cold and crispy air And youth and maid in an open sleigh were always a happy pair.

We hitched a ride to the runners strong and the snow flew from our feet, But it's dangerous now to hitch a ride on the dark and crowded street, And the raucous honk of the motor horn has banished the sleigh bell's song, For winter days are cheerless now and winter nights are long.

Perhaps it's well that our customs change and good that we travel on, But blent with the smiles of our newer joys are sighs for the pleasures gone, And I sometimes long for the drifted snow and the white and frosty ways, For the cheeks of pink and the laughter gay of our horse and cutter days.

A lilac bush is a lovely thing Wherever it blossoms in early spring, But I have a tenderer regard For the old-time bush in an old-time yard, With the house near-by and the youngsters flown, And the old folks living there all alone, For always I fancy I can see The visions that cling to the lilac tree.

The house still stands, but the walls are still, And the storms have battered each window sill; There's a tired, worn look on the humble place, Like the weary look on the mother's face, Yet somehow or other I seem to know That joy reigned here in the long ago, And somehow or other I seem to see The dreams which cling to the lilac tree.

Time was those feeble hands were strong And the faltering footsteps danced along; Time was youth romped in that lonely place, But never the years will halt their pace, And the young must go, but the old will cling To the home they've loved to the final Spring, For they hear the laughter that used to be, When the bloom comes back to the lilac tree.

A lilac bush is a lovely thing Wherever it blossoms in early spring, But, bent with age and the smiles and tears Which come to all with the passing years, It seems to me that it wears the glow Of the golden days of the long ago, For all that remains of the youth long gone Is the lilac tree still blossoming on.

I got a cowlick, an' it stands Up straight, an' I got dirty hands, An' if it shows a single speck I have to go an' wash my neck, An' every day Ma squints an' peers To see if I have washed my ears; But I ain't ever really neat All on account of havin' feet.

These feet of mine are always wrong, I mustn't shuffle 'em along Or kick a stone that's in the way, Or if I do someone will say: "I wish you'd lift your feet a bit; The way you walk gives me a fit! Those shoes were new a week ago An' now you've busted out the toe."

They're always peckin' at me, too, For standin' like the fellers do. An' just because my toes turn in, The teacher makes the pupils grin By tellin' me ten times a day: "Please turn your toes the other way!" An' even when I'm in my seat She kicks if I just swing my feet.

If I get nervous an' I put One shoe upon the other foot, Or scrape the floor, they say: "My land! Is that the way a boy should stand?" An' if I rest 'em on a chair, Ma says: "Don't put your feet up there!" An' if I sit on them they roar: "Please put your feet upon the floor!"

I'm gettin' tired of all this talk About the way I stand or walk, An' anyhow it seems to me, At least as far as I can see, My feet aren't any different than The other fellers 'round here, an' Some day my temper will explode— It ain't my fault I'm pigeon-toed.

Taking medicine to-day isn't what it used to be. Castor oil is castor oil, but they've banished senna tea, And they've sugar coated now all the bitter things we took, Mother used to brew for us from the family doctor book. Now I tell that boy of mine when he starts to make a fuss, He is lucky not to be taking what they gave to us.

Seems the kitchen stove back then always had a pan or two Brewing up a remedy for the ailments which we knew, Something mother said we'd need surely in a little while, Senna tea for stomach ills and its brother, camomile; But I vow the worst of all remedies they gave to me Was that gummy, sticky stuff known and served as flaxseed tea.

Boy, put down that little pill, take your powders and be glad You're not getting what they gave when your father was a lad. Mother's hand was gentle, but rough and hard it seemed to be When she sat beside my bed rubbing goose-grease into me. Getting well is easy now. Take your medicine and smile, You are lucky that it's not senna tea or camomile.

The houses of the rich folks are very fine to see, But after all I fancy they'd never do for me— For a butler guards the doorway, and a staff of servants wait To gratify your slightest wish, like messengers of state. They're there to do your bidding, and should you want a drink They'll never let you get it from the tumbler at the sink.

Now it may be I'm old fashioned, but to really feel at home, I like to be permitted all around the house to roam, And I like to find the kitchen, with the towel upon the door, And the gayly colored picture from the corner grocery store. There's a comfortable feeling which the great folks miss, I think, In drinking, when you're thirsty, from the tumbler at the sink.

There's a charm about the kitchen which no other room can boast, And when you think about it, it's the one we need the most. It is there we find her smiling when we come back home at night, There the children dance about her as they're pleading for a bite, And it's there that eyes are brightest, cheeks the pinkest of the pink, And it's there, for all the thirsty, there's the tumbler at the sink.

There's never frost nor blight nor weeds, Nor neighbor's chickens, cats or dogs, To ruin all the tender seeds That flourish in the catalogues; The humblest vine that's planted there Blossoms without the slightest care.

There are no withered stalks to see, No pitiful attempts to thrive, No shrub that struggles desperately To catch the sun and stay alive. In catalogues the larkspur seems To match the gardener's fondest dreams.

The red geranium is strong, Its clump of blossom full and round, No windstorm ever comes along To sweep the cosmos to the ground, No youngster ever bats a ball Among the roses, straight and tall.

I turn the pages o'er and o'er And see the pansies dark as wine, And think, as I have thought before, These are superior to mine; In my poor garden, never yet Has bloomed such lovely mignonette.

Since pansies have the storms to face And men must battle day by day, They cannot wear the charm and grace Their printed catalogues display; Life is much sterner than it looks And scars are seldom shown in books.

Here is where the blows are struck, Here is where the wrong is done, Here are toilers in the muck; Here beneath the shining sun, Pain and hurt and sin abide, Here is where our souls are tried.

What's beyond I cannot say, Save my faith that all is well; There the wrongs are cast away, There in peace the angels dwell, But this life on earth and sea Holds so much that need not be.

I would not remain afar Thinking only of my soul; Here where hungry children are, Here where hatred mars the scroll, Thought and time and strength I'd give Bettering this life we live.

Not to-morrow, but to-day, I would serve another's need, I would smooth another's way, Bind the cruel wounds that bleed; Death will soothe the weary brow, But my hand would smooth it now.

Life has need of kindly men, Just, courageous, true and brave, But that need is ended when Comes the sexton to the grave; Let me, then, my duty face, Making earth a happier place.

Let me serve the living here, Not the dead across the bar, Let me carry hope and cheer Where the sad and hopeless are; Angels wait upon the dead— Let me smooth the path men tread.

I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old— That's the worst thing ever a man can do. I must keep in mind without bein' told That old ideas must give way to new. Let me be always upon my guard Never a crabby old man to be, Youth is too precious to have it marred By the cranky whims of a man like me.

I must remember that customs change An' I've had my youth an' my hair is gray, Mustn't be too surprised at strange Or startlin' things that the youngsters say; Mustn't keep the bit in their mouths too tight, Which is something old people are apt to do. What used to be wrong may to-day be right An' it may not be wrong just becoz it's new.

Want 'em to like me an' want 'em to know That I need their laughter an' mirth an' song, An' I want 'em near, 'coz I love 'em so, An' home is the place where their smiles belong. They're growin' up, an' it seems so queer To hear them talk of the views they hold, But age with youth shouldn't interfere An' I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old.

It wasn't too much work for her in the days of long ago To get a dinner ready for a dozen friends or so; The mother never grumbled at the cooking she must do Or the dusting or the sweeping, but she seemed to smile it through, And the times that we were happiest, beyond the slightest doubt, Were when good friends were coming and we stretched the table out.

We never thought, when we were young, to take our friends away And entertain them at a club or in some swell cafe; When mother gave a dinner, she would plan it all herself And feed the people that she liked, the best things on the shelf. Then one job always fell to me, for I was young and stout, I brought the leaves to father when he stretched the table out.

That good old-fashioned table. I can see it still to-day With its curious legs of varnished oak round which I used to play; It wasn't much to look at, not as stylish or refined Or as costly or as splendid as the oval, modern kind, But it always had a welcome for our friends to sit about, And though twenty guests were coming, we could always stretch it out.

I learned it from my mother—it is foolish pride to roam, The only place to entertain your friends is right at home. Just let them in by dozens, let them laugh and sing and play And come to love and know them in the good old-fashioned way; Home's the place for fun and friendship, home's the place where joy may shout, And if you crowd our dining room, we'll stretch the table out.

The road lay straight before him, but the by-paths smiled at him And the scarlet poppies called him to the forests cool and dim, And the song birds' happy chorus seemed to lure him further on; 'Twas a day of wondrous pleasure—but the day was quickly gone.

He could not resist the laughter and the purling of a brook Any more than gray old sages can resist some dusty book, And though stern-faced duty bade him march the highway straight ahead, "The trees are better company than busy men," he said.

We wondered at his dreaming and his wanderings far astray, But we were counting values by the gold and silver way, And sometimes as I saw him gazing idly at the sky, I fancied he had pleasures of a sort I couldn't buy.

I fancy he saw something in the clouds above the trees Which the gold and glory seeker passes by and never sees, And I think he gathered something from the woods and running streams Which is just as good as money to the man of many dreams.

I stood upon the coping of the tallest building known And tried to walk that dangerous ledge, bare-footed and alone. I started very bravely, then I turned to look behind And saw a demon coming of the most ferocious kind; He bade me get a move on, and I started in to run And I slipped and lost my balance, and I knew that I was done.

I had a wild encounter with a mad and awful beast, His eyes were bulged with malice, for he'd picked me for a feast. I tried to scream, but couldn't. Then he growled a fearful note And gave one spring towards me and his fangs sank in my throat, One gulp and it was over—it was much too black to see, But I knew beyond all question that the end had come for me.

I tumbled from an aeroplane and looped and looped around, And was twenty-seven minutes on my journey to the ground; I bumped a dozen steeples on my perilous descent And left as many flagstaffs either snapped in two or bent— But when I woke, in terror, I discovered with a sigh How much of real excitement lurks in mother's hot mince pie.

Always seeing the funny side, That's the glorious way of him. Rollin' his head, with his mouth stretched wide, As quick to laugh as a duck to swim; Whatever you say or whatever you do, He'll answer you back with a chuckle or two.

Laughing from mornin' till night, it seems, Just chock full of the gift o' fun, An' the angels send him their comic dreams So's he can grin for 'em every one, An' his grandma says when he laughs her down, He's the disrespectfullest boy in town.

Laughed at the prayer that the preacher spoke The night Ma asked him to come for tea; Seemed to think it was all a joke, An' he actually winked his eye at me. His ears are keen an' his mind is quick An' his grin is ready for every trick.

"What'll we do?" says Ma to me, "With a boy like that who won't behave?" An' I answer back: "We'll let him be. Old folks' faces are far too grave, An' it's good for us all to have the joy An' the rollickin' mirth of a laughin' boy."

Apples ripe for eating, and the grate fire blazing high, And outside the moon of autumn fairly swimming in the sky; The cellar packed with good things from the vine and field and tree— Oh, the speech of man can't tell it, but it somehow seems to me With such warmth and cheer around us, we should all burst into song And store enough of gladness now to last our whole lives long.

Apples ripe for eating—there's a joy beyond compare To pay for all our trouble and the burdens we must bear! The bowl upon the table filled with round and rosy cheeks, And enough down in the cellar to last all the winter weeks, So that when the bowl is empty we can fill it up again— And in spite of that we grumble and we bitterly complain.

I sometimes sit and wonder as we pack life's fruits away And hoard them in the cellar for the bleak and wintry day, Why the mind of man has never tried to store a stock of cheer In the cellar of his memory for the barren time of year, So that when joy's bowl is emptied and he thinks that life is vain, He can seek his hoard of pleasures and just fill it up again.

Apples ripe for eating and a stock of them below For the long cold nights of winter we shall shortly come to know, So that when we need a pleasure that will seem to soothe the soul We can wander to the cellar and fill up the apple bowl; So we could, if we were mindful, when our hearts with grief are sad, Refresh our faltering courage with the pleasures we have had.

When there's company for tea Things go mighty hard with me; Got to sit an' wait an' wait Till the last guest's cleaned his plate, An' I mustn't ask Ma what Kind of pie it is she's got, Mustn't crunch my napkin up Or dip cookies in my cup.

When there's company for tea Home don't seem like home to me; Got to wash my ears an' neck Till they do not show a speck; Got to brush my hair an' then Got to change my waist again, Then walk slowly down stairs an' Try to be a gentleman.

When there's company for tea Ma spends hours instructing me How to eat an' what to say, An' I can't go out to play When I've finished, but must stay Till Ma whispers: "Now you may!" Sittin' still is not much fun When you've got your supper done.

When there's company for tea, Then the servant waits on me Last instead of first, an' I Mustn't talk when she comes by; If the boys outside should call, I don't answer 'em at all; You'd never know that it was me When there's company for tea.

When I get home at night they run To meet me down the street; The duties of the day are done And joy is mine to meet. Here is a welcome warm and true, Worth every task a man can do.

I stoop to catch them in my arms And nestle face to face; The finest of this old world's charms Is naught to this embrace; Thus to be greeted, I declare, Is worth a thousand years of care.

The toiling of the day is o'er, No more I need to roam, They shout this through the open door: "Oh, Mother! Daddy's home!" Who would not toil where engines hiss To earn so glad an hour as this?

When I get home at night and see The little place aglow With love and laughter all for me, The table set just so, I tell myself, just one glad smile Makes all the care of day worth while.

Oh, we have grieved and we have wept And bitter were our tears, Yet when the long faith we have kept Through all the lonely years, There will be glad souls in the gloam To welcome us when we get home.

Living with the people, the good, the brave, the strong, Glad to pass the time of day with all who come along. Lord, it's good to meet Your children as they trudge life's thoroughfare, And learn the hopes they cherish and the dreams they see out there.

Living with the people here upon the kindly earth, And finding in the strangest garb the messengers of mirth, For many a stirring tale of life the passer-by can tell, And every man is worth your while if but you know him well.

Living with the people, the rich, the poor, the wise, The same breeze blowing over them, the same sun in their eyes; And this you learn from high and low, throughout life's stretch of years, We're brothers in the joys we take and brothers in our tears.

I'm sorry for the haughty man who holds his head in air, And passes by in cold disdain the garbs of toil and care, For though he may be rich and great, 'tis lonely he must live, He misses all the glorious joys his fellows have to give.

Oh, walk with them and talk with them and hear the tales they tell, The passers-by would be your friends if but you knew them well. The children of the Lord are they, and as they come and go, There is not one among them all that is not good to know.

When I was but a little lad, my father carved what meat we had; With grace and skill he'd cut and slice the roast of beef or veal, With dexterous hand he'd wield the blade, no false or awkward move he made, And deftly he could whet the knife upon his shining steel. But now and then I'd hear him say: "Who's used my carving knife today? What woman's used this blade of mine for cutting wire or tin?" And on this special point he'd harp: "a carving weapon must be sharp, Or one can never cut a roast and have the slices thin."

"That knife must not be used on string, or bread or boards or anything— Hands off my carving blade," he'd cry, and yet I grieve to say, In spite of all his warnings grim, the women paid no heed to him, They used his sacred carving knife a dozen times a day. They'd use that knife for cutting soap, old carpets, leather belts and rope, They'd use it too, for pulling tacks and leave it dulled and nicked, And every time a meal began, my father was an angry man, But vain was every oath he swore and every kick he kicked.

Now like my good old dad I stand, and take the carving knife in hand And run my thumb along its edge and find it dulled and nicked, And like my good old dad I vow some day there'll be a healthy row, But I'm as unsuccessful as my father when he kicked. The maid, the youngsters and the wife still take that sacred carving knife And use it as a handy tool on wood or lead or stone; In spite of all I do or say, the blade is dulled from day to day, I cannot get the women folks to leave that knife alone!

Take a boy along with you And you'll learn before you're through That this world is full of wonders You'd forgotten all about; Song birds nesting in a tree That you pass and never see, Strange and curious mysteries The lad keeps pointing out.

He will question how and why, With his bright and eager eye He'll discover curious sights All along the way; He'll show novelties to you Which were hidden from your view, And will fill with ecstasy Just a common day.

What to you is dull and old, He will wonderingly behold, Marvelous your dreary world Will appear to him; And at every bend and turn From that youngster you will learn Just how much a man may miss When his eyes grow dim.

Who should say the world is bare, Commonplace and filled with care? Tired age may utter this, Blinded to its joy; Sage and cynic, grown severe, May have lost the magic here, But the world is glorious To a little boy.

If you fancy life is just Bearing burdens, as you must, City streets and buildings tall And the moving throng, If you've lost the power to see Splendors as they used to be, Some day when you're starting out Take a boy along.

My father says that I ought to be A man when anything happens to me. An' he says that a man will take a blow An' never let on it hurts him so; He'll grit his teeth an' he'll set his chin An' bear his pain with a manly grin. But I'll bet that the bravest man would cry If ever the soap gets into his eye.

I'm brave enough when I'm playin' ball, An' I can laugh when I've had a fall. With the girls around I'd never show That I was scared if the blood should flow From my banged up nose or a battered knee. As brave as the bravest I can be, But it's different pain, an' I don't know why, Whenever the soap gets into your eye.

I can set my teeth an' I can grin When I scrape my cheek or I bark my shin, An' once I fell from our apple tree An' the wind was knocked right out of me, But I never cried an' the gang all said That they thought for sure I was really dead. But it's worse than thinking you're going to die Whenever the soap gets into your eye.

When your mother's holding your neck, and you Couldn't get away if you wanted to, An' she's latherin' hard with her good right hand, It's more than the bravest man could stand. If you open your mouth to howl, you get A taste of the wash rag, cold and wet, But you got to yell till your face gets dry Whenever the soap gets into your eye.

I'd like to have them think of me As one with whom they liked to be; I'd like to make my home so fair That they would all be happy there; To have them think, when life is done, That here they had their finest fun.

Within these walls with love aglow, They live to-morrow's "Long Ago." Nor is the time so far away When now shall be their yesterday, And they shall turn once more to see The little home which used to be.

When comes that time I want them then To wish they could be here again; I want their memories to be A picture of a kindly me, To have them say how very glad Their youthful lives were made by dad.

I want them to recall this place As one of charm and tender grace, To love these walls of calm content Wherein their youthful years were spent, And feel through each succeeding year, They lived their happiest moments here.

I feel I shall have failed unless This house shall shelter happiness. Save they shall find their truest mirth Around their father's humble hearth, And here life's finest joys attain, I shall have lived my life in vain.

When the blue gets back in the skies once more And the vines grow green 'round the kitchen door, When the roses bud and the robins come, I stretch myself and I say: "Ho-hum! I ought to work but I guess I won't; Though some want riches to-day, I don't; This looks to me like the sort of day That was made to idle and dream away."

When the sun is high and the air just right, With the trees all blossomy, pink and white, And the grass, as soft as a feather bed With the white clouds drifting just overhead, I stretch and yawn like a school boy then, And turn away from the walks of men And tell myself in a shamefaced way: "I'm going to play hookey from work to-day!"

"Here is a morning too rare to miss, And what is gold to a day like this, And what is fame to the things I'll see Through the lattice-work of a fine old tree? There is work to do, but the work can wait; There are goals to reach, there are foes to hate, There are hurtful things which the smart might say, But nothing like that shall spoil to-day."

"To-day I'll turn from the noisy town And just put all of my burdens down; I'll quit the world and its common sense, And the things men think are of consequence, To chum with birds and the friendly trees And try to fathom their mysteries, For here is a day which looks to be The kind I can fritter away on me."

It's oh, my little laddie, as you're romping at your play There's an old heart running with you every minute of the day; And though you cannot see me when you're wrapped up in a game, But it's I that am beside you in your striving just the same.

It is oh, my little laddie, there is much you cannot know, But it's I that follow proudly everywhere you chance to go; There's a hand upon your shoulder, wheresoever you may be, That would help you out of danger, and that hand belongs to me.

It is oh, my little laddie, though you cannot hear me call, I am always there to help you every time you chance to fall; I am with you in the school room and I'm with you on the street, And though you may not know it, I am dogging at your feet.

It's oh, my little laddie, all my life belongs to you, All the dreams that I have cherished through the years depend on you; And though now you cannot know it, you shall some day come to see How this old heart loved to hover 'round a boy that used to be.

A possible man of affairs, A possible leader of men, Back of the grin that he wears There may be the courage of ten; Lawyer or merchant or priest, Artist or singer of joy, This, when his strength is increased, Is what may become of the boy.

Heedless and mischievous now, Spending his boyhood in play, Yet glory may rest on his brow And fame may exalt him some day; A skill that the world shall admire, Strength that the world shall employ And faith that shall burn as a fire, Are what may be found in the boy.

He with the freckles and tan, He with that fun-loving grin, May rise to great heights as a man And many a battle may win; Back of the slang of the streets And back of the love of a toy, It may be a Great Spirit beats— Lincoln once played as a boy.

Trace them all back to their youth, All the great heroes we sing, Seeking and serving the Truth, President, poet and king, Washington, Caesar and Paul, Homer who sang about Troy, Jesus, the Greatest of all, Each in his time was a boy.

World wide over this is said: "I don't want to go to bed." Dads and mothers, far and near, Every night this chorus hear; Makes no difference where they are, Here or off in Zanzibar, In the igloos made of snow Of the fur-clad Eskimo, In this blistering torrid zone, This one touch of nature's known; In life's various tongues it's said: "I don't want to go to bed!"

This has ever been the way Of the youngsters at their play. Laughter quickly dries their tears, Trouble swiftly disappears, Joy is everywhere about, Here and there and in and out; Yet when night comes on they cry That so glad a day should die, And they think that they will miss Something more of precious bliss, So shouts every curly-head: "I don't want to go to bed!"

Age is glad to put away All the burdens of the day, Glad to lay the worries down, Quit the noises of the town, And in slumber end the care That has met them here and there. But the children do not know Life is freighted down with woe; They would run until they drop, Hoping day would never stop, Calling back when it has fled: "I don't want to go to bed."

There may be happier times than this, But if there are I've never known them, When youngsters jump in bed to kiss And wake the pa's and ma's who own them. What if the sun be up or not, Another perfect day is dawning, And is it not a happy lot With such delight to greet the morning?

Sometimes I hear them quit their bed And catch their bare-foot pitter-patter, And other times they're at my head Before I know what is the matter. Brigands to rob us of our sleep They come—their weapons love and laughter, And though we're locked in slumber deep, They always get the joy they're after.

Some days there are when we would lie And dream our dreams a little longer, Then "back to bed awhile," we cry— But oh, our love for them is stronger, Yes, stronger than our wish to sleep And so we countermand the order And let that pair of brigands leap With wild delight across love's border.

There may be happier times than this, But if there are I've never known them, When youngsters jump in bed to kiss And wake the pa's and ma's who own them. They miss a lot, the man and wife Who never feel those glad hands shake them, Who rise by day to toil and strife, But have no little tots to wake them.

Into the lives of all The tears of sorrow fall. Into the happiest hearts Grief drives her darts; No door however stout Can shut Death's angel out.

Vain are the things we prize, Treasure and pomp's disguise; They cannot stay the tear When the true griefs appear. Where Death will strike to-day Gold cannot bar the way.

There is no joy secure, No peace that shall endure, No smile that man shall keep. God wills that he must weep, And in his darkest hour Vain is all earthly power.

What, then, should guard the gate? How shall a man be great? Through the dark days and long, What power shall make him strong? Wherein does courage lie, Since all he loves must die?

When sorrow binds his hands, Helpless the strong man stands. One master only grief Bows to, and that's belief— Faith that he'll some day know Why God hath willed it so!