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From newsboy to the millionaire The passing throng goes by each day; The old man with his weight of care, The maiden in her colors gay, The mother with her babe in arms, The dreamer and the man of might, Grief's cruel scars and laughter's charms Pass by the window, day and night.

Now slowly rides a corpse to find The grave and its unbroken sleep, And in the carriages behind A score of sorrowing loved ones weep; But scarcely has the hearse passed by Upon its journey to the tomb, When, wreathed with smiles of love, we spy The faces of a bride and groom.

We cannot understand it all, We cannot know why this is so; From dawn until night's curtains fall, We see the people come and go. Hope lights the eyes of youth to-day, To-morrow care has left them dim; Once this man proudly walked his way, But now defeat has broken him.

Could we but watch, as God must do, We'd see the struggling youth arise, We'd see him brave his dangers through, And reach his goal and claim the prize. And we might judge with gentler sight The broken lives, which come and go, And better choose 'twixt wrong and right— If we could know what God must know.

Wife o' Mine, day after day Cheering me along the way; Patient, tender, smiling, true, Always ready to renew Faltering courage and to share All the day may bring of care; Dreaming dreams wherein you see Brighter years that are to be; Calling paltry pleasures fine— That's you always, Wife o' Mine.

Wife o' Mine, we've shed some tears With the passing of the years, Mourned beside our lovely dead; But somehow you've always said You and I could bear the blow Knowing God had willed it so; And you've smiled to show to me Just how brave you meant to be, Smiled to keep my faith in line— That's you, always, Wife o' Mine.

Wife o' Mine, long years ago Once I promised you would know Luxuries and costly things, Gowns of silk and jeweled rings, And you laughed as though you knew Dreams like that could not come true; Now perhaps they never will, But I see you laughing still, Welcoming me with eyes that shine— That's you always, Wife o' Mine.

Let's be brave when the laughter dies And the tears come into our troubled eyes, Let's cling to the faith and the old belief When the skies grow gray with the clouds of grief, Let's bear the sorrow and hurt and pain And wait till the laughter comes again.

Let's be brave when the trials come And our hearts are sad and our lips are dumb, Let's strengthen ourselves in the times of test By whispering softly that God knows best; Let us still believe, though we cannot know, We shall learn sometime it is better so.

Let's be brave when the joy departs Till peace shall come to our troubled hearts, For the tears must fall and the rain come down And each brow be pressed to the thorny crown; Yet after the dark shall the sun arise, So let's be brave when the laughter dies.

Some folks pray for a boy, and some For a golden-haired little girl to come. Some claim to think there is more of joy Wrapped up in the smile of a little boy, While others pretend that the silky curls And plump, pink cheeks of the little girls Bring more of bliss to the old home place Than a small boy's queer little freckled face.

Now which is better, I couldn't say If the Lord should ask me to choose to-day; If He should put in a call for me And say: "Now what shall your order be, A boy or girl? I have both in store— Which of the two are you waiting for?" I'd say with one of my broadest grins: "Send either one, if it can't be twins."

I've heard it said, to some people's shame, They cried with grief when a small boy came, For they wanted a girl. And some folks I know Who wanted a boy, just took on so When a girl was sent. But it seems to me That mothers and fathers should happy be To think, when the Stork has come and gone, That the Lord would trust them with either one.

Boy or girl? There can be no choice; There's something lovely in either voice. And all that I ask of the Lord to do Is to see that the mother comes safely through And guard the baby and have it well, With a perfect form and a healthy yell, And a pair of eyes and a shock of hair. Then, boy or girl—and its dad won't care.

They're waiting for us over there; The young, the beautiful and fair Who left us, oh, so long ago, Lonely and hurt on earth below, Are waiting bravely, never fear, Until our faces shall appear.

Then, when our journey here is done, And we set out to follow on Through the great, heavy mantled door Which leads to rest forevermore, They will be there to laugh away The loneliness we feel to-day.

They'll welcome us with wondrous grace, And show us all about the place; They'll take us gently by the hand And guide us through that radiant land; They'll tell us all they've learned and seen Through the long absence that has been.

We'll meet the friends who have been kind To them the while we stayed behind— Angels who long have dwelt above, Who welcomed them with arms of love, And sheltered them the long years through, Just as we'd prayed for them to do.

Though now you mourn, who stay behind, How sad 'twould be to leave, and find Upon that distant other shore No loved one who had gone before— The gates of Heaven to enter through With no one there to welcome you.

As now, when some long journey ends And we're received by smiling friends Who've watched and waited for our train, So shall they welcome us again; The young, the beautiful and fair Will all be waiting for us there.

We've had a lot of visitors, it seems, for weeks an' weeks, And Pa is gettin' all run down. Ma says that when he speaks He isn't civil any more. He mopes around the place And always seems to wear a look of sadness on his face. And yesterday he said to Ma when she began to fuss: "I wonder when they're going to quit an' leave the home to us.

"It's nice to have your people come, but some of them should go; Instead of that they're sticking here like bull dogs at a show. 'The more the merrier,' they shout, as other ones drop in. I'm getting so I cannot stand to see your cousins grin And, what is more, I'm getting tired of driving folks about And mighty tired of visitors who must be taken out.

"Night after night when I've come home I've hauled them near and far, You'd think I was the driver of a town sight-seeing car. I've hauled them up to factories and monuments and parks, Museums and aquariums; I've shown 'em seals and sharks And bears and wolves and elephants; and now I want to quit. I know they'd do the same for me, but I am sick of it.

"I wouldn't say a word at all about your folks, I know They're just as nice as they can be, but still I wish they'd go. I'm tired of all the buzz and talk, the tales of those who've died; I'm tired of seeing all our chairs forever occupied." "And I am tired myself," said Ma, "as tired as I can be, You're only on the job at night, but it's all day long for me."

Pa never gets a story straight. He's always mixed about the date, Or where it was, or what occurred, Or who related what he heard; And every time he starts to tell Some little story he knows well, Ma says: "No, Pa, as I recall, That isn't how it was at all."

"Remember when I broke my arm," Says Pa, "when we were on the farm And I went out that slippery morn A few days after Bud was born, To get some wood"—and Ma says then: "Oh, Pa, don't tell that tale again! And anyhow, I know right well Bud wasn't born the day you fell."

"'Twas months before he came," says Ma. "'Twas after he was born," says Pa; "I rather think I ought to know Just when it was I suffered so." "Maybe you ought," says Ma, "but still, I saw you tumble down the hill, And it was March with snow drifts high— Bud wasn't born till next July."

"I'd walk him round the floor," says Pa. "You're all mixed up again," says Ma. "We'll ask Aunt Lizzie, she was there, She'd come to help." Says Ma: "I swear You're just as crazy as a loon, Aunt Lizzie didn't come till June. To argue on is most absurd, Bud wasn't born when that occurred."

I wish I knew just what is what Or whether I was born or not, But I'll just have to sit and wait Until Pa gets his story straight; And I have never heard at all Just how it was he chanced to fall, For Pa and Ma can't yet agree Which one came first—the fall or me.

Dishes to wash and clothes to mend, And always another meal to plan, Never the tasks of a mother end And oh, so early her day began! Floors to sweep and the pies to bake, And chairs to dust and the beds to make.

Oh, the home is fair when you come at night And the meal is good and the children gay, And the kettle sings in its glad delight And the mother smiles in her gentle way; So great her love that you seldom see Or catch a hint of the drudgery.

Home, you say, when the day is done, Home to comfort and peace and rest; Home, where the children romp and run— There is the place that you love the best! Yet what would the home be like if you Had all of its endless tasks to do?

Would it be home if she were not there, Brave and gentle and fond and true? Could you so fragrant a meal prepare? Could you the numberless duties do? What were the home that you love so much, Lacking her presence and gracious touch?

She is the spirit of all that's fair; She is the home that you think you build; She is the beauty you dream of there; She is the laughter with which it's filled— She, with her love and her gentle smile, Is all that maketh the home worth while.

If I were sending my boy afar To live and labor where strangers are, I should hold him close till the time to go, Telling him things which he ought to know; I should whisper counsel and caution wise, Hinting of dangers which might arise, And tell him the things I have learned from life, Of its bitter pain and its cruel strife And the sore temptations which men beset, And then add this: "Boy, don't forget When your strength gives out and your hope grows dim, Your father will help if you'll come to him."

If I were sending a boy away, I should hold him close on the parting day And give him my trust. Through thick and thin I should tell him I counted on him to win, To keep his word at whatever cost, To play the man though his fight be lost. But beyond all that I should whisper low: "If trouble comes, let your father know; Come to him, son, as you used to do When you were little—he'll see you through. I am trusting you in a distant land. You trust your father to understand.

"Trust me wherever you chance to be, Know there is nothing to hide from me, Tell me it all—your tale of woe, The sting of failure that hurts you so. Never, whatever your plight may be, Think it something to hide from me; Come to me first in your hour of need, Come though you know that my heart will bleed! Boy, when the shadows of trouble fall, Come to your father first of all."

The white oak keeps its leaves till spring when other trees are bare, And who will take the time to look, will find the young bud there; The young bud nestled snug and warm against the winter's cold; The young bud being sheltered by the knowledge of the old.

And when the spring shall come again—and gentle turns the day, The youthful bud will swell with strength and thrust the old away; The youthful bud will seek the breeze and hunger for the sun, And down to earth will fall the old with all its duty done.

Then, heedless of the parent leaf, the youthful bud will grow And watch the robins build their nests and watch the robins go. Then something strange will come to it when that young leaf grows old, It, too, will want to shield its babe against the winter's cold.

It, too, will cling unto the tree through many a dreary day Until the spring-time comes again and it is thrust away; Then it will flutter down to earth with all its duty done, And leave behind its happy child to drink the morning sun.

How like man's life from birth to close! How like the white oak tree Which keeps a shelter for its young against the storms, are we! We guard our children through the night and watch them through the day, And when at last our work is done, like leaves, we fall away.

I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed, An' wash again when I get up, and wash before I'm fed, An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands an' shirt— They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond of dirt. But Bill—my chum—an' I agree that we have never seen A feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean.

Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him in from play To make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times a day. Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber comes To fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs his thumbs; His clothes are always thick with grease, his face is smeared with dirt, An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt.

The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse than mine, An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in every line. The carpenter who works around our house can mend a chair Or put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother doesn't care That he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferes An' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash his ears.

The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see. Have hands and necks and ears that are as dirty as can be. The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go, Most always has a smudgy face—his hands aren't white as snow. But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knows The most important men in town have dirty hands and clo'es.

If I were a boss I would like to say: "You did a good job here yesterday." I'd look for a man, or a girl, or boy Whose heart would leap with a thrill of joy At a word of praise, and I'd pass it out Where the crowd could hear as I walked about.

If I were the boss I would like to find The fellow whose work is the proper kind; And whenever to me a good thing came, I'd ask to be told the toiler's name, And I'd go to him and I'd pat his back And I'd say: "That was perfectly splendid, Jack!"

Now a bit of praise isn't much to give, But it's dear to the hearts of all who live; And there's never a man on this good old earth But is glad to be told that he's been of worth; And a kindly word when the work is fair Is welcomed and wanted everywhere.

If I were a boss, I am sure I should Say a kindly word whenever I could, For the man who has given his best by day Wants a little more than his weekly pay; He likes to know, with the setting sun, That his boss is pleased with the work he's done.

You know your mother—that's plain as day, But those wide blue eyes of you seem to say When I bend over your crib: "Now who Are you?" It's little figure I cut, I know, And faces trouble a baby so, But I'm the gladdest of all the glad— Your dad!

You're two months old, and you see us smile, And I know you are wondering all the while Whoever on earth can these people be You see. You've learned your mother; you know her well When hunger rattles the dinner bell, But somehow or other you cannot place My face.

As yet, I'm but one of the passing throng, The curious people who come along And pause at your crib, and you seem to say Each day: "I know one voice that is sweet to hear, I know her step when my mother's near, I know her wonderful smile—but who Are you?

"You always come with the same old grin, Your finger's rough when you tickle my chin, But you run away when I start to cry, And I Don't understand when visitors call Why you're so afraid they will let me fall. You are the queerest of all the queer Folks here!"

It's true that over your crib I stand And tickle your chin with my rough old hand. And I run away when you start to cry, But I Have a right to my queer little funny ways, To boast your worth and to sound your praise, For I am the gladdest of all the glad— Your dad.

There isn't much fame on a farm, an' the farm doesn't pile up the wealth; It gives you an appetite early an' late, an' it's usually lavish with health. The world travels by in its cars, but the men and the women don't see Any reason to cheer anything that I do or pin any medals on me; But I'm doin' my work just the same an' at night-time the Lord an' I know That the wheat's lookin' fine in the acres out there, and I—well, I helped it to grow.

Sometimes I get gloomy an' blue an' wish I could rise with the great, An' wish I could point something out which my hands have builded or helped to create; Then the orchard looks over to me an' the fruit-laden trees seem to say, "If it were not for you an' the care that you've given, we wouldn't be bearin' today." An' the acres of corn over there, I planted 'em all, row by row, "The good gift o' nature," the poets declare—but the Lord knows I helped it to grow.

I reckon I'm fillin' my place, though workin' all day on the soil An' standin' the heat of the merciless sun isn't listed as glorious toil. There's little of brilliance here, an' there's nothin' to brag of; I guess A farmer's a farmer, an' that's all he is—an' his crops are his only success. But the Lord knows, an' I know it, too, as I plough or I harrow or hoe, That these fields would be barren of wheat an' of corn, if I hadn't helped 'em to grow.

I've eaten chicken a la king And many a fancy dish, I think I've tasted everything The heart of man can wish; But nightly when we dine alone, My grateful praise I utter Unto that good old stand-by, known As mother's bread and butter.

Some think it very common fare And may be they are right, But I can take that wholesome pair At morning, noon and night; And there's a happy thrill I feel That sets my heart a-flutter As I sit down to make a meal Of mother's bread and butter.

Though poets sing their favorite foods In lilting lines and sweet, And each unto his different moods Tells what he likes to eat, I still remain the little boy Who gleefully would mutter A youngster's gratitude and joy For mother's bread and butter.

So now, for all the joy I've had From such a wholesome pair Since first I was a little lad In hunger's deep despair, I hold the finest food of all— Though epicures may sputter And sneer me from the banquet hall— Is mother's bread and butter.

The little clothes line by the kitchen door! My mother stretched it once when I was young, And there the garments which the baby wore, Each morning, very carefully, she hung.

Square bits of flannel fluttered in the breeze, White stockings very delicate and small, Long flowing dresses and the glad bootees, A little blanket and a knitted shawl.

Then came the day when mother took it down, And we forgot what symbols fluttered there; We'd grown to breast the current of the town, To fight for conquest and to stand to care.

Ten years ago she smiled and said to me: "I want a little clothes line by the door." And there she hung, for all the world to see, The various bits of raiment which he wore.

Even the ragman on his alley round Knew, by the symbols fluttering on that line, That there a little baby would be found, And day by day he saw that glorious sign.

Then boyhood came and called our babe away, Muscled him strong and turned his cheeks to brown, Gave him the strength to run and romp and play, And then she took the little clothes line down.

To-day I sat beside her bed, and she Smiled the sweet smile of motherhood once more. "When I get up again," she said to me, "I'll want a little clothes line by the door."

I am not much at the game, Careless the things that I do; Those whose approval I claim When I attempt it, are few; Bridge players look in dismay After a hand I have played, Always they icily say: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

I, who am gentle and tame, Am scorned by a merciless crew; I bear the brunt and the blame Whenever they mutter, "Down two!" No matter what card I may play, No matter that whist's not my trade, Always they sneeringly say: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

Matron, young maiden or dame, Brown eyes or gray eyes or blue, Angrily treat me the same Recalling the cards that I drew. Be it December or May, Ever she starts this tirade With a look that's intended to slay: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

L'Envoi

Prince, when my soul flies away And my form in the cold ground is laid, Let me rest where nobody will say: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

We found the car beneath a tree. "The steering knuckle broke," said he; "The driver's dead; they say his wife Will be an invalid for life. I wonder how the man must feel Who made that faulty steering wheel."

It seemed a curious thought, and I Sat thinking, as the cars went by, About the man who made the wheel And shaped that knuckle out of steel; I tried to visualize the scene— The man, the steel and the machine.

Perhaps the workman never saw An indication of the flaw; Or, seeing it, he fancied it Would not affect his work a bit, And said: "It's good enough to go— I'll pass it on. They'll never know."

"It's not exactly to my best But it may pass the final test; And should it break, no man can know It was my hand that made it so. The thing is faulty, but perhaps We'll never hear it when it snaps."

Of course the workman couldn't see The mangled car beneath the tree, The dead man, and the tortured wife Doomed to a cripple's chair for life— His chief concern was getting by The stern inspector's eager eye.

Perhaps he whistles on his way Into the factory to-day And doesn't know the ruin wrought By just one minute's careless thought. Yet human life is held at stake By nearly all that toilers make.

"I will gather some flowers for our friend," she said, So into the garden with her I went And stood for awhile at the rose's bed As she stooped to her labor of sentiment.

"Why not the full blown blossom there? Why do you leave it and pass it by?" Those were the questions I asked of her. And she answered me: "It is soon to die."

"Here is a withered and blasted rose, Better without it the plant would be; Cut it and mingle it now with those You are taking away for your friend to see."

"Here is a peony stained and torn, Take it and cling to your choicest bloom." But she answered me with a look of scorn: "These flowers are to brighten a sick friend's room."

"Only the tenderest bud I'll take. Never the withered and worn and old; Of my fairest flowers is the gift I make By which my love for my friend is told."

"So, when the angels call," said I, "And fold in their arms a little child, Passing the old and the broken by, Think of this and be reconciled.

"Always the tenderest buds they take, Pure and lovely and undefiled. When a gift of love unto God they'd make, Always they come for a little child."

You shall wonder as you meet Drunkards reeling down the street, Helpless cripples and the blind, Human wrecks of every kind Living on from day to day, Why your loved one couldn't stay.

These are thoughts which always come When the heart with grief is numb. "Why," the anguished mother cries, With the tears still in her eyes, "Must my baby go away And some sinful creature stay?"

Thus, rebellious in your grief, You may falter in belief And your blinded eyes will see No just cause why this should be; But the passing years will show Wisely was it ordered so.

Hold your faith and bear the pain— Questioning your God is vain. None of us has power to know Who should stay and who should go. Hold this everlasting truth— Heaven has need of lovely youth.

Think of this when you are tried: If the wretched only died, Then would death to us be sent Always as a punishment? But the passing from the earth Is more beautiful than birth.

They put his spotless surplice on And tied his flowing tie, And he was fair to look upon As he went singing by. He sang the hymns with gentle grace, That little lad of nine, For there was something in his face Which seemed almost divine.

His downcast eye was good to see, His brow was smooth and fair, And no one dreamed that there could be A rascal plotting there; Yet when all heads in prayer were bowed, God's gracious care to beg, The boy next to him cried aloud: "Quit pinching o' my leg!"

A pious little child he seemed, An angel born to sing; Beholding him, none ever dreamed He'd do a naughty thing; Yet many a sudden "ouch!" proclaimed That he had smuggled in For mischief-making, unashamed, A most disturbing pin.

And yet, I think, from high above, The Father looking down, Knows everything he's thinking of And smiles when mortals frown, For in the spotless surplice white Which is his mother's joy, He knows he's not an angel bright, But just a healthy boy.

His eye was wild and his face was taut with anger and hate and rage, And the things he muttered were much too strong for the ink of the printed page. I found him there when the dusk came down, in his golf clothes still was he, And his clubs were strewn around his feet as he told his grief to me: "I'd an easy five for a seventy-nine—in sight of the golden goal— An easy five and I took an eight—an eight on the eighteenth hole!

"I've dreamed my dreams of the 'seventy men,' and I've worked year after year, I have vowed I would stand with the chosen few ere the end of my golf career; I've cherished the thought of a seventy score, and the days have come and gone And I've never been close to the golden goal my heart was set upon. But today I stood on the eighteenth tee and counted that score of mine, And my pulses raced with the thrill of joy—I'd a five for a seventy-nine!

"I can kick the ball from the eighteenth tee and get this hole in five, But I took the wood and I tried to cross that ditch with a mighty drive—" Let us end the quotes, it is best for all to imagine his language rich, But he topped that ball, as we often do, and the pill stopped in the ditch. His third was short and his fourth was bad and his fifth was off the line, And he took an eight on the eighteenth hole with a five for a seventy-nine.

I gathered his clubs and I took his arm and alone in the locker room I left him sitting upon the bench, a picture of grief and gloom; And the last man came and took his shower and hurried upon his way, But still he sat with his head bowed down like one with a mind astray, And he counted his score card o'er and o'er and muttered this doleful whine: "I took an eight on the eighteenth hole, with a five for a seventy-nine!"

Peter's the fellow I go to whenever Paul presses his claim. Peter is easy to deal with, Peter's not ready with blame; Paul has a way of insisting I shall be true to my word, And hints of a final accounting whenever a debt is incurred.

Peter is pleasant and smiling and ready to lend when he can; Paul offers counsel and caution and talks of the ways of a man, And whenever Paul's debts must be settled and I must return what I owe And haven't the money I promised, to borrow from Peter I go.

But the more that I think about Peter, the greater my fancy for Paul, I know he'd be first to defend me if ever disaster should fall, For Peter thinks only of money and smilingly reckons his fee, While Paul, when he whispers of caution, thinks not of himself but of me.

Paul would defend me from trouble, would shield and protect my renown, But Peter would add to my burdens and smilingly let me go down. Yes, Peter the pleasant would wreck me, and gloat when I rode to my fall, So the more that I learn about Peter, the greater my fondness for Paul.

"Here's how I figure it out," says he, "With my ears to hear and my eyes to see, And my legs to walk and my hands to work, And a head to bow and a cap to jerk Whenever a woman I know goes by— It's well-equipped for this life, am I.

"Kings and princes and high and low Have noses to smell when the blossoms blow. And eyes to see, but I don't suppose A king smells more with his royal nose Or sees more charm with his kingly eye In the pink of the orchard blooms, than I.

"But eyes and ears and legs and hands Don't always follow the same commands, And some find beauty in dollar bills, And some in the streams and the misty hills; Some people hear nothing but mortal words, And some are tuned to the songs of birds.

"Some grapple with facts that are stiff and cold, And some see visions all tipped with gold; Some hands are tender and others rough, And some are gentle and some are gruff; But each must follow life's pathway through, Doing the things which he likes to do.

"Now I find joy when I tramp about, Up hill and down, for my legs are stout And my ears and eyes can pick up things That are maybe lost to the wisest kings; And I'm always grateful, when day is through, That I'm built for the things which I like to do."

Sit here on my knee, little girl, and I'll tell A story to you Of a fairy I knew Who lived in a garden when I was a child. She was lovely to see and whenever she smiled The sunbeams came dancing around just to know Whatever it was that was pleasing her so.

She lived in a poppy and used to peek out And shout: "Oh, Yoo-hoo! I've been waiting for you!" And then I'd go over to her house and play And she'd saddle a bee and we'd both ride away, Or sometimes we'd take a most wonderful trip With the sky for the sea and a cloud for our ship.

Oft my father and mother would look out and say: "The glad little elf Plays there all by himself, And he comes in and tells us of things he has seen And the marvelous places to which he has been; He tells us of dining with princes and kings— It's a curious boy who can think up such things."

Now this all occurred in the long years ago, And the fairy has fled, And the poppies are dead, And never again may I ride on a bee, Or sail on a cloud with the sky for the sea. But that fairy has promised, when poppies are fair, To come back again and to wait for you there.

Yes, you can go out when the skies are all blue And see what I've seen, And go where I've been. You can have fairies to lead you away, To show you strange sights and to share in your play; And the grown-ups may say that your fancies are wild, But fairies are real to an innocent child.

I'll tell you it's a problem, when a youngster's nine years old, To keep his feet in leather and to keep him heeled and soled; Just about the time I fancy I've some money I can use, His mother comes and tells me that he needs a pair of shoes.

Now I can wear a pair of shoes for several months or more, But Bud, it seems, is working for the man who keeps the store, And the rascal seems to fancy that his duty is to show How fast a healthy, rugged boy can wreck a leather toe.

But shoes are made for romping in, for climbing and for fun, For kicking bricks and empty cans, and I am not the one To make him walk sedately in the way that grown-ups do— There's time enough for that, I say, when all his boyhood's through.

So let him wreck them, heels and toes, and scuff their soles away, I'll not begrudge the bill for shoes that I'm compelled to pay, For I rejoice that it's my lot, when mother breaks the news, To have a healthy, roguish boy who's always needing shoes.

I'd rather fancied it would come, a healthy boy who's ten years old Forecasts the things he'll want to do without his secrets being told; And so last night when I got home and found his mother strangely still, I guessed somehow that mother love had battled with a youngster's will. "You'll have to settle it," said she; "there's nothing more that I can say, The game of football's calling him and he insists he wants to play."

We've talked it over many a time; we've hoped he wouldn't choose the game, And I suppose there's not a boy whose parents do not feel the same. They dread, as we, the rugged sport; they wonder, too, just what they'll say When son of theirs comes home, as ours, and begs to be allowed to play. And now the question's up to me, a question that I can't evade, But football is a manly game and I am glad he's not afraid.

He wants to play, he says to me; he knows the game is rough and grim, But worse than hurt and broken bones is what his friends will think of him; "They'd call me yellow," he explained, "if I stay out." Of all things here There's nothing quite so hard to bear as is the heartless gibe or jeer, And though I cannot spare him pain or hurt when tackles knock him flat, Being his father, I've said "yes," because I choose to spare him that.

It happened that I came along as school was letting out And laughing boys and smiling girls raced everywhere about; But two there were who walked along the road in front of me And one young head was bowed to earth, a troubled lad was he; And as I stepped around the pair to hasten on my way: "She never gave a chance to me!" I heard the youngster say.

Oh, I have been a boy myself, and I have been to school And I have suffered punishment for breaking many a rule; I've worn the brand of mischief and been written down as bad, So I could reconstruct the scene—the teacher and the lad, The swift avenging punishment, the stern and angry glance, The blot of shame upon a boy sent home without a chance.

I did not stop to ask the lad his little tale to tell, There was no need of that because I knew the story well— "She never gave a chance to me!" that sentence held it all. A hundred times I'd lived the scene in days when I was small, A broken rule, a teacher vexed, hot rage where calm belonged, A guilty judgment blindly made—a youngster sadly wronged.

I still can see that little chap upon his homeward way, "She never gave a chance to me," I still can hear him say, And so I write this verse for him, and all the girls and boys Who shall their tutors now and then disturb with needless noise. Be fair, you teachers of our land, in every circumstance; Don't let some little fellow say he never had a chance.

Down the lanes of August—and the bees upon the wing— All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing; Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold, Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.

Mother Nature's brushes now with paints are dripping wet, Gorgeous is her canvas with the tints we can't forget; Here's a yellow wheat field—purple asters there— Riotous the colors that she's splashing everywhere.

Red the cheeks of apples and pink the peaches' bloom, Redolent the breezes with the sweetness of perfume; Everything is beauty, crowned by skies of clearest blue; Mother Earth is at her best once more for me and you.

Down the lanes of August, with her blossoms at our feet, Rich with gold and scarlet, dripping wet with honey sweet. Rich or poor, no matter, here are splendors spread— Down the lanes of August, for all who wish to tread.

Where is the road to Arcady, Where is the path that leads to peace, Where shall I find the bliss to be, Where shall the weary wanderings cease? These are the questions that come to me— Where is the road to Arcady?

Is there a mystic time and place To which some day shall the traveler fare, Where there is never a frowning face And never a burden hard to bear, Where we as children shall romp and race? Is there a mystic time and place?

For Arcady is an earthly sphere, Where only the gentlest breezes blow, A port of rest for the weary here, Where the velvet grass and the clover grow. I question it oft, is it far or near? For Arcady is an earthly sphere.

And the answer comes—it is very near, It's there at the end of a little street, Where your children's voices are ringing clear And you catch the patter of little feet. Where is the spot that is never drear? And the answer comes—it is very near.

For each man buildeth his Arcady, And each man fashions his Port of Rest; And never shall earth spot brighter be Than the little home that with peace is blessed. So seek it not o'er the land and sea— For each man buildeth his Arcady.

Behind full many a gift there lies A splendid tale of sacrifice.

On Christmas morn a mother's hand About a young girl's neck will place A trinket small, and she will stand With radiant smiles upon her face To see her daughter decked in gold— Nor will she think, nor will she care That she may suffer from the cold Because that bauble glistens there.

A child will wake on Christmas day And find his stocking filled with toys; The home will ring with laughter gay— That boy be glad as richer boys. And there a mother fond will sing A song of joy to hear his shout— Forgetting every needed thing That she will have to do without.

A heart that's brimming o'er with love Will suffer gladly for a friend, And take no time in thinking of How much it can afford to spend. And suddenly on Christmas morn Will gladness beam from shining eyes— A gladness that alone was born Of someone's willing sacrifice.

Let cynics scoff howe'er they will And say but fools such presents give, There'll be such sacrifices till All human love shall cease to live. 'Twould be a dreary world of thrift, Of barren ways, and sunless skies, If no one ever gave a gift That was not born of sacrifice.

The brightest gifts that us reward Are those the givers can't afford.

Who's dat knockin' at de do', Who's dat callin' here ter-day? What yo' want to see me fo'? Tell me what yo' got to say. What yo' name an' what yo' mean, Standin' out there in de gloam? Trouble, waitin' to come in? No sir, no sir, I ain't home!

Who's dat ringin' of de bell, Wakin' me in dead of night, When Ah was a-sleepin' well, Rousin' me wid such a fright? What yo' name and what yo' hurry? Seems to me yo're actin' queer. What's dat? Yo' is Mister Worry? No sir, no sir, I ain't here!

Who's dat waitin' at my do'? What yo' want a-hangin' round? Ain't yo' nebber gwine ter go? Jes' yo' quit dat knockin' sound. Tell me now jes' what yo' meant Callin' out my name dat way. What's dat? Yo' is Discontent? No sir, I ain't home ter-day!

Mornin'! Howdy, Mister Smile! Mornin' Sunshine, how yo' do? Ah'se been waitin' all de while Jes' ter get a call from you. Walk right in an' take a seat, Where's yo' brudder, Joy, ter-day? Jes' a-comin' down de street? Enter! Here's de place ter stay.

Giuseppe Tomassi ees stylisha chap, He wear da white collar an' cuff; He says: "For expanse I no giva da rap, Da basta ees not good enough." When out weeth hees Rosa he wear da silk hat, An' carry da cane lik' da lord; He spenda hees money lik' dees, an' lik' dat, For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.

He smoke da seegar with da beega da band, Da tree-for-da-quart' ees da kind; Da diamond dat flash from da back of hees hand Ees da beegest Giuseppe could find. He dress up hees Rosa in satin an' lace, She no longer scrub at da board, But putta da paint on de leeps an' da face, For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.

Giuseppe, ees strutta about lik' da king, An' laugh at da hard-worka man Who grinda da org' a few neekels to bring, Or sella da ripa banan'. Each morning he waxa da blacka moustache, Then walk up an' down through da ward; You betta he gotta da playnta da cash, For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.

It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns; Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns. Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field, And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed; Uncle Sam's Marines had orders: "Drive the Boche from where they're hid. For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!" And so they did.

I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told— None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold— How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat, With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle heat. It's a tale too big for writing; it's beyond the voice or pen, But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of men.

It's recorded as a battle, but I fancy it will live As the brightest gem of courage human struggles have to give. Inch by inch, they crawled to victory toward the flaming mouths of guns; Inch by inch, they crawled to grapple with the barricaded Huns; On through fields that death was sweeping with a murderous fire, they went Till the Teuton line was vanquished and the German strength was spent.

Ebbed and flowed the tides of battle, as they've seldom done before; Slowly, surely, moved the Yankees against all the odds of war. For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead, The living line of courage kept the faith and moved ahead. They'd been ordered not to falter, and when night came on they stood With Old Glory proudly flying o'er the trees of Belleau Wood.

When Pa came home last night he had a package in his hand; "Now, Ma," said he, "I've something here which you will say is grand. A friend of mine got home to-day from hunting in the woods, He's been away a week or two, and got back with the goods. He had a corking string of birds—I wish you could have seen 'em!" "If you've brought any partridge home," said Ma, "you'll have to clean 'em."

"Now listen, Ma," said Pa to her, "these birds are mighty rare. I know a lot of men who'd pay a heap to get a pair. But it's against the law to sell this splendid sort of game, And if you bought 'em you would have to use a different name. It isn't every couple has a pair to eat between 'em." "If you got any partridge there," says Ma, "you'll have to clean 'em."

"Whenever kings want something fine, it's partridge that they eat, And millionaires prefer 'em, too, to any sort of meat. About us everywhere to-night are folks who'd think it fine If on a brace of partridge they could just sit down to dine. They've got a turkey skinned to death, they're sweeter than a chicken." "If that's what you've brought home," says Ma, "you'll have to do the pickin'."

And then Pa took the paper off and showed Ma what he had. "There, look at those two beauties! Don't they start you feelin' glad? An' ain't your mouth a-waterin' to think how fine they'll be When you've cooked 'em up for dinner, one for you an' one for me?" But Ma just turned her nose up high, an' said, when she had seen 'em, "You'll never live to eat 'em if you wait for me to clean 'em."

We nodded as we passed each day And smiled and went along our way; I knew his name, and he knew mine, But neither of us made a sign That we possessed a common tie; We barely spoke as we passed by.

How fine he was I never guessed. The splendid soul within his breast I never saw. From me were hid The many kindly deeds he did. His gentle ways I didn't know, Or I'd have claimed him long ago.

Then trouble came to me one day, And he was first to come and say The cheering words I longed to hear. He offered help, and standing near I felt our lives in sorrow blend— My neighbor had become my friend.

How many smiles from day to day I've missed along my narrow way; How many kindly words I've lost, What joy has my indifference cost? This glorious friend that now I know, Would have been friendly years ago.

Stick to it, boy, Through the thick and the thin of it! Work for the joy That is born of the din of it. Failures beset you, But don't let them fret you; Dangers are lurking, But just keep on working. If it's worth while and you're sure of the right of it, Stick to it, boy, and make a real fight of it!

Stick to it, lad, Be not frail and afraid of it; Stand to the gad For the man to be made of it. Deaf to the sneering And blind to the jeering, Willing to master The present disaster, Stick to it, lad, through the trial and test of it, Patience and courage will give you the best of it.

Stick to it, youth, Be not sudden to fly from it; This is the truth, Triumph may not far lie from it Dark is the morning Before the sun's dawning, Battered and sore of it Bear a bit more of it, Stick to it, even though blacker than ink it is, Victory's nearer, perhaps, than you think it is!

There's a smile on the face of the mother to-day, The furrows of pain have been scattered away, Her eyes tell a story of wondrous delight As she looks at the baby who came through the night. It's plain she's as happy and proud as can be, But you ought to see me!

The nurse wears her cap in its jauntiest style, And she says: "Oh, my dear, there's a baby worth while! She's the pink of perfection, as sweet as a rose, And I never have seen such a cute little nose." Were it proper for nurses she'd dance in her glee, But you ought to see me!

Bud's eyes are ablaze with the glory of joy, And he has forgotten he'd asked for a boy. He stands by her crib and he touches her cheek And would bring all the kids on the street for a peek. Oh, the pride in his bearing is something to see, But you ought to see me!

You may guess that the heart of the mother is glad, But for arrogant happiness gaze on the dad. For the marvelous strut and the swagger of pride, For the pomp of conceit and the smile satisfied, For joy that's expressed in the highest degree, Take a good look at me!

This is the tale of a mortgage and a dead man and his son, A father who left to his only child a duty that must be done. And the neighbors said as they gathered round in the neighbor's curious way: "Too bad, too bad that he left his boy so heavy a debt to pay."

Day by day through the years that came, the mortgage held him fast— Straight and true to his task he went, and he paid the debt at last; And his arm grew strong and his eye kept bright, and although he never knew, The thing that fashioned a man of him was the task he had to do.

Honor and fortune crowned his brow till the day he came to die, But he said: "My boy shall never work against such odds as I. I have planned his years, I have made them safe, I have paid his journey through." And the boy looked out on a world wherein there was nothing for him to do.

His hands grew soft and his eyes went dull and his cheeks turned ashy pale, For strength which isn't employed by day, with idleness grows stale. "He is not the man that his father was," the neighbors often said, "And better for him had he been left to work for his meat and bread."

Oh, the race dies out and the clan departs, and feeble grows the son When they come at last to the dreadful day when all of the work is done. For manhood dies on the roads of ease where the skies are ever blue, And each of us needs, if we shall grow strong, some difficult thing to do.

Jimmy McBride was a common sense lad, The son of a common sense mother and dad Who had borne him and bred him to labor. He'd been taught what a common sense lad understands, That the Lord in His wisdom had given him hands For handling a pick or a sabre.

"Your feet are for walking," his father once said, "To see with, God gave you two eyes in your head, And your mouth is for eating and drinking; And that you'll remember I'm making it plain, You've also been given what men call a brain, And the brain is put in there for thinking.

"Now you've all the equipment the greatest possess, And some men have risen to glory with less, So don't be afraid, but go to it; If it's honest, and useful, and ought to be done, Don't think it beneath you, but jump in, my son— Go straight to your duty and do it."

When Jimmy came home with the dirt on his face They never once said: "It's a shame and disgrace! Poor boy, you are worn out and weary!" No pity for Jimmy his labors inspired. His old father said: "It is sweet to be tired, It makes the home-coming so cheery."

His old mother said with the pride in her eye, "There's nothing like work to put flavor in pie. Come in and sit down to your dinner." And they said to themselves when he'd gone to his bed, "He's earning his way and he's forging ahead— Our Jimmy McBride is a winner."

And when their old age came upon them at last, No touch of regret stole the joy from the past, Nor envy of happier neighbor. And they thanked the good Lord who had sent them their Jim That they'd had the wisdom in dealing with him To teach him the value of labor.

There isn't any pay for you, you serve without reward; The boys who tramp the fields with you but little could afford; And yet your pay is richer far than men who toil for gold, For in a dozen different ways your service shall be told.

You'll read it in the faces of a troop of growing boys, You'll read it in the pleasure of a dozen manly joys; And down the distant future—you will surely read it then, Emblazoned through the service of a band of loyal men.

Five years of willing labor and of brothering a troop; Five years of trudging highways, with the Indian cry and whoop; Five years of camp fires burning, not alone for pleasure's sake, But the future generation which these boys are soon to make.

They have no gold to give you, but when age comes on to you They'll give you back the splendid things you taught them how to do; They'll give you rich contentment and a thrill of honest pride And you'll see your nation prosper, and you'll all be satisfied.

She wasn't hungry, so she said. A salad and a cup of tea Was all she felt that she could eat, but it was different with me. "I'm rather hungry," I replied: "if you don't mind, I think I'll take Some oysters to begin with and a good old-fashioned sirloin steak."

Now wives are curious in this; to make the statement blunt and straight, There's nothing tempts their appetites like food upon another's plate; And when those oysters six appeared she looked at them and said to me, "Just let me try one, will you, dear?" and right away she swallowed three.

On came the steak, and promptly she exclaimed: "Oh my, that looks so good! I think I'd like a bit of it." The game is one I understood. I cut her off a healthy piece and never whimpered when she said: "Now just a few potatoes, dear, and also let me share your bread."

She wasn't hungry! She'd refused the food I had been glad to buy, But on the meal which came for me, I know she turned a hungry eye. She never cares for much to eat, she's dainty in her choice, I'll state, But she gets ravenous enough to eat whatever's on my plate.

He'd been delivering a load of coal, and a five-ton truck he steered; He wasn't a pretty sight to see with his four days' growth of beard. His clothes were such as a coal man wears, and the fine folks passing by Would have scorned the touch of his dirty hands and the look in his weary eye.

He rattled and banged along the road, sick of his job, no doubt, When in front of his truck, from a hidden spot, a dog and a child dashed out And he couldn't stop, so he made one leap from the height of his driver's seat And he caught the child with those dirty hands and swept her from the street.

Over his legs went the heavy wheels, and they picked him up for dead, And the rich man's wife placed her sable coat as a pillow for his head. And black as he was, the rich man said: "He shall travel home with me." And he sat by his side in the limousine and was proud of his company.

You may walk in pride in your garments fine, you may judge by the things of show, But what's deep in the breast of the man you scorn is something you cannot know. And you'd kiss the hand of the dirtiest man that ever the world has known If to save the life of the child you love, he had bravely risked his own.

He must come back a better man, Beneath the summer bronze and tan, Who turns his back on city strife To neighbor with the trees; He must be stronger for the fight And see with clearer eye the right, Who fares beneath the open sky And welcomes every breeze.

The man who loves all living things Enough to go where Nature flings Her glories everywhere about, And dwell with them awhile, Must be, when he comes back once more, A little better than before, A little surer of his faith And readier to smile.

He never can be wholly bad Who seeks the sunshine and is glad To hear a songbird's melody Or wade a laughing stream; Nor worse than when he went away Will he return at close of day Who's chummed with happy birds and trees, And taken time to dream.

Give me a book and my cozy chair and a pipe of old perique And the wind may howl and I shall not care that the night is cold and bleak, For I'll follow my friend of the printed page wherever he leads me on, I'll follow him back to a vanished age and the joys of a life that's gone.

I'll stand with him on a brigantine with the salt wind in my face, I'll hear him shout when the whale is seen and share in the stirring chase, And I'll hear him say as the gulls fly by and round us overhead: "Every bird up there with its ghastly cry is the soul of a sailor dead."

I'll go with him where the pole star gleams and the arctic nights are long, I'll go with him to his land of dreams away from the surging throng, I'll stand with him on the battle line where the sky with flame turns red, I'll follow this faithful friend of mine wherever he wants to tread.

Oh, whether it be adventure grim or the calm of a noble mind, Or a sea to sail and a ship to trim or a pearl of truth to find, Grant me an hour in my easy chair and a pipe full of old perique And there's ever a friendly book up there that can furnish the joy I seek.

The time I played with Vardon, I was surely on my game, The gallery was greeting every shot with loud acclaim. I was driving right with Harry, and was getting home in two, And every trick that Vardon tried, I showed that I could do; I had the Briton worried—I could tell it from his look, For I was doing everything he'd printed in his book.

I'd held him level several holes, and then the crowd began, In a fever of excitement, to applaud me to a man; Men were whispering together, "Eddie's surely right today— He is just as good as Vardon! Oh, it's great to watch him play!" Then Vardon tried a long one, but his ball just missed the cup, And I dropped my twenty-footer for a birdie and was up!

Nip-and-tuck out there we battled, and I ventured soon to guess If I could keep it going, I'd make Mr. Vardon press; He was very nice about it, but when I'd got home in two I noticed he was lunging like I often used to do. Then he dubbed a shot completely, when I'd played a perfect cleek, And I whispered to my caddie: "Vardon sometimes takes a peek!"

I was just one up on Vardon on the good old eighteenth tee, And a half was all I needed for my greatest victory. I was confident of winning—calm and cool about it, too; I wasn't going to falter, for I knew what I could do. I looked the distance over, then I made a perfect stroke— But just then the missus shook me, and confound it! I awoke!

Teach the children of the Flag, Let them know the joy it holds In its sun-kissed rippling folds; Don't let patriotism lag: Train them so that they will love Every star and stripe above.

As you teach their lips to pray, Teach them always to be true To the red, the white and blue; Praise the Flag from day to day, Tell the children at your knee All the joys of liberty.

Let them know and understand How the Flag was born and why; Tell how brave men went to die Gladly for their native land; Whisper to them that they must Make the Flag their sacred trust.

Love of country ever starts In the home and at your knee; There the Flag shall come to be Shrined in patriotic hearts; They shall gladly serve their land When they know and understand.

The other night 'bout two o'clock, or maybe it was three, An elephant with shining tusks came chasing after me. His trunk was wavin' in the air an' spoutin' jets of steam An' he was out to eat me up, but still I didn't scream Or let him see that I was scared—a better thought I had, I just escaped from where I was and crawled in bed with dad.

One time there was a giant who was horrible to see, He had three heads and twenty arms, an' he come after me And red hot fire came from his mouths and every hand was red And he declared he'd grind my bones and make them into bread. But I was just too smart for him, I fooled him mighty bad, Before his hands could collar me I crawled in bed with dad.

I ain't scared of nothing that comes pesterin' me at night. Once I was chased by forty ghosts all shimmery an' white, An' I just raced 'em round the room an' let 'em think maybe I'd have to stop an' rest awhile, when they could capture me. Then when they leapt onto my bed, Oh Gee! but they were mad To find that I had slipped away an' crawled in bed with dad.

No giants, ghosts or elephants have dared to come in there 'Coz if they did he'd beat 'em up and chase 'em to their lair. They just hang 'round the children's rooms an' snap an' snarl an' bite An' laugh if they can make 'em yell for help with all their might, But I don't ever yell out loud. I'm not that sort of lad, I slip from out the covers and I crawl in bed with dad.

Nellie made a cup of tea, Made and poured it out for me, And above the steaming brew Smiled and asked me: "One or two?" Saucily she tossed her head, "Make it sweet for me," I said.

Two sweet lumps of sugar fell Into that small china well, But I knew the while I drained Every drop the cup contained, More than sugar in the tea Made the beverage sweet for me.

This to her I tried to say In that golden yesterday— Life is like a cup of tea Which Time poureth endlessly, Brewed by trial's constant heat, Needing love to make it sweet.

Then I caught her looking up, And I held my dainty cup Out to her and bravely said: "Here is all that lies ahead, Here is all my life to be— Will you make it sweet for me?"

That was years ago, and now There is silver in her brow; We have sorrowed, we have smiled, We've been hurt and reconciled— But whatever had to be, She has made it sweet for me.

When melancholy rides the sky and fills The distance with her dust of gloom and doubt, And from despair there seems no gateway out; When the cold blast of disappointment chills The green young buds of hope and the once rosy hills Stand gaunt, forbidding battlements, too stout For faltering strength to master, ere it kills Faith in high purpose, turn your face about.

Search the great past, the ages that have gone; Pause and reflect by some remembered grave; At Valley Forge once more with Washington, Learn what it means to suffer and be brave. Or stand with patient Lincoln and believe That what is right, its purpose shall achieve.

I met him in a college town, a youngster with a grin, And he was sweeping up the floor when I was ushered in. When I had registered my name, he put aside his broom To grab my suitcase from the floor and show me to my room.

That night at dinner I beheld that youngster at my side, "We've pork and lamb," said he to me, "potatoes, baked or fried." When I had made my choice of food, he gayly went away And when he next appeared he had my dinner on a tray.

"So you're a waiter too?" said I. He chuckled soft and low: "Three times a day it is my job the dishes round to throw. I'm bell hop in the afternoons, between times I'm the clerk, But I can get my lessons when I've finished up my work.

"I'm on my way through college, and I'm paying for it here, Some day I'll chuck this job and be a civil engineer. I want an education, and the only way I had Was to come and be a waiter, for I haven't any dad."

I don't know how to say it, but some day I know I'll hear, If I still am with the living, of a civil engineer Who has earned his way to glory, and I'll smile at his renown And say: "There stands the waiter of that little college town."

It's wanting keeps us young and fit. It's wanting something just ahead And striving hard to come to it, That brightens every road we tread.

That man is old before his time Who is supremely satisfied And does not want some hill to climb Or something life has still denied.

The want of poverty is grim, It has a harsh and cruel sting, But fill the cup up to the brim, And that's a far more hopeless thing.

A man must want from day to day, Must want to reach a distant goal Or claim some treasure far away, For want's the builder of the soul.

He who has ceased to want has dropped The working tools of life and stands Much like an old-time clock that's stopped While Time is mouldering his hands.

I'm truly sorry for the man, Though he be millionaire or king, Who does not hold some cherished plan And says he does not want a thing.

Want is the spur that drives us on And oft its praises should be sung, For man is old when want is gone— It's what we want that keeps us young.

Bill and Jim drove into town on a pleasant summer day, Puffed their pipes and talked of things in a friendly sort of way, Talked of crops and politics, neighbors and the price of nails, Then, as they were jogging on, passed a fellow splitting rails. "Who's that yonder, Bill?" says Jim, "I don't seem to know his face." "That's Abe Lincoln," answered Bill—"got a shabby sort of place."

Lawsuit going on one day, Bill and Jim had time to spare, Dropped into the court awhile, found most all their neighbors there. "Moonlight night," one witness said—prisoner's chances mighty small, Till his lawyer rose and proved there wasn't any moon at all. "Who's defending him?" says Jim, "rather clever, I should say." "That's Abe Lincoln," answered Bill, "homely as a bale of hay."

Politics was getting hot, meetings almost every night, Orators from north and south talking loudly for the right. Bill and Jim were always there cheering for their party's cause, Then one time a chap got up talking morals more than laws. "Who's that speaking now?" says Jim, "think I've seen his face before." "That's Abe Lincoln," answered Bill, "shall we go or hear some more?"

Moral of it isn't much, greatness may be round about, But when seen from day to day men are slow to find it out. Those who saw him splitting rails, those who heard him plead a case Passed him by with little thought, laughing at his homely face. Those who neighbored with the boy, those who saw his summer tan, Those who lived in Lincoln's time never really knew the man.

Bill is a mushroom expert, and Bill is a friend of mine, He has studied the amanita and all its ancestral line; He goes to the fields each autumn to harvest a dinner treat For he knows which are deadly fungi, and which are the ones to eat.

Bill can talk by the hour on mushrooms and he laughs at my timid fears, He is still in the land of the living and has eaten the things for years; He is wise in the lore of the meadow, the swamp and the dark ravine, And I'd say, of the mushroom experts, he's the best that I've ever seen.

If ever I gathered mushrooms I'd carry them back to Bill And ask him to look them over and pick out the ones that kill; I'd trust to his certain knowledge and bank on his judgment, too, For he is a shark on that stuff and can spiel it right off to you.

Bill knows 'em and loves 'em and eats 'em, and all through the days of fall He's out with his little basket in search of the snowy ball; And never I doubt his knowledge, I grant it surpasses mine— But during the mushroom season I don't go to Bill's to dine.

Used to think I'd like to go To the town I used to know As a little bare-foot lad, Tanned of cheek an' always glad. But it's been so long since I Told the good old friends good-bye An' set out for wealth an' fame, That it cannot be the same, An' maybe I'd better not Spoil the picture that I've got.

Bill's been back, an' he tells me Town's not what it used to be; That old Barker's grocery store Isn't open any more, An' most folks we knew are gone, Moved away or traveled on To a brighter realm than this; An' the girls we used to kiss An' go courtin' with, somehow Don't seem half so pretty now.

Folks have told me that the farm Where I lived has lost its charm An' they've paved the dusty street Which was velvet to our feet, An' it's now a thoroughfare With the hum of motors there; Wouldn't want to lose the joy That I've treasured from a boy— Guess I'd better keep always Memories of those happier days.

I'm afraid of goin' back. Memory still keeps the track To those favorite haunts of mine Like a painted canvas fine, An' the old spots live with me Just the way they used to be; An' to see them now would seem Much like shattering a dream, So the town shall live with me Just the way it used to be.

I envy him his care-free way, I envy him his smile, The highway is his own domain, he rules it every mile; The king who drives about by day, sends couriers on ahead And buglers gay and soldiers brave, a path for him to spread; But he may go his way alone nor fear that he'll be struck, For monarch of the highway is the driver of the truck.

When I go driving down the road I must obey the rules, I must watch out for all who come, the sane men and the fools, And I must guard that car of mine with vigilance and care, For even trifling accidents might strand me then and there; But let who will bump into him, he's never out of luck, No pleasure car can ever stop the driver of the truck.

He sits his seat in confidence, serene and quite content, His heavy wheels are never dished, his axles never bent; A locomotive engineer might jolt him from his place, But nothing short of that would bring a tremor to his face. He laughs his cheerful way along, too big for men to buck, And even millionaires must dodge the driver of the truck.

Oh, kings and kaisers overthrown, who live in exile now, And princes of the royal blood whose heads have had to bow Before the people's mightier will, if you'd once more regain The arrogance of happier days before they closed your reign, You still can make the lowly flee and force the throngs to duck— Just hustle out and get a job as driver of a truck.

Since Pa put in the radio we have a lot of fun, We hustle to my room upstairs as soon as supper's done And Pa he tinkers with the discs to get it loud and clear, Then says: "Wait just a minute now, there's nothing yet to hear. Oh, now it's coming! Silence there! Now don't you move a thing. Say Ma, this is a marvelous age—a lady's going to sing!"

Then Ma she listens for awhile, as pleased as she can be And when I want to hear it, too, she says, "Don't bother me! Your turn comes next and sister's, too; don't jump around that way, I want to hear the orchestra—it's just begun to play. I wish you children wouldn't fuss, I'm sure I cannot hear While you are trying all the time to snatch it from my ear."

Then Pa takes up the thing awhile and says: "Oh, that's just great! A man is telling stories now. You kids will have to wait. It's wonderful to think his voice is floating in the air And people sitting in their homes can hear it everywhere— All right, all right! It's your turn now. Perhaps this man will teach You youngsters how you should behave. A parson's going to preach."

Pa put that radio in for me—at least he told me so, But if it's really mine or not, is something I don't know, 'Coz Pa he wants it all himself, to hear the funny things, An' Ma must hear the concerts through when some great artist sings, But when the parson starts to talk on Selfishness an' Sin, Pa says: "Now it has come the time for you to listen in."

It was a little yellow dog, a wistful thing to see, A homely, skinny, battered pup, as dirty as could be; His ribs were showing through his hide, his coat was thick with mud, And yet the way he wagged his tail completely captured Bud.

He had been kicked from door to door and stoned upon his way, "Begone!" was all he'd ever heard, 'twas all that folks would say; And yet this miserable cur, forever doomed to roam, Struck up a comradeship with Bud, who proudly brought him home.

I've never seen so poor a dog in all my stretch of years, The burrs were thick upon his tail and thick upon his ears; He'd had to fight his way through life and carried many a scar, But still Bud brought him home and cried: "Say, can I keep him, Ma?"

I think the homeless terrier knows that age is harsh and stern, And from the shabby things of life in scorn is quick to turn; And when some scrubby yellow dog needs sympathy and joy, He's certain of a friend in need, if he can find a boy.

A fairy and a robin met Beside a bed of mignonette. The robin bowed and raised his hat, And smiled a smile as wide as—that— Then said: "Miss Fairy, I declare, I'd kiss you, only I don't dare."

The fairy curtsied low and said: "Your breast is such a lovely red, And you are such a handsome thing, And, oh, such pretty songs you sing— I'd gladly kiss you now, but I May only kiss a butterfly."

The robin spoke a silly word: "I'm sorry I was born a bird! Were I a fairy-man instead, Then you and I might some day wed." The fairy laughed and said: "My dear, God had to have some robins here.

"Be glad you're what you are and sing And cheer the people in the Spring. I play with children as I'm told, But you bring joy to young and old, And it seems always strange to me I'm one the old folks never see."

The robin spoke: "Perhaps it's best. I'll sing my songs and show my breast And be a robin, and you stay And share in all the children's play. God needs us both, so let us try To do our duty—you and I."

How do I know they said these things? I saw the robin spread his wings, I saw the fairy standing up Upon a golden buttercup, I hid myself behind a wall And listened close and heard it all.

How many times we've said good night And kissed her as we turned away, Knowing that with the morning light She'd greet the beauty of the day.

We left her sleeping in her bed And tiptoed gently from her room, And when the soft "good night" was said, The parting brought no touch of gloom.

She would be there when we should rise, To greet us with her lovely smile— The sunbeams dancing in her eyes, And night seemed such a little while.

Her spirit, till the break of day, Would leave this little world of ours For brighter realms wherein to play, Where fairies danced among the flowers.

Sometimes we watched her as she dreamed And knew that she was free from care, And always lovelier she seemed When morning found her smiling there.

"Good night, good night! sweet Marjorie!" We will be brave with you away. Some glad to-morrow there shall be, We'll come to you at break of day.

The ordinary fellow does an ordinary task, He's mighty fond of "good enough" and lets it go at that; But the chap who gets promoted, or the raise he doesn't ask, Has just a little something more than hair beneath his hat.

The ordinary fellow lives an ordinary day, With the ordinary fellow he is anxious to be quit; But the chap who draws attention and the larger weekly pay, Has a vision for the future and is working hard for it.

He tackles every problem with the will to see it through, He does a little thinking of the work that comes to hand; His eyes are always open for the more that he can do, You never find him idle, merely waiting a command.

The ordinary fellow does precisely as he's told, But someone has to tell him what to do, and how, and when; But the chap who gets promoted fills the job he has to hold With just a little something more than ordinary men.

It seemed an unimportant task, Too trifling for a chief to ask, A little thing, nor could he see The need to do it thoroughly; He fancied none could ever tell Whether he did it very well Or slighted it, yet, truth to say, On him depended much that day.

He was to nail a wooden crate, No chance in that for splendor great, No chance to prove his gift of skill, A thankless post was his to fill; Well nailed or not, 'twould be the same, The world would never learn his name— And yet that wooden crate was filled With what had taken months to build.

He did not see or understand Just what was passing 'neath his hand— That as that wooden crate was nailed, A plan succeeded or it failed; That miles away men stood in wait Depending on that simple crate, For not a wheel could turn or drive Until it safely should arrive.

He drove his nails, and let it go, Thinking that none would ever know Whose hand had held the hammer there Or, knowing it, would ever care; Yet in a few brief days there came The news that burned his cheeks with shame: "Broken in shipment and we stay Facing another month's delay."

Vain is the skill of workmen great; Unless the boy who makes the crate Shall give his best to driving nails, The work of all the others fails. There is no unimportant task. Whatever duty life may ask, On it depends the greater plan— There is no unimportant man!

Bill and I went fishing. Quit our beds at four, Got a hasty breakfast and softly closed the door, Packed the bait and tackle, pushed the boat away, Took the oars and started—without a word to say.

Lake was smooth as crystal, sun was breaking through With a blaze of glory—old, but always new; Bill and I both watched it, grateful for the day, Spellbound by the beauty—but not a word to say.

Threw the anchor over, started in to fish, Heard the reels a-clicking, heard the wet lines swish, Now and then we'd get one big enough to play, Sport and plenty of it—but not a word to say.

Bill was busy dreaming, I was thinking, too, Lazy-like and wondering what makes skies so blue; Puffed our pipes in silence, let our minds just stray 'Round and 'round about us—but not a word to say.

Got back home that evening, happy as could be, I was proud of William, he was proud of me, Just the pal for fishing. Here's the common touch— Said it of each other—"Never talks too much."

They found the great stone rolled away And Him whom men had crucified, With cruel spears had pierced His side And mocked with jests and gibes that day, Gone from the darkness and the gloom Of Death's grim tomb.

Where He had slept in Death's embrace The linen of His shroud was piled, And white-robed angels gently smiled And bade them walk into the place. "The Lord is risen!" to them they said, "He is not dead."

Keep ye the faith and still be brave! From every tomb that Easter day The stone of death was rolled away; The soul lives on beyond the grave, Death is but rest from pain and strife— The gate to life!

October and the crimsoned trees, The smell of smoke upon the breeze, The morning mist and autumn's chill, The brown of death upon the hill— And yet, a sense of loveliness Which pen or brush cannot express.

A strange, mysterious calm which seems The canvas of a thousand dreams; The calm of duty nobly done, The peace of battles truly won, The joy with which all hearts are thrilled, A sense of promises fulfilled.

Beyond October winter waits To pile its snow before the gates; What men call death shall hurl its stroke Alike at plant or giant oak— And yet beneath the snowdrifts deep We know the violets merely sleep.

Mankind has its October, too, When little more there is to do, And we may claim the sweet content Of strength that has been nobly spent— And yet we fear, when comes the snow, There is no spring where we shall go.

October with its lovely breath Voices the cry: there is no death! Men read it in a thousand ways; We see beyond the mist and haze Which shroud the hills and valleys deep, That all shall wake who fall asleep.

Dresses high and dresses low, Fashion bids them come and go; Tresses bobbed and tresses long, Fashion sways the moving throng; What was new becomes the old, Thus this changing life is told. First we view it with a smile, Then adopt the latest style— But with all the passing days, Mothers never change their ways.

Gay of heart and bright of face, Fashion seems to rule the place. With the swinging of the clock Youth gives Age another shock, Flaunting into public view Something Age would never do, Laughing at us when we preach, Scornful of us when we teach— But with all of fashion's wiles, Mothers never change their styles.

Motherhood's no fickle thing, To be changed each fall and spring; As it was, so it remains, Spite of all its cares and pains. Joy may call and pleasure lure But a mother's love is pure, And the baby sinks to rest, Pillowed on her lovely breast, Closing little drowsy eyes To the softest lullabies.

Mothers worry night and day When their children are away; Mothers grieve when they are ill, Always have and always will. They would shield you with their care Every day and every where, And they're happy through and through At the slightest smile from you— To the ending of their days Mothers never change their ways.

High chair days are the best of all, Or so they seem to me, Days when tumbler and platter fall And the King smiles merrily; When the regal arms and the regal feet A constant patter of music beat, And the grown-ups bow in a gracious way To the high chair monarch who rules the day.

High chair days, and the throne not dressed In golden or purple hues But an old style thing, let it be confessed, His grandmother used to use; Its legs are scarred and a trifle bowed, But the king who sits on the chair is proud, And he throws his rattle and silver cup For the joy of making us pick them up.

The old high chair in the dining room Is a handsomer thing by far Than the costly chairs in the lonely gloom Of the childless mansions are, For the sweetest laughter the world has known Comes day by day from that humble throne, And the happiest tables, morn and night, Have a high chair placed at the mother's right.

The old high chair is a joy sublime, Yet it brings us its hour of pain, For we've put it away from time to time, Perhaps never to need again; Yet God was good, and the angles tapped, And again was the old high chair unwrapped, And proud was I when I heard the call To bring it back to the dining hall.

There are griefs to meet and cares to face Through the years that lie ahead; The proudest monarch must lose his place And lie with the splendid dead; I know there are blows I shall have to meet, I must pay with the bitter for all life's sweet, But I live in dread of that coming day When forever the high chair goes away.

There is a reason, I suppose, for everything which comes— Why youngsters fall from apple trees and babies suck their thumbs; And though I can't explain it all, when trouble comes I know That since by Providence 'tis willed, it must be wiser so. But knowing this, I still insist we'd all be better off If little children could escape the dreaded whooping cough.

I never see a red-faced child in spasms violent But what I wonder why to babes such suffering is sent. Though mumps and measles, chicken pox and scarlet fever, too, Beset the lives of those I love, I still can see them through; But terror seems to chill my blood the minute that I hear That awful sign that someone's child with whooping cough is near.

Old women say it has to be, but I grow pale as death When I behold a boy or girl in anguish fight for breath. They tell me not to be alarmed, but I'm not made of steel, And every touch of agony the youngster has, I feel; And could I run this world of ours, the first thing I'd cut off From all the things which have to be, would be the whooping cough.