All That Matters

by

EDGAR A. GUEST

With Pictures
by

W. T. BENDA M. L. BOWER
F. X. LEYENDECKER
F. C. YOHN H. C. PITZ
ROBERT E. JOHNSTON
HARVEY EMRICH
PRUETT CARTER

THE REILLY & LEE CO.
Chicago

Printed in the United States of America

Copyright, 1922
by
The Reilly & Lee Co.

All Rights Reserved

Illustrations Copyrighted, 1920, 1921, 1922
by The International Magazine Company
and reproduced by special
arrangement with
the Cosmopolitan Magazine

Second Printing—August, 1922
Third Printing—October, 1922

All That Matters

"All That Matters" From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker. "All That Matters"
From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker.

INDEX

Poem Page

Accomplished Care 66
Afraid of His Dad 94
All That Matters 9
Boy and His Dad, A 36
Boy's Ideal, The 30
Bread and Gravy 38
Bulb Planting Time 67
Call, The 11
Clinching the Bolt 50
Common Touch, The 32
Denial 72
Effort 86
Example 53
Family Doctor, The 70
Forgetful Pa 18
Frosting Dish, The 24
God Made This Day For Me 16
Grate Fire, The 40
Harder Part, The 62
His Other Chance 68
His Pa 52
Homely Man, The 76
Joys We Miss, The 44
Just Half of That, Please 31
Just Like a Man 48
Kindly Neighbor, The 42
Life 80
Little Feet 46
Living 88
Lonely Old Fellow, The 82
Marjorie 33
Mother and the Baby 12
Motherhood 20
Need, The 56
Newspaper Man, The 34
Old-Fashioned Letters 14
One In Ten, The 91
Play the Game 26
Playing For Keeps 22
Service 96
Somebody Else 84
Success 81
Tears Expressive, The 43
Ten-Fingered Mice 58
Things They Mustn't Touch, The 60
To a Young Man 92
Unchangeable Mother 78
Until She Died 10
Warm House and a Ruddy Fire, A 90
When the Young are Grown 28
Winding the Clock 54
Workman's Dream, The 74
Youth 64

"All That Matters"
Is Dedicated
To My Wife
Who Is
All To Me

E. A. G.

ALL THAT MATTERS

When all that matters shall be written down
And the long record of our years is told,
Where sham, like flesh, must perish and grow cold;
When the tomb closes on our fair renown
And priest and layman, sage and motleyed clown
Must quit the places which they dearly hold,
What to our credit shall we find enscrolled?
And what shall be the jewels of our crown?
I fancy we shall hear to our surprise
Some little deeds of kindness, long forgot,
Telling our glory, and the brave and wise
Deeds which we boasted often, mentioned not.
God gave us life not just to buy and sell,
And all that matters is to live it well.

UNTIL SHE DIED

Until she died we never knew
The beauty of our faith in God.
We'd seen the summer roses nod
And wither as the tempests blew,
Through many a spring we'd lived to see
The buds returning to the tree.

We had not felt the touch of woe;
What cares had come, had lightly flown;
Our burdens we had borne alone—
The need of God we did not know.
It seemed sufficient through the days
To think and act in worldly ways.

And then she closed her eyes in sleep;
She left us for a little while;
No more our lives would know her smile.
And oh, the hurt of it went deep!
It seemed to us that we must fall
Before the anguish of it all.

Our faith, which had not known the test,
Then blossomed with its comfort sweet,
Promised that some day we should meet
And whispered to us: "He knows best."
And when our bitter tears were dried,
We found our faith was glorified.

THE CALL

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree, and the birds a-wing,
Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king;
I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet,
Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.

I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool,
Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;
I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard,
Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.

Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook;
I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm weary of reading a printed book;
I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel,
And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.

MOTHER AND THE BABY

Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair,
For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there;
And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms,
The picture they present is one with never-fading charms.

Mother and the baby—and the mother's eye aglow
With joys that only mothers see and only mothers know!
And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame,
And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came.

I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother sing
The lullabies of babyhood, but I start wondering
How much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or brave
Is of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave.

""Mother And The Baby" From a drawing by W. T. Benda." "Mother And The Baby"
From a drawing by W. T. Benda.

"Just like a mother!" Oh, to be so tender and so true,
No man has reached so high a plane with all he's dared to do.
And yet, I think she understands, with every step she takes
And every care that she bestows, it is the man she makes.

Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can see
Her life being given gladly to the man that is to be,
And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies,
She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise.

OLD-FASHIONED LETTERS

Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!
And nobody writes them now;
Never at all comes in the scrawl
On the written pages which told us all
The news of town and the folks we knew,
And what they had done or were going to do.
It seems we've forgotten how
To spend an hour with our pen in hand
To write in the language we understand.

Old-fashioned letters we used to get
And ponder each fond line o'er;
The glad words rolled like running gold,
As smoothly their tales of joy they told,
And our hearts beat fast with a keen delight
As we read the news they were pleased to write
And gathered the love they bore.
But few of the letters that come to-day
Are penned to us in the old-time way.

Old-fashioned letters that told us all
The tales of the far away;
Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen;
And better than any fine magazine
Was the writing too, for it bore the style
Of a simple heart and a sunny smile,
And was pure as the breath of May.
Some of them oft were damp with tears,
But those were the letters that lived for years.

Old-fashioned letters! How good they were!
And, oh, how we watched the mails;
But nobody writes of the quaint delights
Of the sunny days and the merry nights
Or tells us the things that we yearn to know—
That art passed out with the long ago,
And lost are the simple tales;
Yet we all would happier be, I think,
If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.

GOD MADE
THIS DAY FOR ME

Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort o' sky
Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by
On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist,
With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist
That the Lord that made us humans an' the birds in every tree
Knows my special sort o' weather an' He made this day fer me.

This is jes' my style o' weather—sunshine floodin' all the place,
An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face.
An' the woods chock-full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had
A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.
Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,
An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

"God Made This Day For Me" From a painting by M. L. Bower. "God Made This Day For Me"
From a painting by M. L. Bower.

It's my day, sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze.
Here's the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please—
Beauty dancin' all around me, music ringin' everywhere,
Like a weddin' celebration. Why, I've plumb fergot my care
An' the tasks I should be doin' fer the rainy days to be,
While I'm huggin' the delusion that God made this day fer me.

FORGETFUL PA

My Pa says that he used to be
A bright boy in geography;
An' when he went to school he knew
The rivers an' the mountains, too,
An' all the capitals of states
An' bound'ry lines an' all the dates
They joined the union. But last night
When I was studyin' to recite
I asked him if he would explain
The leading industries of Maine—
He thought an' thought an' thought a lot,
An' said, "I knew, but I've forgot."

My Pa says when he was in school
He got a hundred as a rule;
An' grammar was a thing he knew
Becoz he paid attention to
His teacher, an' he learned the way
To write good English, an' to say
The proper things, an' I should be
As good a boy in school as he.
But once I asked him could he give
Me help with the infinitive—
He scratched his head and said: "Great Scott!
I used to know, but I've forgot."

My Pa says when he was a boy
Arithmetic was just a toy;
He learned his tables mighty fast
An' every term he always passed,
An' had good marks, an' teachers said:
"That youngster surely has a head."
But just the same I notice now
Most every time I ask him how
To find the common multiple,
He says, "That's most unusual!
Once I'd have told you on the spot,
But somehow, sonny, I've forgot."
I'm tellin' you just what is what,
My Pa's forgot an awful lot!

MOTHERHOOD

I wonder if he'll stop to think,
When the long years have traveled by,
Who heard his plea: "I want a drink!"
Who was the first to hear him cry?
I wonder if he will recall
The patience of her and the smile,
The kisses after every fall,
The love that lasted all the while?

I wonder, as I watch them there,
If he'll remember, when he's grown,
How came the silver in her hair
And why her loveliness has flown?
Yet thus my mother did for me,
Night after night and day by day,
For such a care I used to be,
As such a boy I used to play.

I know that I was always sure
Of tenderness at mother's knee,
That every hurt of mine she'd cure,
And every fault she'd fail to see.
But who recalls the tears she shed,
And all the wishes gratified,
The eager journeys to his bed,
The pleas which never she denied?

"Motherhood" From a painting by Robert E. Johnston. "Motherhood"
From a painting by Robert E. Johnston.

I took for granted, just as he,
The boundless love that mother gives,
But watching them I've come to see
Time teaches every man who lives
How much of him is not his own;
And now I know the countless ways
By which her love for me was shown,
And I recall forgotten days.

Perhaps some day a little chap
As like him as he's now like me,
Shall climb into his mother's lap,
For comfort and for sympathy,
And he shall know what now I know,
And see through eyes a trifle dim,
The mother of the long ago
Who daily spent her strength for him.

PLAYING FOR KEEPS

I've watched him change from his bibs and things, from bonnets known as "cute,"
To little frocks, and later on I saw him don a suit;
And though it was of calico, those knickers gave him joy,
Until the day we all agreed 'twas time for corduroy.
I say I've seen the changes come, it seems with bounds and leaps,
But here's another just arrived—he's playing mibs for keeps!

The guide posts of his life fly by. The boy that is to-day,
To-morrow morning we may wake to find has gone away,
And in his place will be a lad we've never known before,
Older and wiser in his ways, and filled with new-found lore.
Now here's another boy to-day, counting his marble heaps
And proudly boasting to his dad he's playing mibs for keeps!

His mother doesn't like this change. She says it is a shame—
That since he plays with larger boys, he's bound to lose the game.
But little do I mind his loss; I'm more concerned to know
The way he acts the times when he must see his marbles go.
And oh, I hope he will not be the little boy who weeps
Too much when he has failed to win while playing mibs for keeps.

Playing for keeps! Another step toward manhood's broad estate!
This is what some term growing up, or destiny, or fate.
Yet from this game with marbles, played with youngsters on the street,
I hope will come a larger boy, too big to lie or cheat,
And by these mibs which from his clutch another madly sweeps,
I hope he'll learn the game of life which must be played for keeps.

THE FROSTING DISH

When I was just a little tad
Not more than eight or nine,
One special treat to make me glad
Was set apart as "mine."
On baking days she granted me
The small boy's dearest wish,
And when the cake was finished, she
Gave me the frosting dish.

I've eaten chocolate many ways,
I've had it hot and cold;
I've sampled it throughout my days
In every form it's sold.
And though I still am fond of it,
And hold its flavor sweet,
The icing dish, I still admit,
Remains the greatest treat.

Never has chocolate tasted so,
Nor brought to me such joy
As in those days of long ago
When I was but a boy,
And stood beside my mother fair,
Waiting the time when she
Would gently stoop to kiss me there
And hand the plate to me.

"The Frosting Dish" From a painting by H. C. Pitz. "The Frosting Dish"
From a painting by H. C. Pitz.

Now there's another in my place
Who stands where once I stood.
And watches with an upturned face
And waits for "something good."
And as she hands him spoon and plate
I chuckle low and wish
That I might be allowed to wait
To scrape the frosting dish.

PLAY THE GAME

When the umpire calls you out,
It's no use to stamp and shout,
Wildly kicking dust about—
Play the game!
And though his decision may
End your chances for the day,
Rallies often end that way—
Play the game!

When the umpire shouts: "Strike two!"
And the ball seems wide to you,
There is just one thing to do:
Play the game!
Keep your temper at the plate,
Grit your teeth and calmly wait,
For the next one may be straight
Play the game!

When you think the umpire's wrong,
Tell him so, but jog along;
Nothing's gained by language strong—
Play the game!
For his will must be obeyed
Wheresoever baseball's played,
Take his verdict as it's made—
Play the game!

Son of mine, beyond a doubt,
Fate shall often call you "out,"
But keep on, with courage stout—
Play the game!
In the battlefield of men
There'll come trying moments when
You shall lose the verdict—then
Play the game!

There's an umpire who shall say
You have missed your greatest play,
And shall dash your hopes away—
Play the game!
You must bow unto his will
Though your chance it seems to kill,
And you think he erred, but still
Play the game!

For the Great Umpire above
Sees what we see nothing of,
By His wisdom and His love—
Play the game!
Keep your faith in Him although
His grim verdicts hurt you so,
At His Will we come and go—
Play the game!

WHEN THE
YOUNG ARE GROWN

Once the house was lovely, but it's lonely here to-day,
For time has come an' stained its walls an' called the young away;
An' all that's left for mother an' for me till life is through
Is to sit an' tell each other what the children used to do.

We couldn't keep 'em always an' we knew it from the start;
We knew when they were babies that some day we'd have to part.
But the years go by so swiftly, an' the littlest one has flown,
An' there's only me an' mother now left here to live alone.

Oh, there's just one consolation, as we're sittin' here at night,
They've grown to men an' women, an' we brought 'em up all right;
We've watched 'em as we've loved 'em an' they're splendid, every one,
An' we feel the Lord won't blame us for the way our work was done.

"When The Young Are Grown" From a painting by Robert E. Johnston. "When The Young Are Grown"
From a painting by Robert E. Johnston.

They're clean, an' kind an' honest, an' the world respects 'em, too;
That's the dream of parents always, an' our dreams have all come true.
So although the house is lonely an' sometimes our eyes grow wet,
We are proud of them an' happy an' we've nothing to regret.