The Passing Throng

If It's Worth While

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 Letter

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?

The Tower Clock

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.

The Busy Summer Cottage

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.

Good Enough

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."

The Chimney Piece

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.

The Crocus

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.

My Goals

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.

The Carpet on the Stairs

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.

Horse and Cutter Days

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.

The Old-Time Lilac Bush

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.

A Boy's Feet

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.

Old-Fashioned Remedies

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 Tumbler at the Sink

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.

The Garden Catalogue

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 on the Earth

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

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.

Old-Fashioned Dinners

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 Dreamer

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.

Hot Mince Pie

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.

The Laughing Boy

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

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

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

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

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.

The Carving Knife

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

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.

When the Soap Gets in Your Eye

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.

"Our Little House"

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.

Spring Fever

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."

Father Song

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.

The Boy

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.

I Don't Want to Go to Bed

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."

Morning Brigands

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.

Grief's Only Master

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!

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